


Love and Honor

by DKNC



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Deaths, F/M, Family, Love, Sexual Content, one incident of sexual violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 84
Words: 896,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DKNC/pseuds/DKNC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Ned wasn't beheaded in King's Landing and Catelyn didn't die at the Red Wedding? Just over two years ago I asked myself those questions, and with the encouragement of some wonderful people I started this story. </p><p>This story takes place entirely in the canon universe, diverging from GRRM's epic at two points--Ned's execution and Catelyn's murder at the Twins--and examines all the ways that the survival of these two people might have changed events both large and small in the world of Westeros. The ripples have far reaching consequences for many throughout the Seven Kingdoms, but at its heart, this is a story of two people, their marriage, their family, and the North.</p><p>NOW COMPLETE</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Conversation in a Black Cell

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I've ever done and the first thing I've posted at AO3, so if I screw anything up, please feel free to let me know! Comments and criticisms are welcome. There will be a lot more characters in this by the time I'm through. I'll add them as I go.  
> I gain nothing from this work. All the characters are the creations of George R.R. Martin in the brilliant A Song of Ice and Fire novels. (I have never seen the television show.) Characters reference events and conversations from these novels. Personally, I feel nothing needs changed in his plot and the deaths of two of my favorite characters were regrettably necessary to move his epic story along. My little "What if" is just for fun because I love these two!

__

 

 The Lannister woman came to his cell just as Varys had said she would. Two men at arms bearing torches preceded her, and the sudden light blazing into the blackness blinded him. Ned could not see her clearly as she entered, but he knew her voice at once. “My Lord Hand, it would seem you are somewhat indisposed. I have rarely seen or smelled such filth outside Flea Bottom.”

  She stood over him, and he struggled to rise, pulling himself up against the wall as he attempted to ignore the knifing pain in his leg and the sick, swimming sensation in his head. He managed to get himself more or less upright. He wasn’t about to lie prostrate before this woman. “Your Grace,” he replied in a voice like thick sawdust, “Did you come to discuss my execution or merely to view the results of your handiwork?”

 His vision had cleared enough now that he saw the flash of anger in her green eyes at that, and he silently cursed himself. He had to think more clearly and not simply speak to her as she deserved. _Sansa, he thought, think of Sansa, who is worth far more than your pride! Remember what the eunuch said._ Remembering was as difficult as clear thought, though, as his head swam, his leg throbbed, and his fever burned. _Gods, help me do this._

  “Set the torches in the wall and go outside,” she ordered her men. “I would speak to Lord Stark in private.”

  “Your Grace, we should not leave you alone with the traitor. He is not chained,” one of them replied.

  She laughed at that, eyeing him derisively as he leaned against the wall, unwilling to fall back down, but unable to stand unsupported. “Lord Stark is known to be an honorable man,” she said, her voice dripping acid. “My Lord, do you give me your word you shall not accost me if my men leave us in your cell?”

  Ned had never despised a woman as truly as he despised Cersei Lannister in that moment, but he replied simply, “You have my word, Your Grace. I shall do you no harm.” 

  She turned to her men with a charming smile. “There. The honorable Lord Stark assures us I will come to no harm. Now wait outside, and close the door.”

 Grudgingly, the men did as she requested. The two torches lit the cell quite well as it was a small space, and Ned found that his vision was now surprisingly clear in spite of the persistent fog in his head. He leveled his gaze at her and asked directly, “What do you want, Cersei?”

  “What, no courtesies? That isn’t like you, Lord Stark.”

 “No games. No plots. Look at me, Your Grace--I am a dead man. Just tell me what you want and then let me be.”

 “I’m here to talk about what you want. Do you wish to live or die, Lord Stark? I have the power to make either happen.”

  “If you think my life is so precious to me that I would bargain with the woman who cuckolded and murdered my king and crippled my own son, you have mistaken me for someone else, Your Grace,” he said quietly. _And yet I will do what you ask, Gods forgive me. I will do it, but not for my life, never for that. The gods know my life is not worth it._

  She gave him a small smile. “Sansa looks very like your wife, you know. Yet her face, I think, is somewhat longer. I suppose that’s from you. Odd. On your younger daughter with your plain face the length looks rather horsey, but on Sansa it somehow makes her even prettier. She will likely outshine your Tully bride when she weds Joffrey. Tis a shame you won’t be there to see it.”

 “You will never marry Sansa to your Joffrey now. Let her go home. She is guilty of nothing.”

  At that, Cersei actually laughed. “And what has guilt to do with it? Do you consider yourself guilty of treason, my lord? I’ll wager you feel certain you are guilty of nothing, and yet here you are. Why should innocence protect Sansa any better?”

  Ned was silent for a moment and then replied, “I am guilty of a great many things, Your Grace. But, no, treason in this matter is not one of them.” His leg was shaking visibly now, and he was unsure how long he could remain in his almost standing position. He had to get her to come to the point and be finished with this, so he forced the next word through clenched teeth. “Please. Just tell me what it is you want from me. What do you want for my daughter?”

 “Daughter? Have you forgotten I have both your daughters, my lord? Or do you simply not care about the fate of the tiresome one?”

  _Daughters? But Arya fled. Varys said that . . .Oh!_ Ned’s mind slowly grasped the meaning of the queen’s words. _She doesn’t know Varys was here._ “Of course, I want both my daughters alive and well,” Ned snapped. “We were discussing freeing Sansa from her betrothal to your monstrous son.”

  “Monstrous? How dare you!” She slapped him across the face, and as he leaned harder against the wall to keep from losing his balance, he remembered the last time she slapped him.

  “Another badge of honor, Your Grace,” he told her, looking directly into her eyes. “I know you love your son, but I love him not. Joffrey is a cruel and selfish boy, and I will not let him have my daughter.”

 The green eyes still blazed with fury, but Ned could see her letting his words sink in. _She knows she has me now. She knows I will do what she asks_.

  Slowly, Cersei drew in a deep breath, visibly attempting to calm her rage. After a moment, she spoke softly, “Lord Stark, I asked you once if you loved your children, and you assured me you loved them with all your heart. You have now told me yourself that you have no love for mine, and yet you risked much to keep them from harm when you came to me with your knowledge of things best left unknown.” She laughed again, then, a hard and bitter sound. “I suppose you now realize how stupid that was.”

  “I told you I do not kill children, Your Grace.”

  She sighed. “No, you do not. But you also know perfectly well that I will not hesitate to protect my own son at any cost, regardless of the ages or innocence of the people involved. I will do anything to eliminate threats to his throne. A mother’s devotion is quite fierce. You know that, don’t you, Lord Stark. And if you risked this to protect my children, how much more would you do to protect your own?”

  He regarded her carefully. Yes, he knew she meant every word she said. Undoubtedly, she loved her golden son, although it seemed more obsessive than affectionate. She was certainly willing to sacrifice any number of other people for him. Unbidden, an image of soft white palms cut almost to the bone and a beautiful face with anguish in her blue eyes came to his mind. _Cat, oh Cat, how fierce you were for our boy_. He wondered if the woman standing in front of him would as willingly sacrifice herself as she would so many others. “What would you have me do? And what will you do for my daughters?” 

 “Confess your treason. Confirm my son Joffrey as Robert’s rightful heir. Order your son to lay down his arms and return to Winterfell. Do this publicly and Joffrey shall allow you to take the black. You shall leave for the Wall immediately in the company of a Black Brother who has been here recruiting. I believe you know him.”

  “Yoren?”

  “Yes, I think that’s his name. When word is sent to King’s Landing that you have reached the Wall and taken your vows to the Night’s Watch, and that both your son and his mother have declared loyalty to Joffrey and returned to Winterfell, the king will confirm Robb Stark as the Lord of Winterfell and we will announce the dissolution of Sansa’s betrothal to Joffrey. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone. It would hardly do to have the king wed the daughter of a disgraced traitor.”

  She paused then, apparently waiting for Ned to give some reaction to this description of his character. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction, freezing his expression and simply waiting for her to continue.

  “We shall then send Sansa north,” she continued, “with a company of our men to see her safe to her mother at Winterfell.”

  “And Arya?” Ned asked, wondering how the woman intended to use the girl she did not actually have.

 “She will remain a hostage in King’s Landing. Of course, I know your honor would never permit you to break your vows to the Night’s Watch, Lord Stark, but most on the council require a more tangible method of assuring your cooperation.”

  The ironic emphasis she placed on the word honor was not lost on Ned, but in truth he wouldn’t have argued with her even if he‘d had the strength or position. Once he said the lies she asked of him, he would have very little honor left. Still, he pushed her on the subject of his missing daughter. “Arya is just a child. Send her with her sister. What good is she to you?”

 Again, the bitter laugh. “What good is she? Why, you love her with all your heart, Lord Stark. I have the word of an honorable man on that. As long as we hold her, you’ll do nothing that would lead her to harm. As my son quite understandably cannot stand her, you need not fear a betrothal to a “monster” either. Terms of her eventual release will be negotiated with the Lord of Winterfell. I’m sure her brother will be a good boy and do nothing to delay her return to him.”

 She is not going to admit to having lost her. _Be safe, Arya. Keep hidden. Gods protect you, and I shall try to protect your sister_. “I have your word on all this, Your Grace? If I do as you ask, you will do as you have said regarding my girls?”

 She looked at him as if she couldn’t quite comprehend what he had just said. “My word of honor? You consider my word of honor something of value, Lord Stark?”

 “I consider it to be all that I have. As I told you at the start of this conversation, I am a dead man, Your Grace.”

  “Well, you have my word. Confess your treason, take the black, and Sansa will go home. A Lannister always pays her debts.”

 She turned then with a swirl of skirts that seemed oddly out of place above the filthy straw of the cell and rapped firmly on the door. “Guards!” They entered almost instantly and Ned wondered if they’d had their ears pressed to the door. They grabbed the torches and the three left without another word, closing the door and consigning him once again to the blackness.

  He sank to the floor and clutched at his injured leg. The pain had increased dramatically during the time he’d been up in spite of bearing his weight almost entirely on the wall and the other leg. It was hot to the touch far up his thigh now and it stank. The plaster cast dug into his flesh almost unbearably. The leg must be swollen. Now that he had made this bargain, he feared he may not live to see it through. He was terribly thirsty. He’d had nothing since Varys’s wine. Was that yesterday? The Lannister woman had brought neither food nor drink.

  He lay in the filthy straw and tried to think of anything other than his leg. He imagined himself at the Wall.  He would be with Jon.  There was much he needed to tell him.  He would have the chance now, and he vowed to himself not to waste it. He had to tell Jon.  And Cat.  Yes, Gods knew she deserved to know the truth.  He would tell his wife all that he . . . his wife. . . but she wouldn't be his wife.  _Oh gods help me.  Catelyn can no longer be my wife!_ He had known it, of course. He was a Stark of Winterfell, a man of the North.  He knew the words of the Night's Watch vow as well as any Black Brother. Take no wife. Father no children. He had known it, but now, alone in the dark, having made his bargain with the devil, he truly felt it. He just might get Sansa out of King's Landing alive, but he would lose her all the same.  He would lose them all.

 He realized he was shivering and wondered hazily if it was fever, pain, grief, or rage that made him shake. He cried out in the dark, but didn't know why or to whom he called. He saw Lyanna with sunken, heartbroken eyes, and heard her begging him for his promise; then Sansa crying for Lady and looking at him with accusation in her blue eyes; then Bran, still and unmoving in his bed as Catelyn sat beside him, begging him to wake. "Cat," he said softly.  She turned to face him, tears streaming down her face. "Don't leave us, Ned. Please." Her hair was in disarray, a riot of red around her face. He reached out to comfort her, to touch her hair. He closed his hand around a clump of straw.


	2. A Change of Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so here's where the story veers definitely into A/U.

  Someone was shaking him. The motion sent knives of pain through his leg and as he fought his way toward consciousness, he heard himself screaming.

  “Stop now. He’s awake.”

  Ned lay still and took large gasping breaths as the hands left his shoulders, and the pain in his leg slowly subsided to its usual constant, burning ache. He opened his eyes, blinking in the torchlight shining in the direction from which the voice had come. “Who . . . What.” His voice was an almost unintelligible croak, and he could not form clear thoughts.

  “I fear you are still a dead man, Lord Stark.”

  Varys. The voice was the eunuch’s. Ned attempted to clear his mind and pushed himself up to a sitting position with his back against the wall. He had no strength to move further. He licked his cracked lips and attempted to speak again. “You told me that before. Cersei was here. I told her . . . I told her . . .” He ran out of breath and found he couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “Give him some water.”

  A jug was pushed into his hands by someone. Was that a child? Yes, a boy no older than Arya was helping put the jug to his mouth. He drank greedily, and then asked, “Who are you, lad?”

  The boy said nothing, sitting silently beside him as he continued to drink.

  Varys spoke again. “The child’s name is of no importance to you. I know what you said to the queen. You played your part well, and she presented the plan for your pardon to the small council. Everyone appeared to be in favor of it.”

  Something in the spider’s voice made Ned wary and pulled his attention away from the silent boy and to the words Varys spoke. The water was helping clear his thoughts, but his mind still moved sluggishly as he tried to discern their meaning. “Appeared?” he asked at last.

  Varys chuckled softly. “It would seem your friend Littlefinger likes you even less than I suspected. Sending you to the Wall is obviously the most reasonable solution to our current situation, but the man very definitely wants you dead.”

 “Why?”

 “I couldn’t say. He is rather fond of telling everyone at court how he had your wife’s maidenhead at Riverrun. Perhaps he’s afraid someone will tell you, and you’ll run him through.”

 “That is a lie!” Ned felt rage burn through him and suddenly he was on his feet grabbing at the eunuch’s throat. “Say one more word about my lady wife, and I am not the only dead man in this cell.”

 Suddenly, his bad leg gave way completely, and Ned fell to the ground dragging Varys with him. The pain from the leg seemed to knife through his entire body, and he grabbed at his thigh with both hands as if to subdue the pain the way he had attempted to subdue Varys. The eunuch had dropped the torch as he fell, but the boy had jumped up to grab it and now was helping Varys rise.

  As he got to his feet, Varys regarded Ned gasping on the ground. “You are in no condition to go about defending your wife’s honor, my lord. And I meant no insult to the lady. I have found that Littlefinger lies as often as most men breathe, so I am quite sure you are correct about the Lady Catelyn‘s virtue. You would, after all, be in the best position to know. I was only musing on the question you posed me. But this gets us nowhere. For whatever reason, the man wants you dead, and has contrived quite cleverly to arrange it. Would you like to know how?”

  Ned’s mind and vision had clouded again with the pain, and the eunuch‘s words sunk in only dimly, but enough. He pulled himself back to rest against the wall and nodded. “You are going to tell me, then?”

  “Of course. Why else would I be here? You know that Joffrey is a cruel, bloodthirsty little creature, do you not? He would delight in seeing your head fall from your shoulders and take even more pleasure in having your pretty little daughter watch.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. I don’t believe you truly know our little king’s appetite for cruelty. You haven’t been here long enough for more than a little sample. His mother is regent, yes, but he is the king and his word is law, especially if it is acted upon before wiser heads can intervene.”

  “What has this to do with Littlefinger?”

  “Well, the good Lord Baelish has been whispering in the boy’s ear. Why should he let a traitor live? That only makes him appear weak. He should be a strong king like his father was. King Robert would never suffer such treason. On and on he went until the boy asked him how it could be done. He took very little convincing, I’m afraid.”

 “How do you know this?”

  Varys giggled. “Oh, Littlefinger thinks he is clever, but not as clever as my little birds. They hear more than anyone could imagine.”

 “So Joffrey is overruling his council?”

 “Not precisely. Not in council anyway. You are to be brought to Baelor’s sept. The whole city will be summoned to hear you confess with your lovely daughter in the front row. Then the king will be asked to pronounce sentence. He is expected to make a lovely speech about mercy. His mother wrote it. However, he will call for your head.”

 “And the Lannister woman will simply stand back and allow that to happen? Allow her careful plans to go for naught?”

  Varys actually tittered. “Oh, she’ll no doubt try to stop it. But as you already have reason to know, Littlefinger owns the Gold Cloaks. Janos Slynt has been instructed to throw you down immediately for Ser Ilyn. That man has never been slow to remove a head from its body once he’s given the order.”

 Ned’s head was swimming as he fought the pain and hunger and attempted to make sense of what he heard. “So you are here why?” he asked slowly.

  “To see that your death is done quite differently, my lord. Show him.”

  Ned only realized that last was not directed at him when the boy carried the torch to the far corner of the cell and illuminated something he hadn’t noticed before. The body of a man lay upon the floor, naked but for a plaster cast on a badly injured leg. He had purple-black swellings and bruises on his body that Ned had never seen, but certainly had heard described. “Plague?! You’ve brought the plague here? Are you mad?”

 “Mad? Possibly. I am running out of saner options, my lord. But plague, no. It does look like it, though, doesn’t it? Particularly as so few currently alive in King’s Landing have ever seen it. He also looks rather like you, in a certain light. He wasn’t easy to find, to injure, to cut his hair and beard like yours, and to give the appearance of plague on short notice. Fortunately, my little birds are quite resourceful. You should be grateful.”

 “Grateful? For torturing and killing a man I don’t know? How could you do such a thing?”

 Varys sighed. “I do many things I would rather not in service of the realm, my lord. And he is not dead. Not yet. He sleeps from milk of the poppy. His part is necessary, but I won’t cause him more suffering than is needful. I have had the jailer inform the queen and small council that your leg is much worse and that you cannot stand at all.” He looked at Ned sympathetically. “That, at least, is not a lie. When that sad news reached us, I told the queen that I knew a healer who could likely have you on your feet if given a week or so. It wouldn’t do to ruin her little show by having you carried in to confess. So your sentencing is to be held in 10 days. By then, you will be dead.” Varys looked meaningfully at the man in the corner and then looked to the boy. “Take Lord Stark’s clothes and put them on our sleeper there. Be careful of his leg. No need to make this more painful.” Looking back to Ned, he continued, “I fear the journey out of the keep will be very difficult for you my lord , but certainly preferable to beheading.”

 “You are taking me out of here?” Ned’s heart leapt. “You can get me to Winterfell?” Then he looked again at the man in the corner and forced himself to shake his head. “No, I cannot let you kill this man for no reason. We cannot do this, Varys.”

 Varys shook his head. “I sometimes find it hard to believe you are real, Lord Stark. Would it help if I told you he is a rapist and murderer?”

 “Is he?” Ned asked levelly.

  Varys shrugged. “Does it matter that much to you? I am offering you your life. In any event, the choice is not yours to make. I am taking you out of here and we both know you are not strong enough to resist. But, no, you cannot go to Winterfell. You will be dead, remember? I told you I cannot allow you to escape because all questions would lead to me.”

 The boy had already removed what was left of his tunic and was tugging at his breeches. The leg pained sharply with each pull, but Ned found he had neither the strength nor the will to resist him at this point. He cried out involuntarily at one point, and Varys produced a vial from his cloak. “Drink this. Milk of the poppy. It will ease your leg, and in truth, I think you’d best be unconscious for this trip. If you cry out like that every time your leg is bumped, all could be lost.”

  “It won’t work, Varys. Someone will certainly realize that man is not me, and those questions will lead to you.”

  “I think not. But it is no concern of yours, my lord. You will be far from here when the time comes to manage that part of the plan. Now drink. You have nothing left to do but this. Even if I take you to your death, you are no worse off than if I leave you here to your death. You lose nothing by taking me at my word. And I do intend to keep you alive.” He pushed the vial into Ned’s hands.

  “And Sansa?” Ned’s heart clutched painfully as he thought of the daughter he must leave here. He could do nothing for her dead. _Gods protect her. Please protect both my_ _girls_.

 “I will do what I can to keep her alive. I cannot promise you more than that. But with you dead, the North will clamor for vengeance. That army of your son’s is not something to be ignored. Sansa will be the only bargaining chip the Lannisters have. They should be even more concerned about her continued good health than I. Go on. Drink it.”

 Varys’s words made sense, although something tickled at Ned’s mind. Something Varys had said before. Still, he could think of no more to say so he drank the bitter substance, resigned to the fact that whatever the outcome, he had no more control over his situation. He looked up at the eunuch and wondered vaguely if anyone ever really knew what the man was truly thinking, what he truly wanted. What he wanted! That was it.

  “Varys, why?” he asked sleepily as the poppy began its work.

 “Why what, my lord?”

  “Peace, you said. Tame wolf better than dead wolf. All will be as if I’m dead. Why keep me alive?” The last words were thick and slurred, but Ned forced himself to focus. He needed this answer.

  Varys smiled. “Ah, my good Lord Stark. The game doesn’t end. It has gone on longer than you or I, and it will continue past this era. While the Lannisters hold the Iron Throne, you must be dead. Regrettable, but necessary. However, thrones change hands, and you may yet have a role to play. I won’t throw a valuable game piece away only because I must remove it from the board.”

  Ned’s eyes were closed and his consciousness was fading fast, but he heard the spider’s reply. _Game piece_ , he thought. _Go ahead and play your game, Varys, but I’ll not be a_ _part of it. I will stay alive, though. Gods willing, I’ll stay alive._ He thought of his daughters, one missing and one held by enemies. _Stay alive_ , he willed them. He thought of his younger sons, one crippled and one hardly more than a babe. _Stay alive_. He thought of Robb, his firstborn son leading an army to war. _Stay alive_. With a pang of guilt, he thought of Jon at the Wall, living with the lies and secrets of his making. _Stay alive_. Finally, as thought and dream began to mingle, he thought of Catelyn. He could see her clearly, as if she were right there in front of him, but he couldn’t touch her. _Stay alive_ , he thought fiercely. _Stay alive, my love, and so shall I._


	3. An Unexpected Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is MUCH longer than the previous two, but there was a lot to tell in it. Chapter 4 should be shorter, but now that the Thanksgiving Holiday is drawing to a close, updates may not come so quickly!

Varys entered the council chamber and noted that all were present except the king and Lord Baelish. Joffrey’s absence was expected as he had no more use for meetings than had his putative father , and his mother was only too happy to govern for him. While Lord Tywin Lannister was now nominally the Hand of the King, he was not in King’s Landing. With her father absent and her self-absorbed son underage, Cersei Lannister felt herself to be the real power in King’s Landing. As to Littlefinger’s absence, Varys smiled to himself. He alone in the room knew what was likely keeping the Master of Coin.

“Your Grace. My Lords. Forgive me if I have kept you waiting.” He took his place at the table. There were only four of them--the queen, Janos Slynt, Maester Pycelle and himself. Jaime Lannister had a spot on the council as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, but like his father, he was not in King’s Landing.

“The person I need, Lord Varys, is my Master of Coin,” Cersei Lannister snapped in irritation. She had a number of papers spread before her and seemed dismayed by what she read there. “Is there anyone that fool Robert didn’t borrow money from? I am tired of hearing our coffers are depleted and I’d like to hear what Littlefinger plans to do about it.”

“I am sure he will be here presently, Your Grace. I know he is aware of our meeting,” said Maester Pycelle in what he must assume was a soothing tone.

“Well, while we wait for him, is everything in place for Ned Stark’s sentencing at the Great Sept tomorrow?” the queen asked, changing topics.

“Yes, Your Grace,” replied Janos Slynt. All preparations have been made. The High Septon feels that such a confession of sin followed by such a generous act of mercy is appropriate for the steps of Baelor’s Sept. He will be there with us.”

“And what of Stark’s leg, Lord Varys? Have you heard from your magic man? Has he made him walk?”

Varys ignored the derision in the queen’s voice. “I last spoke to Drazoro 4 days ago, and he said Lord Stark’s fever was gone, and he was able to walk about his cell with some assistance. He swore he improved daily, so I imagine he can stand on the steps of the Sept and say his piece.”

“That’s good at least. I’d like to have this business done,” the queen said grimly.

At that point, Lord Petyr Baelish burst into the council room accompanied by a heavy, unshaven man that only Varys recognized. “Now you shall tell them what you told me,” Baelish ordered the man without preamble.

“My Lord Baelish . .”started Maester Pycelle.

“Tell them!” Baelish again ordered.

The man was shaking with fear and Varys knew he had good reason. He almost felt sorry for the man, but if he had bothered to do his job diligently at all, he would not be in this position. Of course, Varys had been more than happy to take advantage of his lapses.

At this the queen rose from her chair. “Lord Baelish, what is the meaning of this display? Why have you come late to council meeting dragging this . . . this person with you?”

Lord Baelish looked at the queen silently for a moment and seemed to recover his usual cool demeanor. Varys had enjoyed seeing him flustered, however briefly. “My apologies, Your Grace,” Baelish said in his normal tone. “To interrupt you so rudely is unforgivable, I know, but you will want to hear what this man has to say. He is called Rugen, and is a gaoler in your dungeon. He came to me as I was about to leave my chambers for council meeting with a rather distressing tale.”

“Rugen, is it?” the queen asked, looking at the ragged man. “What have you to tell us?”

“It . . .it’s that Lord, yer Grace. The one shut up in the Black Cells, see. I . . .I think he’s dead.”

The color drained from Cersei Lannister’s face as she sank back into her chair. “Dead? What are you saying?”

Varys added, “You think? How do you not know?”

Littlefinger sighed and took his seat. “I fear the man has not actually seen Stark in some time, probably not for weeks.”

“That’s the turnkey’s job!” Rugen protested. “Them turnkeys take the water and such. They’re supposed to tell me if there’s any problem. I never heard nothin’ til that Dorzo fellow burst into my office all upset yesterday!”

“Dorzo? Is he a turnkey?” asked Pycelle.

“No! that eastern fella. The one he brought down to fix up the lord’s leg.” Rugen pointed at Varys.

“Drazoro?” Varys asked with a puzzled expression. “He visited Lord Stark yesterday? That’s odd. I received no report.

“He came running into my office yelling that we’d killed him.”

“Killed Lord Stark?” asked Cersei in obvious confusion.

“No!” Rugen put his unwashed face in his hands. “Him, himself. He told me he was a dead man and how could we have a plague ridden bastard caring for that lord and that it was all my fault. He sounded crazy, yer Grace! I didn’t know what he was talking about and he just ran out.”

“Really?” Varys feigned puzzlement. “That sounds most unlike Drazoro. He has always been a quiet, steady man. Are you sure you have the right of this?”

“I know what I heard, milord. But I didn’t understand it. Not then. I figured Ebben would tell me if there was a problem.”

“Ebben?” asked Pycelle.

“The turnkey,” Baelish said quietly. “Now tell them about the turnkey, Rugen.”

“Well, Ebben never come to see me yesterday so I figured that foreigner was just crazy. But then today I realized I never seen Ebben at all for 2 days like, so maybe I oughta check on things just to be sure. I went to go to the lord’s cell, but I found Ebben before I got there.” The man stopped speaking and started shaking again.

“Go on,” Littlefinger encouraged.

“He was dead. Right there in the corridor. I never seen nothing like it. He had these big black swollen places on his face and his hands was all purple. I never seen that, but I heard my grandfather tell about the plague ships that came when he was just a boy. I ran out as fast as I could, I tell you that."

“You didn’t even check on Lord Stark?” asked Maester Pycelle.

 “It’s plague, milord! I know it is! That lord in the cell’s gotta be dead or dying!”

“Nonsense!” Cersei stated flatly. “There has been no plague in King’s Landing since before I was born. How on earth would it find its way into Eddard Stark’s cell? If Stark is dead, it’s likely from blood poison in his leg. Perhaps your medicine man found Stark dead and killed the turnkey to cover his failure, Lord Varys!”

Varys pretended to consider the queen’s theory for a moment. All eyes in the room were on him and he carefully made his response. “Perhaps, Your Grace, but I doubt it. I have known Drazoro for years and have never found him a rash man. His behavior toward Rugen here yesterday was certainly out of character, but . . .as much as I dread to voice it, his ravings appear supported by Rugen’s description of the turnkey’s body. The most prudent course now is to go to Lord Eddard’s cell and see what we may find.” He turned to the gaoler. “I take it you did not remove the turnkey’s body from the corridor?”

“Move it? I didn’t touch it. I ran out and came straight to Lord Baelish.”

“Why to Lord Baelish?” Varys asked, seemingly puzzled, although he knew the answer. He enjoyed the sensation of Littlefinger tensing slightly beside him.

“Cuz he told me to. If anything happened out o’ the ordinary with that Lord Stark, I was to come straight to him.”

“I knew you were concerned about this confession and pardon, Your Grace,” Baelish put in quickly. “I thought it prudent to keep eyes on Stark to be sure he didn’t give any indication of backing out of his part.”

Oh, the pleasure of watching Littlefinger attempt to explain away his over-involvement in Stark’s imprisonment. Discovering his little arrangement with the gaoler to act as an informant had been a great stroke of luck--particularly as the man took Littlefinger’s coin and simply continued to ignore Stark’s existence. This delightful arrangement gave no impediment to Varys’s own plans and made certain the plague in the black cells would be reported to the council by someone other than himself. It was very hard not to giggle.

Cersei was looking hard at Baelish, as if she were unconvinced of his altruistic motives. “Any change of heart by Lord Stark was rather unlikely as he knows we hold his daughters.” To the group at large, she said, “But Lord Varys is correct. The sentencing is tomorrow! Someone must go the Black Cells and see for themselves what has transpired.”

Now there was a silence in the room. No one considered going near a potential plague victim without trepidation.

Varys sighed deeply. “I know the way to Lord Stark’s cell. I escorted Drazoro there on his first visit. I will go.”

“Thank you, Lord Varys,” The queen actually smiled at him. “Your service in this matter is much appreciated.”

“However, Your Grace,” Varys continued. “While you are aware of my loyalty to you, I fear I am not the most trusted man in King’s Landing. Perhaps someone should accompany me. Might I suggest you order one of the Kingsguard to come? They are sworn to protect King Joffrey, and certainly this is of great importance to him.”

“Yes, yes,” Cersei agreed. “I shall summon Ser Boros to go with you.”

“Maester Pycelle,” Varys asked with just a touch of apprehension in his voice, “In the unlikely event this is truly plague, how might Ser Boros and I protect ourselves?”

Pycelle coughed. “Truly, Lord Varys, it is not understood exactly why the plague spreads or kills so quickly, or why it disappears for years only to suddenly return. Many have written that you should not touch a plague victim with any part of your skin and that even breathing the air around them is dangerous. I would advise you to wear a mask of cloth and heavy gloves, but I know no more than that.”

Varys nodded gravely. “We shall do as you say.” To Cersei, he added, “Your Grace, I believe it would also be wise to speak to Drazoro. I know where he lives. We can send someone to question him. And if he is ill or dead . . . .” He let that statement trail off and shook his head.

“It shall be done,” Cersei replied. “I will send Ser Arys and Ser Preston. No man can refuse to speak to the Kingsguard.”

 

A surprisingly short time later, Varys found himself again carrying a torch through the corridor of the Black Cells. When they came to the turnkey’s corpse, he thought Ser Boros might piss himself at the sight. The man was three days dead at least and the stench was overwhelming. The blackened swellings and purple skin stood out clearly.

“Gods be good!” exclaimed Blount behind his mask.

“Here,” said Varys. “Help me roll him into this sackcloth.”

“I don’t want to touch him!” Blount protested. 

“You’re wearing your gloves. We have to get him completely covered before we send someone in to drag him out and bury him. And we must get him buried at once.”

The two men bent to their task and soon had the corpse thoroughly wrapped for the grave. They then proceeded to Lord Stark’s cell. When Varys pushed open the door, the stench of death overwhelmed him. Blount stepped inside and vomited immediately.

“Oh dear,” said Varys, gazing at the dead man on the floor covered with the tell-tale lumps. His skin was mostly gray, but ghastly purple blotches were evident, particularly on his nose and hands. “He’s barely recognizable!”

“It’s him,” said Blount. “Who else would it be?”

“Ser Boros,” said Varys gravely, “We may be the only people who know Lord Stark to see this body. We must be able to say without a doubt that this is Eddard Stark. Look closely.”

To his credit, Blount walked closer to the corpse and looked upon the brown hair and beard streaked with gray and the plaster cast upon his leg. “It’s him. This is Lord Eddard all right.”

Varys grimaced. “I concur. Pity, really. That leg actually looks like it might have been getting better. Ser Boros, take out your sword.”

“What?”

When Varys told him what he wanted done, the knight looked grim but did not hesitate.

 

Very early the next morning, the council again sat around the table. This time Joffrey was present, and he was angry and sullen at the news of Stark’s demise.

Preston Greenfield and Arys Oakheart had just left after giving the report of their visit to Drazoro’s house. The man had been barricaded inside with door and windows barred shut. He had shouted through the door that he had the plague, and all should stay away from him. The brave knights had taken him at his word and returned to the Red Keep.

“There are no other reports of plague in the city?” Maester Pycelle asked.

“I have heard not a whisper,” said Varys. “I suppose the turnkey could have got it off a sailor from the docks who left before spreading it elsewhere.”

“Or from your healer!” snapped the queen.

“I suppose, Your Grace. But it seems to me that as Drazoro still lives and apparently had no symptoms when he reported the plague to Rugen, he must have gotten it from Stark or the turnkey. Perhaps, if he lives, we can question him more closely once he is recovered.” _Of course, he will not live. Killing that poor mummer will actually pain me. He has played his part so well._

“But what do we do now, Your Grace?” asked Slynt. He spoke the least of anyone on the council, and it rather surprised Varys that he voiced the obvious question. “What do we do about the sentencing?”

“I want someone’s head,” snarled Joffrey. “Someone will pay for ruining this day!!”

Varys coughed slightly. “As it happens, Your Grace, we have a head. Well, more of a skull actually. I had it burned to remove any contagion and then dipped in tar.” He lifted a small chest from the floor beside him and placed it onto the table. Everyone recoiled a bit from it except for Joffrey who leaned toward it like a child reaching for a present.

“Do you really have Stark’s head in there?” he asked, fascinated.

“Indeed,” Varys replied. “Ask Ser Boros. He separated it from the man’s dead body with his sword.”

“But what is the purpose of this, Varys?” Cersei protested. “You counseled quite strongly against executing Stark. We shall suffer a great cry for vengeance from the North, you said. And I agreed. Why present my son with his head now?”

“Give it to me,” Joffrey ordered.

Varys ignored the boy and responded to his mother. “Because, Your Grace, Stark is dead no matter what we do. Do you think his son or his Tully widow will care whether he died by the sword or died of disease and neglect in a Black Cell? They will only care that he is dead and that we are to blame. I fear battle with the North is inevitable now.”

“Then, again, I ask you, what purpose does this serve?” She waved her hand at the chest.

“Perhaps, if the North rebels, it would be good to remind the other great houses what happens to traitors to the rightful king.” Varys watched Cersei Lannister closely as he responded and saw comprehension in her eyes. Whatever else may be true about the woman, she understood the power of threat.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Sansa Stark walked out of the Sept with the queen and the Hound. She had been summoned there earlier and had passed the time praying fervently for her father. When Joffrey had arrived, he had smiled at her and assured her that all would be as it should. Now they all stood assembled on the steps in front of the great doors and a throng of people filled the courtyard.

She stood on her toes and looked this way and that, searching for her father. Surely, he had been brought here by now. No one had let her visit him since they took him away and she was desperate to see his face. She was desperate to have him safe. _Where is he?_

The High Septon was saying something now, but Sansa paid no attention. She didn’t understand where her father was. She thought he had to be here. He had to confess to whatever Queen Cersei wanted him to in order for her king to save him. Her king would save him. She knew it. He had said he would show mercy.

Joffrey moved forward and began to speak. The Hound moved from beside her to stand just behind Joff, holding the little chest he’d had with him since they arrived. Sansa wondered vaguely what it was for, and then turned her attention to Joff’s words as he was shouting her father’s name.

“The traitor Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and Hand of the King has confessed his crimes! He has confessed to plotting the murder of” _Why is Joffrey_ _listing Father’s crimes? Where is Father?_  Sansa felt a bubble of panic rising up inside her. She didn’t understand what was going on.

Joffrey finished the litany of treasons and his voice got even louder, “The price of treason is death!!” The crowd roared approval at this and Sansa’s heart pounded in her chest. _Oh gods, no_. Just as she was about to cry out, her king turned to her and smiled. He spoke more quietly, but still clearly and loudly enough to be heard. “But I could not profane this holy place with blood, and I could not suffer my sweet Lady Sansa to see her father killed before her eyes.” _Oh_ , she thought. _It’s going to be all right, he’s going to save him!_

She closed her eyes with relief and gratitude and so did not see the Hound move to Joffrey’s side and hold out the chest. Her eyes opened when she heard Joffrey shout, “So the sentence was carried out this morning in the Red Keep!” He pulled a grisly object from the chest and held it high. Sansa’s anguished scream almost drowned out his next shout although it was his loudest yet. “Behold the head of the traitor Eddard Stark!! Know that I shall never allow treason to go unpunished!!”

Sansa could not stop screaming, nor could she tear her eyes away from the head dripping in tar. She fell to her knees still screaming and did not stop even as the Hound picked her up and carried her back into the Sept.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Arya Stark stared at her father’s head in Joffrey’s hands and felt her sister’s scream pierce her through, freezing her in place for an immeasurable amount of time. Then rage boiled within her, turning her vision red and blocking out all sounds. She jumped from her perch on Baelor’s statue into the crowd and drew Needle. She would kill Joffrey Baratheon.

She kicked and pushed and waved Needle at the people around her, but she could not get through! Desperate, she clawed those who blocked her way and pushed her back. She was prepared to stab the man directly in front of her just to move him when a hand grabbed her arm and she found herself held tightly by a man with long black hair and tangled beard. He snarled at her, “Stop it, boy. It won’t help.”

At his words, all the sounds returned and she realized she was sobbing. She kicked at him, but he wouldn’t put her down. He kept calling her boy and ordering her to look at him. Finally, she recognized him---Yoren, a man of the Night’s Watch. He’d been to see her father. She twisted in his hands and tried to see the steps of the Sept again, but he wouldn’t let her. “You’ll be coming with me now, boy.”

Her rage began to drain, leaving her numb, and she allowed him to lead her away. As she trudged along beside him, the only sound she remained aware of was Sansa’s unending scream.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn Stark walked in the woods a short way from the perimeter of the camp. Robb was going over battle plans for Riverrun with his bannermen, and she had left them to their discussions. Her son had a good head for tactics and did not need her assistance there. Besides, he had already shared with her much of what he intended to do for he still asked her advice when he felt he needed it. She smiled a little at the memory. While most of his men were still celebrating the victory in the Whispering Wood, he was spreading maps out in her tent and asking her all she knew of the geography and fortifications at Riverrun. Ned had taught him well. While she might know little about warfare, no one in Robb’s company knew Riverrun as well as she and her Uncle Brynden; and her son was wise enough to take full advantage of their knowledge. Brynden was with him at his meeting, but she saw no reason to attend herself. Robb might be her son, but to these men he was their battle commander and future liege lord. She refused to give the appearance that he had to answer to her.

She was glad of the chance to be alone for a bit. Only when alone, could she think of her other children, and she silently offered up prayers for her daughters and her younger sons. Bran and Rickon were safe, at least, behind the walls of Winterfell, but her longing for them was a constant ache. For a few blessed moments, she allowed herself to think on her eventual return to them and even hummed a bit of that cradle song Rickon was still so fond of. She would sing it every night if he liked once she was at home. And she would go riding with Bran. Robb had told her of his special horse and saddle, and she smiled to think of him again on a horse instead of so still in his bed.

Sansa and Arya were harder to think about. No thought of them would come without fear clenching her heart like a fist. Cersei Lannister had her girls. _And gods forgive me, I_ _am the one who sent them there._ Her sweet Sansa and her fierce little Arya trapped in the Red Keep without their father to protect them. She hoped desperately they had someone to treat them kindly and calm their fears. Her arms felt cold and empty as she longed to hold them both against her and keep them from harm.

And Ned. _Oh, Ned!_ They had endured long separations before, and she had known the paralyzing fear of sending him to war, but this . . .she sometimes didn’t think she could stand it one more second without going mad. _Is he hurt? Is he hungry? Gods! How could Ned be in prison? How?_ The thought of her husband, the most honorable man she had ever met, accused of treason . . . . “Damn Cersei Lannister!” she said out loud. “Damn all Lannisters!” She choked back a sob. _Gods, be good. This won’t do at all._

There was a reason she did not often allow herself to think of Ned and their children. There was a war to win if she hoped to have all of them safe again, and she could not help them with her tears. If she thought of them much more, she would be nothing but tears. She thought of Ned’s arms around her in their last embrace at King’s Landing, and his smile as she rode away. His smiles came infrequently, and she always considered them gifts. Knowing that she could coax Ned’s smiles more easily than anyone else had always given her an absurd sense of joy. She knew he had smiled at her that day to give her courage, and she summoned it now. _I will get you home, my love. We shall all go home._

She had been away from camp quite long enough. If she stayed gone too long, her son would send soldiers after her. That thought made her smile again. She would have much to tell Ned about their son. He would be so proud of the man Robb had become.

As she turned toward the camp, she caught sight of a rider, coming fast from the north, from the direction of the Twins. She waved to him, and he slowed his horse as he approached her. A boy, she saw, no more than two and ten. She did not recognize him, but he bore the sigil of Helman Tallhart.

“My . . My lady,” he gasped as he reined up beside her.

“Have you brought a message from the Twins, lad?” she asked him. He seemed out of breath and rather distressed, and she immediately felt dread creeping into her heart. “Has there been a raven from King’s Landing or Winterfell?”

“I have a letter, Lady Stark. I am instructed to give it straight away to Lord Stark. Lord Robb, that is.” He had the oddest look on his face.

“Robb is just ahead in the camp. I can take you,” she told him. Then his words sank in and the color drained from her face. She heard the tremor in her voice as she asked, “Why did you call my son Lord Stark? My husband is the Lord of Winterfell.”

The boy looked distraught. “My lady, my lady, I am sorry.”

Catelyn felt her knees buckle and she clutched at her chest as she sank to the ground. “Tell me,” she whispered. “Tell me!”

The boy climbed down from his horse, uncomfortable with being so high above her. He fell on his knees before her, and she willed him not to say it. _Please, please . . . .say anything else_. But he just looked at her with sad, frightened eyes, and said quietly, “It’s Lord Eddard, my lady. King Joffrey has taken off his head.”

“Noooo!” The word was a scream literally ripped from her soul. She couldn’t stop it. “No! No.” She was sobbing now. This could not be true. She rocked back and forth making sounds she didn’t even recognize, and then suddenly Robb was there. Her screams had drawn half the camp.

Robb pulled her up and held her by her shoulders. “Mother! What has happened? Are you all right?”

Catelyn looked at her son and saw terror in his eyes, those eyes so like her own. She could not fall apart. Her world was shattered, but she could not shatter. Not now. Not while her son stood here before her. She breathed deeply and cupped his face in her hands. “Robb,” she said softly. She raised her voice to address the other men gathered around. “Leave us,” she said. "There is a letter for my son, and I would have privacy for him to read it.”

She felt, rather than saw the men leave, for she had eyes only for her son, who now looked more like her little boy again. “Mother?” he said hesitantly, already seeing the truth in her eyes.

“It’s your father, Robb. We shall not see him again in this world, my sweetling.” She pulled him into her arms and he buried his face on her shoulder. She held him there as she had held him as a babe and murmured comforting noises in his ear.

Soon they would have to read the letter and see the words in black and white. And they still had Riverrun to free from the Lannisters. But right now, Catelyn Stark simply held her son in her arms and held her husband deep in her heart, burying the grief as far as it could go. _Oh Ned, my love. I have no time to mourn. Forgive me, my love. Forgive me._

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

He awoke again to feel the world still rocking gently. _A boat. I am on a boat._ Ned Stark had no idea how long he had been sleeping, nor how many times he had awakened to find himself in this berth on this boat. He only knew this wasn’t the first time. His leg didn’t seem to hurt him so much now, but that could be from all the milk of the poppy he was being given. He didn’t know how much time had passed since he had been with Varys in the Black Cell, but he was fairly certain the eunuch was not on the boat with him now.

Ned didn’t know where he was being taken. He didn’t know much at all, except that he was kept rather heavily drugged. He held on to the one truth he had. He was alive. _And I will go home. I will bring our children home to you, Cat. I swear it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Events and lines from Sansa's and Arya's POV segments in this chapter are extremely similar to those in GRRM's A Game of Thrones in the Arya chapter describing Ned Stark's beheading. He gets all credit for writing this scene. I included these segments here because obviously Ned ISN"T beheaded in my story, and I needed to show what Sansa and Arya experienced in this universe--very close to canon, just not quite the same. :).


	4. Far From Home

Ned woke to sunlight streaming through the high windows of his room. He could hear gulls crying, and the breeze through the windows smelled of salt. _That’s right_ , he thought. _I am somewhere near the sea._ He remembered now, although every time he woke, he had to remind himself where he was and what had happened to him. _It is getting easier to think, though. They are giving me less of the poppy, just as the dark man had said they would._

Remembering the dark man, he attempted to raise his arms, and found he could lift them no more than a few inches from the bed because of the cloths wrapped around his wrists and secured to the wooden bed frame beneath. His legs were similarly restrained--not tight enough for discomfort, but certainly tight enough to prevent him from rising.

The dark man (Ned had dubbed him that because he would not give his name, but he had black hair and eyes and the copper skin of a Summer Islander) had told him this was for his own safety. The man had removed the rotting cast from his leg, poked him with sharp knives and needles, applied numerous poultices and ointments and made him drink foul tasting potions. At first it seemed as if he were always there, doing something painful to Ned’s leg, but in truth, Ned had no idea how long he had been in this room himself. He knew he slept most of the time, and at first had been so groggy when awake, he wasn’t sure what had actually occurred and what he had dreamed. He had no memory at all of his arrival here.

Now, often as not, Ned awoke to find himself alone in the room. When the dark man did come, he spoke to him in the Common Tongue, but his speech was heavily accented. He did not answer any questions about anything other than the leg. The leg, apparently, was healing, but could not bear weight yet, and the man did not trust Ned not to injure it further when left alone. He apologized quite courteously about the restraints, but could not be convinced to remove them.

The woman did not speak at all. She brought food and water which she had to feed to him because his wrist bindings prevented his hands from reaching his mouth. She also brought and assisted him in using a chamber pot--a situation Ned found completely intolerable, but as he had no alternative at present, he accepted her assistance. If he tried to say so much as “Good Morning,” she looked panic-stricken and shushed him quite forcefully.

There were at least two other men, one lean and wiry and the second rather short, but very stocky and muscular. They would seem to be his guards. They never came into the room, but one of them stood in the open doorway whenever the dark man or the woman were with him. Beyond the doorway, he could see nothing but a small landing and what looked like the top of a very narrow staircase.

He stretched as much as his bonds would let him and called out. Usually, the woman came fairly quickly. She was not neglectful of him, he must give her that.

He heard multiple footsteps ascending the stair and when the door opened, he saw both the woman and the dark man. He had his usual case filled with any number of vile torture instruments and she had a pitcher of water, some bread, and a peach.

“You look very good, today, my lord,” the dark man said. “I think perhaps we get you up.” He turned and said something in another tongue to the man standing outside. The language sounded almost familiar. The guard hesitated a moment, glanced at Ned, and then started back down the stairs.

“How about today we get me out of this room?” Ned countered.

The man laughed. “Oh, no, my friend. You are not so well as that. But Alina has brought you a nice peach. Let me undo your hands so you can enjoy it.”

“Alina?” Ned repeated. The woman looked up from her pitcher as if startled to hear him use her name. “That is your name?”

She gave no response, simply picking up the cup by his bed to fill with water.

“I fear she does not speak your tongue, my lord, but yes, that is her name. You have asked me before, but you never remember,” said the man as he unwrapped the cloth from Ned’s wrists. He looked at Ned carefully. "Your voice is stronger this morning, my lord. Mayhap your mind is as well, and you will recall Alina's name this time." He turned to the woman and said something in that half familiar tongue again, and she looked Ned hesitantly. Then she nodded.

The dark man smiled at Ned. “I have told her it is not a bad thing for you to know her name. It tells you nothing of her, but allows you to call for her more courteously. You will be more comfortable with that, yes? Now, how does it feel to move your arms about?”

Ned stretched his newly freed arms above his head and then sat up fully in the bed for the first time since his arrival--or at least the first time he could remember. He was stiff and sore, but the movement still felt glorious.

The man laughed as if he knew exactly what Ned was thinking. “Ah, it is a very good thing to move, yes?”

Ned considered responding with any number of questions, but as he regarded the man’s apparently honest delight in his improved health, he said simply, “Yes, it is good.”

More footsteps outside announced the return of the guard--it was the thin one. He came all the way into the room and handed the dark man a crutch.

“Yes, today is a good day to get you out of that bed. But only for a bit, my lord. You must promise not to undo all my good work!” He laughed again. “You should be dead, you know.”

“I’ve heard that a lot lately,” Ned sighed.

The man laughed out loud again and then began removing the latest poultice from his leg as the woman handed Ned the peach and his cup. “Thank you, Alina,” Ned told her. She nodded quickly and scurried away to the other side of the room.

Eating and drinking entirely on his own was near bliss, but as his hunger and thirst abated somewhat, his need for answers intensified.

“Where am I?” he asked the man for what must be the thousandth time. “How long am I to be here and what news is there of my family?”

The man looked at him sadly. “You know I shall answer not. Why do you keep asking? I only know the answer to the first, anyway. I know nothing about you, my friend--who you are, what family you have, or why you are here---I am paid to fix the leg, yes? And keep you from dying of it.”

“Who pays you?”

He sighed. “In truth? I do not ask. It is better not to know. But it is a great deal of money, and I will not risk losing it by answering silly questions. So stop asking. This may hurt,” he added as he probed Ned’s leg with his fingers.

It did hurt, but nothing like the blinding pain he remembered from his time in the Black Cell. He looked at the leg closely. The redness was gone from the skin as was the swelling, but a long twisted, red, angry slashing scar ran all along his calf from his ankle to just below the knee. A second well-healing gash actually ran from below the outside of his knee to midway up his thigh. Ned bent the knee experimentally and winced, wondering again just how long he had been in this little room.

“I had to open your leg wide to drain the poison, my lord,” the man told him. “You are lucky they send for me. Another man would just take off the leg.” He made a slashing movement with his hand that made Ned shudder.

“I thank you,” he said sincerely.

“Well, maybe yes, you thank me, and maybe no. You will not die and I think you will walk, but that leg will never do what it once did. Some men, they don’t thank me for that.” The man looked at Ned carefully.

At his words, Ned’s thoughts flew to Winterfell, to the son whose legs would never walk at all, but whose life meant so much. “I would live,” he said simply. “I have much to do.”

The man nodded. “Then let’s get you up and I will show you how to use this crutch.”

After twenty minutes of hobbling around the room, the dark man helped Ned back onto his bed, shaking, sweating, and completely exhausted.

“That was good,” the man pronounced. “Does it pain you much now?”

“No,” Ned lied. He was thoroughly tired of being drugged and tied down.

The man laughed. “I will have them give you only the tiniest doses of the poppy now, my lord. Your leg will hurt, but you will not sleep so much and I will leave you unbound, so I think you will not care, yes?”

“I don’t want any more of the poppy,” Ned protested.

“Ah,” the man said, shaking his head. “But you need it. Not for the pain maybe, but because you have taken so much for so long. If I stop it, you will feel very ill, but the dose can be small enough now you will not notice, and I will instruct Alina how to make it smaller each day. Then you can stop it after awhile.”

Ned looked at the long gashes on his leg, healing quite well and even in the early stages of scarring. “Exactly how long have I been here?” he asked quietly.

The man looked at Ned sadly. “Long enough for me to heal your leg, my lord, and that was not an easy task.”

“Gods!” Ned shouted. “I need to go home!!” He pushed himself up off the bed again, but immediately fell back, too weak to stand any longer. “Gods help me,” he whispered, putting his hands over his face as he lay back. “Gods help me.”

The dark man stared him for a bit. “I hope whatever gods there are may do so. I will see you no more as your leg is better and no one wishes to keep paying me great sums of money.” He laughed. “You can use the crutch to get around your room now. Do only a little at first, but more each day. Eat all Alina’s good food she brings. Make yourself strong again and soon, I think, you will not need the crutch.”

“You said the leg will never be the same.”

“And it will not. But there is no reason you cannot make it much better than it is now. I wish you good health.” He turned then to Alina, who had been standing silently across the room in case of need, and rattled off a fairly long string of words in the other language.

Alina answered him this time, and without the thick accent of the dark man, he recognized the language. Valyrian! Not the High Valyrian he’d been forced to learn by the maesters at Winterfell and the Eyrie as a boy, but some form of it. He could almost understand her. He knew some bastard form of Valyrian was used in the Free Cities. Ned vaguely remembered the berth rocking in a boat. He was across the Narrow Sea! He had to be in one of the Free Cities on the coast of Essos!

The dark man finished his conversation with Alina, bowed to Ned, and turned to leave. He stopped at the door, and said thoughtfully, “It is best I go far from here now. I have my money and my life. Staying too long in the reach of the man who paid me could cost me either one.” He gave Ned a long look, and then left.

Alina gave Ned a quick nod and turned as if to follow him, but Ned stopped her. “Alina . . . .” he said, and then in his best schoolboy High Valyrian, he asked her, “Which city are we in? Braavos? Pentos? Myr? Another city with a . . .” He couldn’t remember the word for port so he settled for “seashore?”

Her eyes opened wide with shock. “No, no, no!” she said, and ran from the room. The guard outside looked puzzled, but simply closed the door. Ned heard the bar slide into place before the man’s steps followed her down.

_I didn’t mean to frighten the woman! Damn it, where in all the hells am I? And how do I get back to the Seven Kingdoms?_

A moment later, he heard more footsteps coming up to his room. This time when the door opened, a new person stepped in, pushed by the woman, Alina. He was a boy, no more than ten, brown haired, brown eyed, and skinny; wearing breeches that he was clearly in the process of outgrowing. Quite a bit of leg showed above his bare feet.

“Milord, you cannot ask her questions. Please do not do this anymore.” His accent was atrocious, but he was clearly speaking to Ned in the Common Tongue.

“And who are you, my boy, to be giving orders here?” Ned asked with some amusement.

The boy looked at him a moment. “I’m Dak. She’s my mother. We didn’t know you understood our speech, and it scared her. But you can’t ask her any questions. And don’t tell her nothing about you, either.”

“Well, it seems rather discourteous not to give you and your mother my name as you’ve given me yours. I am Lord . .”

“No!” the boy absolutely shouted. Ned stopped speaking, somewhat stunned, and the boy continued, “I mean, we aren’t supposed to know who you are. If we tell anybody who you are, bad things will happen to us. It’s easier not to tell things you don’t know. See?”

“I do see,” Ned replied. “So your mother has been contracted to feed and care for me by the same man who paid to have my leg fixed. Is that it?”

Dak nodded.

“And I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who that man is?”

Dak shook his head.

“Well obviously you know where I come from by my speech. Can you tell me any news of the Seven Kingdoms?”

Dak sighed. “What happens in the Sunset Kingdoms is none of our concern here. Why would I care about tales from somewhere so far away?”

Something in the way the boy said that made Ned pause. “But you do like to hear tales from far away, don’t you? Why else have you learned the tongue?”

The boy looked at his mother then, and she said something rapidly in her oddly phrased and accented Valyrian that Ned couldn’t quite catch.

Dak shook his head at her.

“You can tell your mother I can’t really understand most of what she says. The Valyrian I learned as boy in Westeros was quite different than what is spoken here, I’m afraid.” He smiled ruefully. “Wherever here is. What did she ask you?”

It was the boy’s turn to smile. “If I was telling you anything I shouldn’t. She thinks I’m talking too much. I learned the Westerosi talk at the docks, from sailors mostly. I’m good with tongues. I know some Dothraki, too. Them are those horse lords. I don’t know as much of that, though. They don’t talk as much as sailors.”

Ned smiled at the boy again, “I suppose not. Can you tell me anything the Westerosi sailors have said lately? Something that won’t get you into trouble with your mother?” He glanced at Alina, who had been glaring at him, but was now looking at him with curiosity. He gestured at her. “Is there something your mother wants to know, Dak? She’s looking at me rather strangely all of a sudden.”

Dak turned to his mother and asked her something. In her response, Ned caught the word for cold, but not much else. Dak laughed at her, though. Turning to Ned, he said, “She just said she never seen you smile til now. That she thought you were very hard and cold, but you don’t look so bad when you smile.”

With a pang, Ned thought of Cat teasing him about his frozen face and the lengths she would go to in order to get him to smile. “You may tell her I have heard something similar from another lady,” he said to Dak. “But do you know any news from Westeros that you can tell me, son?”

Dak bit his lip. “Well, milord, I mostly listen to the sailors’ stories--the good ones, I mean. I don’t care about some old king who died and some old lord who got his head chopped off. I like the tales of sea monsters or dragons or horrible spirits that live in a place that’s all snow. That’s what I listen to mostly.”

_Some old king and some old lord? What has the boy heard?_

“Dak,” Ned said thoughfully. “I have nothing but time here. And I know quite a lot of stories. I have a son about your age who loves them. Of course, he prefers the scary ones even though they keep him from sleeping at night.” Another pang at the thought of Bran.

“I love scary stories, milord. And they never keep me up nights,” the boy replied eagerly.

“Yes, my son says the same. But I know better.” Ned looked at the boy’s mother then, and tried hard not to look cold, hard, or threatening in any way. “Ask your mother if you could perhaps come visit with me, and I’ll tell you some stories. When any work you have is finished, of course.”

“I will! I’ll talk her into it.” Now it was his turn to look reassuringly at his mother. He then turned back to Ned with the confidence of a child whose mother didn’t know what he was saying. “I’m real good at getting her to let me do things.”

“I don’t doubt it for a minute.”

When Dak and his mother had left, with the guard barring the door behind them, Ned sat on his bed and thought about how he could make use of this boy. Surely, there was a way to get information from him. He obviously loved to talk to people. If he could get the boy to bring him real news, perhaps he could make some sort of plans. Perhaps, if he could gain his trust, he could even use the boy to get a message out to someone. _Gods! He’s just a child! How can I think of putting him at risk? But how can I not do everything possible to get out of here? He may not be so willing to help me in any event. What shall I ask him if he comes without his mother?_ Ned’s thoughts spun in many directions, but before long, the exhaustion took him and he fell asleep again.

When he awoke, it was dark, and he heard the door of his room opening. Dak entered, holding a lamp and a plate of food. The guard said something to him, and then closed the door behind him and left.

Ned rubbed his eyes and sat up. “He’s locking you in with me?”

Dak laughed. “He was playing cards downstairs with the other one. I told him I’m not a woman like my mother. I’m not afraid some crippled man might hurt me, so he could go back down. He said he’d have to lock the door, and I said I didn’t care. I can take care of myself, and I’ll yell when I want out."

Ned cringed at the description of himself as a crippled man, but had to admire the boy’s nerve. He took the plate and Dak poured him water from the pitcher his mother had brought earlier. “Tomorrow, you get ale. The wizard said you could before he left.”

“The wizard?”

“Oh, I don’t know his name. The Summer Islander. I just call him that cuz of what he did for your leg. It had to be magic. You were more dead than alive when you got here, and that leg stank bad.”

“Hmm.” Ned was quiet as he ate. “Can you tell me how long I’ve been here?” he asked after awhile.

“No. Can you tell me a good story like you promised?”

“Did Lord Varys order you not to tell me anything?”

“Who?” The boy’s confusion was obviously genuine. The name meant nothing to him. Ned considered describing the eunuch, but considering his alarmingly changeable appearance, realized that would serve nothing.

“Never mind. I know we are in one of the Free Cities. What would it hurt for me to know which one? I have never been to any of them in my life. In the unlikely event I could overpower you and both guards, and limp down however many stairs are out there, knowledge of this city’s name would give me no help in finding my way about it.” Ned looked at Dak levelly. “It is very unsettling not to have a name for your whereabouts.”

Dak hesitated only briefly. “Pentos. We’re in Pentos. I’ve lived here all my life.”

“Ah. And where in Pentos do you live, Dak?”

“Well, here, for right now. On the second floor. This is the third. Mother and I get the second, and those two sellswords stay on the first. We get to live here as long as we’re taking care of you.”

 _Sellswords, eh?_ “So you don’t know our two friends downstairs very well?”

Dak shrugged. “Never met ‘em til we came here. They’re not so bad, though. Don’t like to talk much. But I can’t stay much longer, and you promised me a story.”

Ned almost laughed at that. For all the boy’s bravado, he sounded as young as Rickon begging for his story. “Okay,” he said. “Have you ever heard of the Children of the Forest?”

The boy shook his head, so Ned proceeded to regale him with one of Old Nan’s tales about the Children. He was quite certain he did not have the flare for storytelling that the old woman of Winterfell did, but Dak seemed completely enthralled in spite of that.

When he finished, he said, “Now it’s your turn. You said something about an old king dying and a lord losing his head earlier.”

“Oh, that. Well, the king of the Sunset Kingdoms died, apparently. The one that got the throne away from the dragon kings”

“King Robert Baratheon,” Ned supplied.

“Yeah, King Robert. He got killed by some wild animal, or maybe the beheaded lord murdered him. It’s all confused.”

“The beheaded lord. Do you know his name?” Ned asked.

Dak thought for a minute. “Um, yeah. It was Stark. Eddard Stark. He had some big job in King’s Landing but he was a traitor. I’m not sure what he did, though.”

Ned’s heart had almost jumped out of his chest at hearing his own name, but he kept his face blank. “Stark? Really? I had heard he was ill, possibly gravely ill. Are you certain he was beheaded?”

“Did you know him?” asked Dak, fascinated.

“Yes, Dak, I did know him,” Ned said quietly.

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry if he was your friend or anything. And I don’t know about him being sick or not, but he definitely lost his head.”

 _How on earth did Varys manage that?_ “And have you heard any other news from Westeros? Real news, that is, Dak. Not just wild stories.”

“Well, all the stories are pretty wild, now milord. They’ve got a bunch of kings now, and everybody over there is at war.”

“War.” Ned’s heart filled with dread. “Do you know where?”

“Not really. It’s kind of in lots of places, I think. I did hear about one fellow they call the Young Wolf though. I think he’s the son of the lord that got beheaded, the one you knew. The Young Wolf fought a big battle and freed some castle by a river and he has a giant real wolf that tears off his enemies’ arms and heads.” Dak didn’t seem to notice that Ned had gone pale and silent. “But I guess that’s just a story, huh? I mean the real wolf part.”

Ned Stark sighed deeply and looked at the boy. “No, Dak. I fear it is not just a story.”

When he said nothing else, the boy got up and said, “I better go down before Mother comes up. Will you tell me another story tomorrow?”

Ned shook himself. He looked at Dak for a long moment, and then said, “I need you to get more news for me, Dak. I need you to go to the docks and find out as much as you can about this war in the Seven Kingdoms. If you bring me good information, I will pay you with another story, or even two. I have a lot of them.”

The boy considered for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Ned didn’t even notice him leave. He lay on a bed in Pentos while his fifteen year old son fought battles in Westeros. He felt a cold dread as he pictured Robb, with his fiery hair and laughing blue eyes charging at Jon with a wooden sword. He couldn’t picture that same boy surrounded by the blood and chaos of actual battle. That couldn’t be real. Despite the milk of the poppy given with his evening meal, Ned Stark did not sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I have major characters on opposite sides of the Narrow Sea, the next few chapters overlap a bit in terms of time, so events in one chapter may take place chronologically at the same time or even before events in a previous chapter.  
> Events taking place "offstage" so to speak can be assumed to be occurring precisely as they did in the novels, until, of course, I pull them into this story to mess with them! :)  
> I will likely be changing the rating of this story to mature for the next chapter. Some events in that chapter and future chapters (both bad and good!) cannot be written without somewhat more explicit descriptions than I think the teen rating indicates.  
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you are enjoying!


	5. A Lady of Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter details the events in the immediate aftermath of the Red Wedding. While the Red Wedding chapter in A Storm of Swords broke my heart into tiny pieces and made me fear for the health of my Kindle after I had forcefully slammed it down, it remains one of the best written chapters I have ever read. I could not bring myself to summarize or change one word of it. Therefore I begin this chapter by quoting verbatim the last paragraph of Mr. Martin's brilliant Red Wedding chapter with full credit given to the author.
> 
> WARNING: There is a brief depiction of sexual assault near the end of this chapter. If you do not wish to read that content, stop reading when you reach the paragraph beginning, "He stopped in an empty alcove . . ." and skip four paragraphs.

Quoted from A Storm of Swords by George R.R. Martin:

 _It hurts so much_ , she thought. _Our children, Ned, all our sweet babes. Rickon, Bran, Arya, Sansa, Robb . . .Robb . . . please_ , _Ned, please, make it stop, make it stop hurting ._ . . The white tears and the red ones ran together until her face was torn and tattered, the face that Ned had loved. Catelyn Stark raised her hands and watched the blood run down her long fingers, over her wrists, beneath the sleeves of her gown. Slow red worms crawled along her arms and under her clothes. _It tickles_. That made her laugh until she screamed. “Mad,” someone said, “she’s lost her wits,” and someone else said, “Make an end,” and a hand grabbed her scalp just as she’d done with Jinglebell, and she thought, _No, don’t, don’t cut my hair, Ned loves my hair._ Then the steel was at her throat, and its bite was red and cold. (End Quote.)

“Stop, fool!” Another voice, from behind her. Another hand in her hair and her head was jerked hard away from the knife with a painful twist of her neck, even as the cold steel bit across the skin of her throat and she felt blood seeping down the front of her and onto her breasts beneath her gown. “Madwoman or not, she’s worth more alive!”

Catelyn’s vision went dark, and all her world became the flow of tears and blood--she couldn’t tell one from the other, nor tell her blood from Jinglebell’s. All of it seemed to flow down her body in streams to make a river.

“I would prefer her dead,” came an eerily calm voice beside her. “I’ve killed the Young Wolf. Why leave the bitch that whelped him? Look at her. She’s dead anyway.”

“Heh. Maybe she’s dead and maybe no. I’m not dead, heh, and that means I’m still Lord here in the Twins and I say we are done.” She couldn’t see, and her hearing was fading, but she knew that voice, and it made her feel colder than the steel. “Don’t be so quick to take orders from Bolton, Raymund. You belong to me. Now, put a cloth on that gash you made in her neck and see if you can stop the blood.” _No, no . . . nothing can stop it now. It’s a river. It’s the Red Fork, made truly red_. “Black Walder, leave her on the floor with Raymund. Go with Ryman, and see how well the Lord of Riverrun is enjoying his bedding. Heh, heh.” All sounds faded with the sound of the old man’s croaking laugh, and she knew only the pressure of a hand on her throat. Then nothing.

 

Dark and pain. She was searching for something, someone. She was floating. Or sinking--always through dark and pain. She cried out for someone, but the voices she heard in answer were all wrong. _Ned! Robb!_ She couldn’t find them in the dark. _Why won’t they wait for me?_ There was rain on her face, or snow--it was cold and wet, but soft--like snow. _Bran! Rickon! Come in from the snow! It’s cold, and I can’t find you in the dark!_ Pain. Always painful hands on her throat. _Sansa! Arya!_ She couldn’t reach them. The hands at her throat held her down and fire bit at her back if she tried to move. _Ned! Make it stop! Oh, please . . .please_. Dark and pain.

Dark and pain. Was there anything else? Yes. There were voices. She didn’t know them, but she could hear them, and now the meaning of their words began to reach her.

“Has she awakened yet?” A man. A young one. Robb? No!!! her mind screamed and slammed a door against a truth more painful than her neck or her back or the thousand tiny stings on her face.

“No.” A young woman’s voice. “But she moves some, now. I don’t think she’s going to die.”

“Why doesn’t that please you, sweet sister? You have tended the lady with such care. Surely, her recovery cheers you.”

The young woman’s voice trembled, on the verge of breaking. “What has she left, Olyvar? What have we left to her? I fear it would have been kinder to let her bleed to death--to follow her son and her husband.” Her voice broke then, and the next words came in soft sobs. “There is no joy here, brother. None for us, and even less for her.”

_Why is she crying?_

“Roslin, don’t . .” the young man started.

 _Roslin. Why is Roslin crying?? Oh, Gods, no!!! Robb!! Robb!!_ Her mind could no longer keep the truth shut away beneath the dark and the pain. Catelyn Stark opened her eyes and screamed her son’s name.

“My lady! My lady, please!” Olyvar Frey’s eyes were wide with shock, but he reacted quickly, rushing from behind his sister to the bedside and pinning Catelyn by her shoulders so she couldn’t rise. “You must be still, my lady! You will do yourself harm!”

His words actually stopped Catelyn’s screams and made her laugh--a bitter sound with no mirth at all. “Do myself harm?” the words came out as a harsh rasp, barely above a whisper. “Why should I harm myself with so many Freys willing to do it for me?” She hadn’t the strength to even raise her head off the pillow, but the venom in her words appeared to strike the boy like a blow. He fell to his knees by the bed and buried his face in the blanket by her shoulder.

“I did not know, my lady. I swear to you, I did not know.” He was crying now, tears flowing as freely as his sister’s. “They sent me away and told me nothing. I couldn’t stop it. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

Catelyn stared at him a moment as he continued to weep onto her bed and then looked up at Roslin, seated in a chair by the bedside. “Is my brother dead?”

Roslin started. “Your brother? Oh, no, my lady. My lord husband lives, Lady Catelyn. He is held hostage, in a cell below the western castle, but he lives. And I pray for him every day.”

Catelyn closed her eyes. She was glad to hear Edmure lived, but she couldn’t take any true joy in it. Joy had left her, and she suddenly found herself very tired. “Where is my son?” she asked without opening her eyes.

She felt Olyvar raise his head up. “My lady?” He sounded very hesitant. “King Robb . . . King Robb is . .”

“Dead,” she said flatly. She opened her eyes and stared directly into those of her son’s one-time squire. “I watched Roose Bolton’s sword spill his blood with my own eyes, Olyvar. . I’m asking you where he is now. What has your lord father done with my son?” The cold hatred in her voice at the words “lord father” shocked even her.

Roslin looked stricken and gasped, “Oh, my lady!” and ran from the room in tears. Olyvar looked as if he wanted to go after her, but he took a deep breath and rose from the floor only to seat himself in the chair Roslin had left.

“Lady Catelyn,” he said softly. “You do not want me to answer that question.” She started to protest, but he cut her off. “I will, if you insist, but please let me say this first. King Robb was my liege. I never would have left him had I been given a choice. I will not lie to you. I was angry when he married that Westerling girl, and I told him he would have to pay for the slight to my family’s honor.” He paused for a moment, but when Catelyn made no response, he took another deep breath and continued. “He looked so sad then, my lady. He knew he’d done wrong by us, but he just couldn’t do wrong by the lady. He could never do that, and I knew it. I told him I was still his man, and maybe I could help him--I’d try to find out what my father would demand from him. I-I knew it would be awful, my lady, but I never . . .” his voice broke off, and he had to take several breaths before he continued. “My father is a cold, cruel, calculating man. But he talks so much about honor, I always believed he did have some. When he accepted the marriage between Lord Edmure and my sister, I knew the wedding would be terrible. I knew he would insult his Grace to his face and demand any number of petty concessions from him. I was furious when he sent me away with Perwyn, but I never believed he’d murder guests in his home! Truly, I thought he just didn’t want me making a scene at his disrespect for the king. Perwyn told me as much.”

“And Perwyn?” Catelyn was surprised to find herself interested in Olyvar’s tale, but she was. “Did he know the truth of it?”

Olyvar dropped his eyes. “Yes, my lady. To his shame, he did. He argued against it and when that came to no avail, declared he would take no part in it. But he made no move to warn King Robb. He simply took me and left on the pretense of trouble with some of our troops.”

“You haven’t forgiven him.”

“No, my lady. But he is my brother.” Olyvar raised his eyes to meet hers again. “They are all my brothers, half-brothers, cousins, and nephews . . . . and my father. As I am their family, I share in their crime. I would pay you anything I have, my lady, but nothing will atone, I know. I offer you what little protection I can give you here, although I fear it will not be much. And I offer you truth, in this house of lies. That is why I will answer your question, if you insist. But in all honesty, I tell you the answer will cause you pain. I fear my father has no more respect for the dead than for the living.”

Catelyn’s limbs felt heavy and her heart felt cold. She looked at Olyvar and realized she didn’t have the strength for any more horrors at the moment. “I shall ask again when I am stronger, Olyvar. How long have I slept?”

“Five days, my lady. We were most afraid you would not survive. Roslin has stayed with you almost all the time, dripping water and honey into your mouth and caring for your wounds.”

“I would think she should better spend her time with her new husband,” Catelyn said coldly. “Or does she not like the dungeons here at the Twins?”

Olyvar bristled at that. “She has begged leave to go and tend Lord Edmure. She has been forbidden to see him since they took him from her bridal chamber. She truly desires to be a good wife to him, my lady, and fears he will forever hate her now. She did not know, at first, and was very excited at being married. She made me tell her all I knew of Lord Edmure, every detail of his character and the color of his eyes. Roslin is a victim in this, too. She was used, and by the time she knew the truth of it, she could not stop anything.”

Catelyn thought then of Sansa, sent away to marry the monster, Joffrey, and then given to that treacherous Imp, with never a choice about any of it. She could almost pity the Frey girl, if she had any pity left.

“I suppose, if I am going to live, I should drink something, although I can barely swallow with this . . .” She raised her hands to claw at the thing around her throat, but Olyvar grabbed them.

“No, Lady Catelyn. You took a deep cut there. If you pull at the bandage, I fear Roslin’s stitches will come loose. She said you must have them for awhile yet.” Catelyn remembered the cold bite of the knife at her throat and shuddered. She remembered the feel of a knife in her hand sawing at another throat as well, but she put that thought away. “My back,” she said. “Something struck me in the back.”

“A quarrel,” Olyvar told her, as he poured water into a cup for her. “I am told you were struck by one of the crossbowmen as you ran toward King Robb. Fortunately, it was at a shallow angle. It hit only the flesh and sinew beside your spine. No vital organs.”

“Yes. I am a very fortunate woman.”

Olyvar had the grace to look abashed at that as he knelt to help her with the cup. When she reached her hands up to help grip it, her fingers brushed her face, and she felt cool damp cloths adhered to her cheeks. “What‘s this?” and then, “Oh,” she said softly, remembering the talons and the red tears. She held her hands in front of her face, turning them this way and that, expecting to see the scarlet streaks, but her pale hands were unblemished, but for the old scars on her palms from a Valyrian steel dagger.

“Roslin bathed you herself, my lady,” Olyvar said quietly, as if he knew what she was looking for.

Gently, Catelyn touched the cloths on her cheeks which didn’t really hurt, but rather tingled. “My face,” she whispered.

“It will heal, my lady. Some of the deeper gashes will leave marks, but Maester Brenett says they will fade with time. He has made ointments for Roslin to apply every day.”

“Oh, I see. Is Lord Walder terribly concerned about my appearance? Planning to marry me off to one of his bastards and proclaim him Lord of Winterfell?” Catelyn spoke purely from spite and was shocked to see an odd look of panic cross Olyvar’s face. “Olyvar, I will wed no one. I am not a maid to be frightened into saying the words. I will die before I wed against my will. If your father believes otherwise, he is a fool as well as a craven, dishonorable murderer.”

“No, my lady. I do not believe my father plans to wed you to anyone. He has led most people outside this castle to believe you are dead, in fact.”

“And what value do I have as a corpse?”

“I do not know all his plans, my lady. But I doubt either of us will be pleased by them.”

On that rather ominous note, Olyvar tipped up the cup and encouraged her to drink. The water was good in spite of the pain with swallowing, and Catelyn drank greedily. Olyvar then settled her back down and told her he had to leave, and she should sleep. There would be a guard just outside her room should she have need of anything. _Of course, or to intervene should I develop a desire to leave this room._

Left alone in her bed, she allowed her husband and children to fill her mind and found herself paralyzed by grief so deep and painful that no physical hurt she had ever suffered could compare. Yet, her eyes remained dry. Have I cried all my tears, that I have none left? Or am I truly become a Stark of the North whose tears freeze before they can fall? Eventually, she fell into a fitful sleep. She was running toward Robb as arrows pierced his body one after another. She screamed, but the sound she made was that of Grey Wind’s mournful howl. She was suddenly in the woods surrounded by wolves, but they didn’t frighten her. She wanted to gather them to her, but a lion jumped out from behind the trees and chased them away, each in a different direction. She ran one way and then another, trying to find them, but they were lost to her. She was cold, bleeding, and her dress was torn, and she couldn’t hear the wolves anymore. Only the distant roar of a lion. She had given up in despair when she saw Ned beside a weirwood tree beckoning to her. She cried out for joy and ran into his arms, but he looked at her so sadly. She touched his face and ran her fingers through his hair. His gray eyes looked into hers with such grief and longing that her heart broke. “Smile for me, my love,” she begged him. He only shook his head and whispered her name, “Cat.” He bent to kiss her, but as his lips touched hers, she suddenly felt cold, and realized she was alone. “Ned!” she screamed, but he was as lost to her as the wolves, and she sank to the ground and cried.

She woke to find her pillow soaked with tears. _Perhaps my heart is not yet so frozen as I thought. I only wish it were._ She realized there were voices in the hall and hurriedly wiped her blanket across her eyes as the door opened. Whatever she may do in her dreams, Catelyn Stark vowed by the old gods and the new, she would never weep in front of any Frey.

 

For the next three days, she saw only Roslin and two serving girls who brought her food and tidied the room. The serving girls seemed terrified to look at her, much less speak to her. Roslin always looked frightened as well, but it seemed to Catelyn the girl was frightened for her, rather than of her. Tears filled her eyes frequently, and while she would usually answer questions, Catelyn sensed hesitations and evasions.

“What does Lord Walder intend to do with me, Roslin?” she asked as the girl removed the cloths from her face and rubbed some cream onto the skin of her cheeks.

Roslin stilled her hands, and replied, “I . . I don’t really know, my lady.”

“Nonsense. Lord Walder is very fond of the sound of his own voice. I am certain he has said something of me . . .if only to frighten or threaten people.”

“Well,” Roslin hesitated. “That’s just it, my lady. You never know if he means what he says. He had mentioned dragging you to Riverrun and hanging you in front of the gates if the Blackfish doesn’t yield. But he has talked of doing the same with my lord husband. Olyvar says he is unlikely to use you in such a manner after he’s gone to such pains to make it as if you are dead.”

“What pains, Roslin? And why do such a thing? A hostage is only worth something if people know you have one.”

“We hold several, my lady. Hostages, that is. My lord father has definite plans for most of them. Olyvar believes he is afraid of you. Afraid that your being held captive could further anger both the river lords and the northmen--who are all angry enough, already.” Her lip trembled as if her own words frightened her as she went on in little more than a whisper. “Olyvar says Father will use Lord Edmure, Marq Piper, and Patrek Mallister to make their houses bend the knee for King Joffrey, but that he will wait and sell you when he sees an advantage for himself from someone who benefits from your life or your death.”

Catelyn noticed that Roslin did not answer the first part of her question, but decided to press her further on the answers she had given rather than point that out. “And the secrecy? Is that truly because your father fears a rescue attempt from a pack of angry northmen?” Catelyn raised her brow and let her skepticism sound in her voice.

Roslin looked down. “Well, partly,” she whispered. “But also, my lady, if you are already dead, there’s nothing to keep him from doing anything he likes with you, and no one to tell him no.” She turned away quickly and went to get a hairbrush off a nearby table. “Let me brush your hair, my lady,” she said, with an abrupt forced enthusiasm to her voice. “I am to get you dressed today.”

Catelyn had believed she was past fear. She had nothing left to lose, nothing left for Walder Frey to take. Yet, Roslin’s whispered words made her blood run cold. “Roslin, why have I not seen Olyvar since that first day?”

“Because you are awake, now. My lord father does not trust Olyvar where you are concerned, and has forbidden him to come.” Roslin’s normally transparent face was completely expressionless as she added, “You will see him presently, though. He is to take you to my father’s hall today.”

 

Catelyn Stark was dressed in her own gown, one of those she had brought from Riverrun, but it fit poorly as she had lost weight while she had lain in her bed of dark and pain. There was no looking glass in her small room, but with the ill-fitting gown, the red lines on her face, and the sewn-up gash across her throat, she imagined she must look ghastly in spite of the care Roslin had taken with her hair. She was also even weaker than she had realized and had to lean heavily on Olyvar’s arm as he escorted her through the castle to the hall. Olyvar had been cold and formal when he arrived at her room. Now, momentarily out of sight from all as they walked slowly down a corridor, his face remained a hard mask, but he whispered urgently, “My lady, this will be most unpleasant. I am sorry I could not spare you or prepare you for this, but I will get you away from it as soon as I am able.”

Before she could respond, she realized they were entering Lord Walder’s hall. She felt sick and fought down the urge to vomit as “The Rains of Castamere” played in her head and she smelled clearly the stench of death. She blinked her eyes hard to clear away the bloody phantoms she saw all around her.

“There’s our special guest now, heh.” At his voice, Catelyn willed her face to freeze into a mask as she slowly turned to face the Lord of the Crossing where he sat on his carved oaken throne. The hall was mostly deserted. She saw only Lord Walder, Ser Ryman, Black Walder, Lame Lothar, Walder Rivers, and Ser Hosteen along with two other men she did not know by sight, presumably also some sort of Freys.

She met Lord Walder’s gaze, but did not speak to him.

“No greetings, my lady? Heh. Raymund cut out your tongue with that knife of his when he slit your throat?” Lord Walder’s watery old eyes stared at her expectantly and he pursed his lips over his toothless gums. “What’s the matter with her, Olyvar?” he snapped at his son. “I thought she could speak.”

“She can speak, my lord. If she chooses.” Olyvar said pointedly.

“Ah, I see. Yes, I see. Heh. Too good to speak to me now, are you? Old Hoster Tully thought he was too good. He’s dead now, I’m not. Heh.”

Catelyn continued to stare back at him silently. She had nothing to say to this man. She realized she had started shaking, but did not know if fury or weakness was the cause. She could not get the smell of death and decay out of her nose. Olyvar had put his arm around her for support.

Lord Walder noticed. “Let her go, Olyvar. If you want to squeeze her any tighter, you’ll need to push up her skirts. Heh. You like her that much, boy? Want to have a go at the trout’s daughter right here in my hall?”

It was Olyvar’s turn to stare wordlessly at his father, but he did not let her go. For that, Catelyn was grateful, as she was not certain she could stand on her own.

“Your son was too good for my daughters, eh?” the old man’s eyes glittered spitefully at Catelyn. “You seem to like this son of mine, though. Enough to spread your legs for him? Heh. How about it, Lady Tully? ”

“Lady Stark.” Her voice cut through the hall like ice. “My name is Catelyn Stark, Lady of Winterfell.”

Lord Walder looked back at her with malice. “So it is. Yes. And what do I care? Fish spawn, wolf bitch, it doesn’t matter to me.” He raised his voice and called to someone behind her. “Bring in Lady Stark’s present!”

Olyvar gripped her more tightly. “Do not look, my lady.” He turned to Lord Walder and pleaded, “Do not do this, Father. There is no need. There is no honor in . . .”

“Honor!” the old man spat. “She’s a big one for talking honor. Yes. Her son’s honor, her father’s honor, her bloody Stark husband’s honor. Well, they’re all dead now. All but her, and a woman’s only honor is between her legs. Turn her around and show her what her family‘s honor is worth!”

“No!” Olyvar shouted. Catelyn felt dizzy now, but she saw Black Walder step forward and shove Olyvar away as the bastard Walder Rivers grabbed her to keep her from falling.  _I am drowning in a sea of Walders_. She fought against hysteria. Then Bastard Walder was whispering in her ear, “Olyvar’s an evil boy to keep a grieving mother from her son.” And he spun her around.

Two men had carried in a chair on which was propped a corpse ripe with decay---a naked man. At first, she blinked uncomprehendingly, but then saw the crowned and rotting direwolf’s head sewn onto the dead man’s neck, and she clutched at the stitches across her own neck as she stumbled unsteadily toward the desecrated remains of her firstborn child. She couldn’t reach him this time, either, and for the second time, Catelyn Stark’s world went dark to the sound of Walder Frey’s laughter.

 

She awoke with her face pressed against the cold stone floor of the hall. The corpse scent hung in the air but when she lifted her eyes to look, Robb’s body was gone. She heard voices and realized the Frey men were huddled around a table in conversation, seemingly oblivious to the broken woman on their floor. Olyvar was gone. Her knees and forehead throbbed. She must have hit the floor hard when she fell. She remembered running toward . . _Oh gods, Robb! Oh, Ned, our sweet boy. Our babe. Please make this_ _stop._ She felt the tears building behind her eyes, but she also heard the voices of the Frey men at the table, and remembered her vow. _I will not cry for them. Forgive me, Robb, but I cannot grieve you here._

Ser Ryman was speaking. “So, Walder will take young Mallister to Seagard and show Lord Jason exactly what will happen to his heir if he doesn’t bend the knee, and I’ll do the same with Tully at Riverrun. We’ll see how long the Blackfish holds out with his liege lord’s head in a bloody noose.”

Catelyn couldn’t sit all the way up, but she raised as far as she could and called out to them, “Ser Brynden will never yield Riverrun to you! Lord Jason may bend for his love of Patrek, but you will all be as old as Lord Walder before the Tullys bend their knees for the likes of you.”

The men all looked down at her in shock. Then Lord Walder began to laugh and slowly clapped his hands. “Well said, my lady. Heh. Well said. Mayhaps the Tullys yield, and mayhaps they don’t. But you already said you’re a wolf, not a trout. Heh.” He looked at Black Walder. “You saved her from Bolton and your idiot uncle. Why don’t you claim your reward? It’s time this Stark yielded her honor. Heh, heh.”

As the meaning of his words slowly dawned on Catelyn, an involuntary “No,” escaped her lips, and she began to push herself backwards across the floor.

“But yes,” Lord Walder said. “Spoils of war, my lady. Ask your friends, the Iron Born about it. They kill little boys, I hear. Heh. But they know what to do with the ladies, I’ll grant them that.”

Black Walder was standing over her now, his eyes glittering in a malicious echo of his grandfather’s. _A nasty bit of business,_ came Edmure’s voice in her head. She would not cower for him. She stopped moving and stared up at Black Walder coldly.

“Aw, she was a lot prettier before that bloody wedding,” the man declared. “But she’s not too bad. Her hair’s something. I could always turn her around.” He gave her a nasty grin, picked her up with ease and carried her out of the hall. Over his shoulder, he called nonchalantly to the other men. “I’ll be happy to fuck Ned Stark’s little fishwife before I ride out, but I don’t give shows. If you want her, you can always take turns later!”

He stopped in an empty alcove not far from the hall and shoved her up against the wall. She fought down the urge to scream and only stared at him with cold hatred. He just laughed and ripped the front of her dress down the middle, exposing her breasts. “Not bad teats for a woman who’s give suck to as many brats as you have.” He grabbed her nipple and twisted it hard, and she couldn’t prevent the small sound of pain that escaped her. He laughed and did it again to the other. Far beyond the physical pain, her mind screamed in outrage at the man’s touch. No man but Ned had ever touched her bare skin there, and his touch had never caused her pain. This man’s assault seemed to Catelyn to be as much on Ned’s memory as on her body. He removed his hand and replaced it with his mouth, sucking and biting at her as if she were prey being devoured by a beast. She made herself remain as still and silent as she could as he pushed up her skirts and fumbled at his breeches.

And then he was forcing her thighs apart with his knee and pushing into her. As she felt herself tear when he entered her, she could not smother a scream of pain mingled with rage. She felt she was being ripped in half with every thrust, but while she could not help screaming, she did not fight him. She would not give him that. “Cold little bitch, aren’t you?” he grunted. “Bedding with Stark do that to you?”

He finished with a loud grunt and collapsed against her. As he panted for breath, pinning her against the wall with his weight, he raised a hand to stroke her hair. That, she would not allow. “No,” she said coldly, and with strength she didn’t think she had, she slapped him hard and pushed him off her to the ground. “That is not yours to touch. Ever.”

She stepped over him and staggered from the alcove. She expected him to follow, to beat her, to kill her. Something. She didn’t care. But he didn’t come after her. She wandered lost through corridors in her ripped dress with Black Walder’s seed dripping down her thighs until she came upon a serving girl who gasped upon seeing her and ran the other way. Unable to move any further, Catelyn sank down onto the floor where she was.

Some moments later, the girl returned with Olyvar, who now sported a black eye. He looked down at her and shook his head mutely. Then he picked her up gently and carried her back to her prison.

As he settled her onto the bed, she looked at him levelly. “You were right, Olyvar. Being raped by your nephew was . . . .most unpleasant,” she said flatly.

“My lady,” he said, anguish in his voice. “I did not know, I mean, I knew about King Robb, but I . . .”

“Oh, yes. What they did to my son was most unpleasant, too.”

He stared at her, as if expecting her to break down and cry. She wouldn’t though. She had screamed, but she had not wept, and she didn’t think she would ever weep again. Something deep inside her had died. _If only my body would join it_.

“My lady, I could not protect you. Forgive me. I will try to keep you from as much hurt as I can, but I . . .”

“They cannot hurt me, Olyvar. Do not trouble yourself.” Her voice was calm, cold. _Could I be turning to ice?_

“My lady? They, they . . You are grievously hurt, my lady.” He couldn’t even say rape, she noticed.

“They cannot hurt me,” she repeated. She looked at the floor and saw a stone about the size of her fist lying there. It was used to prop the door at times, she supposed. _No,_ _not ice. Ned was ice, and he could be warmed. He could thaw and be so warm. I will never be warm again._

“But . .”

She sighed. “Olyvar, hand me that stone.” He looked confused, but did as she asked. She held it in her palm, cool against her skin, for a moment, and then threw it to the floor as hard as she could. A small piece broke off and skittered across the floor.

“There,” she said. “Did I hurt it?"

“The stone, my lady? You broke it, a little. But it will still serve.”

She laughed bitterly. “Still serve, indeed. I asked if I hurt it, not if I broke it. Did it feel pain? Did it cry out or weep?”

Olyvar looked at her utterly bewildered. “It’s a stone, my lady. It does not feel.”

“Nor do I, Olyvar. Your family may break pieces off me. They may break me entirely. But they cannot hurt me. I am stone.”

He stared at her then, and his expression might have broken Catelyn’s heart, if she still had one. “Go Olyvar. Find Roslin for me. I would like to bathe.”

He regarded her silently for a couple moments more before turning to go, and then she watched her son’s faithful squire go and do as he was bid by his lady of stone.


	6. A Wounded Wolf

Ned Stark stood in the center of his room and held a long plank of wood over his head. Finding his balance, with most of his weight on his good leg, he brought the plank down swiftly in front of him and slashed from side to side with it, mimicking sword strokes he’d learned in his youth. He stepped forward with a thrust of the plank, lost his balance, and fell to the floor.

“Damn this leg!” he exclaimed in irritation, slamming the wooden plank on the floor.

He regretted that action immediately as he heard the sound of someone climbing the stairs toward his room at a quick pace and heard Alina’s voice calling out, “Milord, are you well?”

He hurriedly shoved the plank beneath his bed and got to a sitting position. When the door opened and she entered with a worried expression on her face, he was making a great show of rubbing the bad leg.

“What have you done?” she asked in her odd Valyrian that he had come to understand well enough if she spoke slowly.

He answered in his own carefully phrased Valyrian. “It is nothing, Alina. I fell while trying to walk. Nothing is wounded but my pride.”

She was silent a moment as she puzzled out exactly what he had said, and then shook her head at him. “You try to do too much.” She reached out her hand and he allowed her to lead him back to his bed. _If only you knew_ , he thought.

After assuring herself that he was not gravely injured, Alina left him with promises that Dak would be up shortly with his meal. _If you knew all that Dak brought me, you_ _would not treat me half so well_ , he thought with a stab of guilt, thinking of the makeshift practice sword hidden beneath his bed.

Dak had fallen into the habit of bringing Ned his evening meal every day along with whatever tidbits of information he’d managed to pick up from sailors and other men in the port. While the news from the Seven Kingdoms was often wildly exaggerated, and different tellers gave contradictory reports of the same events, some facts seemed certain. It seemed that both of Robert’s brothers had claimed his throne and that Robb had declared himself King in the North. When he first heard about the battling Baratheon brothers, Ned wanted to throttle Renly. He should support his older brother’s claim! Working together, the two had enough men to seriously challenge the Lannisters. Fighting each other served no one.

As for his son, Ned couldn’t begin to sort his thoughts or feelings. He knew Robb would seek vengeance for his supposed execution. He thought of Brandon riding heedlessly to King’s Landing demanding vengeance on Rhaegar for Lyanna, and he feared dreadfully for Robb. He was a boy! Who counseled him into a crown? Where was Catelyn? Surely, she would put Robb’s life before any need for vengeance. Would the boy pay her any heed?

Then had come the news of Renly Baratheon’s death at Bitterbridge. That tale was confused well beyond Ned’s ability to untangle it. The only certainty seemed to be that Robert’s youngest brother had indeed been killed. Who had done the killing was a mystery. When Dak duly reported that one sailor told him the assassin was Lady Catelyn Stark, Ned had choked so violently on his food that the boy had summoned his mother in distress. After reflecting on this particular tale, Ned had dismissed it. Bitterbridge was a long way from Winterfell, and while he knew his wife to be skilled in many things, murder was not among them.

Dak’s latest reports were of the Ironborn raiding in the north. He’d had no details about it, and Ned had bid him find out more. How dare Balon Greyjoy attack the north when Robb had Theon as ward? Did he think that with Ned out of the way, his son was safe? In truth, Ned himself worried about Robb’s ability to use Theon as a hostage. He had grown up following the older boy around Winterfell, admiring him almost as an older brother. What would he do with Theon if Lord Greyjoy was truly attacking his bannermen?

Ned cursed and put his head in his hands. He couldn’t do anything here! He glared down at his scarred leg and wondered if he could do anything anywhere. That line of thought would lead him nowhere, however, so he breathed deeply and resolutely bent down to retrieve his “sword” for more practice.

It was only a rough wooden plank, somewhat narrowed on one end in a crude imitation of a hilt, and his sons would have laughed themselves into fits at the sight of it in his hand. Even Rickon had a little wooden practice sword that put it to shame. But it was all he had, and for that, he owed Dak.

The boy had looked at him as if he had lost his mind when Ned first asked him about procuring such an item. “Milord! A weapon?!? I could never give you such a thing! Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t bring it past Mother and the other two!”

“Not a weapon, Dak,” he replied calmly. “Merely a bit of wood. I have fought with swords for over half my life, and moving with a sword in my hand is as important as walking. I do not intend to be in this room for the rest of my life, and I would prefer not to be a useless cripple once I gain my release.”

“I don’t know that anybody’s going to release you,” the boy muttered. “Nobody even comes to ask about you. Those two downstairs jape that we could just kill you and keep living here getting paid. Nobody’d know the difference.”

That had given Ned pause, but he’d only sat down to make himself eye level with the boy, the way he had done with his own children when he meant to speak with them about something important. “Dak, I know you would never agree to such a dishonorable course of action. You are no sellsword or cutthroat.”

“Oh no, milord! I’d never . . .” the boy began to protest.

“Of course not,” Ned interrupted soothingly. “But you are only one boy, and they are two grown men. You cannot stop them if they choose to harm me, and I cannot defend myself at all in my current state. With a wooden practice blade, I could improve my balance and strength.”

“But it’s not a real weapon, milord. You said so yourself.”

“No, but in a pinch, I suppose I could beat one of them over the head with it while you take out the other man.” Ned spoke very seriously and did not change his expression, but Dak was learning to see things in his eyes, and after a moment the boy broke into a wide grin.

“You don’t think I could do it, but I could! I’d show you!” The boy then became quiet as if considering something. “Milord, if I can get this thing for you, do you give me your word you will never use it to hit Mother or me over the head and try to escape from here?”

Ned sighed. “Dak, I will not lie to you. I cannot stay in this place forever, and if an opportunity arises for me to leave, I will take it. But, you have my word of honor that I will never do any violence to you or your mother---with a wooden sword, a hand, or any other weapon.”

Dak considered for a moment, and then nodded. “Okay, how big is this thing?”

Ned had thought long and hard about weaponry during his hours in the little room and reached the conclusion that a greatsword would simply be far too large and heavy to manage on his leg. Besides, Ice was lost to him, and a more standard blade would likely be easier to come by. He gave the boy rough dimensions, and Dak nodded.

“It’ll have to be the window then.”

“What?” Ned asked, completely lost by this turn in the conversation.

“The window,” Dak repeated. "I’d never get something that big up the stairs. No way to hide it. I can strap it to my back though, and bring it in your window.”

Ned turned to look at the high, narrow windows of his room. They were designed more for light than for looking out, and when standing, he could just look over the bottom sill. They did look large enough for a slender man to slip through perhaps, certainly a skinny boy like Dak, but . .

“Dak, we are on the third floor.”

“So?”

Ned cocked an eyebrow at him. “I wasn’t aware you could fly.”

Dak grinned again. “Oh, I can’t. But I can climb. I climb better than anyone in Pentos. I’ve been on almost every roof around here, and I never fall!”

Ned’s world spun and he no longer saw Dak, but another little boy with bright blue eyes and hair just a shade darker than his mother’s, scrambling up castle walls, leaping through impossibly high branches in the godswood . . .lying broken and still in his bed.

“Milord?” Dak’s voice brought Ned back and he saw the boy regarding him with concern in his eyes.

“You must always be careful, Dak. Even the best climbers may fall.” _Or be pushed._ “Are you certain you can do this without harming yourself?”

“Never doubt it, milord.”

Dak was true to his word, and Ned had been awakened three nights later by the sound of a boy scooting through his window with the wooden plank tied to his back. “In the dark? You climbed three stories in the dark?" he had asked.

Dak laughed quietly. “Well, I didn’t want to be seen, now did I? There’s handholds everywhere on this building, milord. It’s an easy climb, honest.”

“Truly?” Ned had asked, grasping at that little hope and measuring himself against the size of the window. “An easy climb?”

Dak had understood him instantly. “Easy enough, milord, for a man with two good legs,” he said sadly.

“Ah,” Ned had responded. “Well thank you for bringing me this, Dak. You are a good, brave boy, and I am fortunate to have you as a friend.”

“I am your friend, milord. Even if I can’t let you out. I really do want to help,” the boy said earnestly.

“I know, son. Now, you’d best climb back down, little monkey, before you are missed. And be careful.”

That had been over a moon's turn ago, and Ned had spent almost every moment since working with the wooden “sword.” He only stopped to rest briefly, or to conceal it when he heard people approach the room. He despaired of his slow progress, but he had no choice, so he kept working at it. He now repeated the maneuver that had caused him to fall earlier, and managed to keep his feet. No doubt, he’d have been run through by even the weakest opponent, but at least he hadn’t fallen. He continued to work with the plank until he heard more footsteps ascending toward his door. He then concealed it once again beneath his bed and sat down to greet his visitor.

The guard let Dak into the room with Ned’s evening meal and then turned back down the stairs, bolting the door behind them. Neither guard ever bothered to stay and watch Dak or his mother while they were in Ned’s room anymore. The boy set down the plate of food and a tankard of ale without saying a word.

“Good evening, young Dak,” Ned greeted him. “What news have you from the port?”

“Nothing, milord. I didn’t hear any more today.” Dak would not meet his eyes. “I’ll just leave your food and go. You don’t have to tell me any stories since I didn’t bring you any news.” He turned toward the door as if to call the guard back.

“Dak, stop.” Ned had slipped into what Catelyn referred to as his “lord’s voice” which tended to freeze his children and his men alike. It had the desired effect on Dak, who stood still and turned to face him, although he still kept his eyes down. “What is wrong? And do not tell me it is nothing. I can see you are distressed.”

“I just . . I . . please don’t make me tell you, milord,” he blurted out, and Ned was startled to see he had tears in his eyes.

“Dak, has something happened to you or your mother? What’s amiss, lad?”

“No! I mean, nothing with Mother or me. I just, I can’t . . . .I don’t want to tell you what I heard.” The last was almost a whisper.

Ned studied him for a moment. “So you did hear more news today, after all. You need to tell me, Dak. Undoubtedly, it is bad, I know. There would seem to be little good news from home. I have grown used to it.”

The boy looked at him almost desperately, as if he didn’t know what to say. “Not this!” he finally wailed. “You see, milord, I . . I know who you are and I . .”

“You don’t know who I am, Dak. I have never given you my name. And you probably wouldn’t believe me if I did. Now tell me your news.”

“It’s about the Ironborn attacks on the North,” the boy said quietly, staring directly into Ned’s eyes.

Ned’s heart began to beat faster, and he felt suddenly cold, but he kept his face very still as he asked Dak, “What about them? Do you know for certain there are attacks? Or where they are?”

The boy’s eyes never left Ned’s but he shook his head slowly. “I am sorry, milord. I cannot do this and pretend I don’t know what I’m telling you.” He came and knelt in front of Ned where he sat on the edge of the bed. “You are very good at hiding things, milord. And all of the names and places in the Sunset Kingdoms are just words and stories to me, so at first I didn’t notice. But then I did. Some of the names and places mean a lot more to you. Always you ask more about the North. About the Young Wolf. About that lady you say didn’t kill that king’s brother. You care more when I talk about them. And Winterfell. You always want to know things about that place, even though it seems far from the battles.” He looked down and was silent for a moment, as if he didn’t know what to say next.

Ned put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You are an observant young man, Dak. So you have discerned I am a northman. I’ll not deny it. Please tell me what you learned today. I need to know.”

Ned could feel Dak actually trembling. Then the boy looked up suddenly and grabbed Ned’s hand, holding it between his. “You are more than just a northman, my lord,” he said fiercely. “I asked Donnell about it. Donnell is a man I met at the docks. He asks as many questions about the Westerosi war as I do, because he’s from there. He’s from the north, and I . .. I started talking to him to understand the tales better, so I could tell you better . .and . . .he told me he saw the man once. The Lord of Winterfell.”

The title hung in the silence between them for a moment until Ned asked quietly, “and what did this man tell you of the Lord of Winterfell?”

Dak continued to look straight at him and swallowed hard before speaking. “He said he had dark hair and eyes gray like a winter sky. That his face was cold and hard, but he was always just and good and . . and . . I . . I just knew and . . . and, oh, milord, I don’t know how to tell you!” The boy was quite literally crying now, and Ned felt an icy hand close around his heart at the sight.

“Dak,” he whispered. “Please. Please, I must know what has happened. Tell me.”

“It’s Winterfell, my lord. A man called Theon Greyjoy attacked it and took it.”

“Winterfell has fallen to the Greyjoys? To Theon??” Ned jumped to his feet and paced like a caged animal, any pain in his leg forgotten in his distress. “Gods, Dak! How can that be possible??”

The boy remained on his knees looking up at him. “That’s not all, milord. The princes . . the two little brothers of the Young Wolf . . .they . .”

Ned’s heart stopped. He grabbed the boy by the shoulders. “What, Dak? They what? Tell me about Bran and Rickon!!” All pretense was gone now. He desperately needed to hear his sons were safe.

Dak’s tearstained face was white as he responded. “He killed them, milord. They’re dead.”

Ned’s howl of rage was that of a wounded wild animal. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He threw himself against the door of the room and beat upon it with his fists as if he could break it down and reach through it to strangle Theon Greyjoy. He was vaguely aware that Dak was crying out, “Milord, please!” over and over, but it had no meaning to him. Nothing had meaning. _Bran! Rickon! Oh gods, no!_

Suddenly, the door opened, and he literally fell into both guards. He swung wildly at them with his fists and knocked one of them down several steps. Then his head exploded into darkness and he knew no more.

 

Ned awoke to a pounding skull and an aching sense of loss. At first, the pain in his head drove out all thought or memory, but then Dak’s words echoed through his head and knifed through his heart with a force that shattered him. He lay on his bed and struggled to comprehend anything. He must have made some sound because suddenly Dak was beside him.

“Milord?” the boy whispered. “Are you awake?”

“I am.” His voice sounded flat and distant. “What hit my head, Dak, and how long have I slept?”

“The wall, milord. Ullor slammed your head into it after you knocked Eril down the steps. You’ve been asleep for almost two days. I feared you wouldn’t wake.”

“Where are the guards?”

“Downstairs. I’m to call them when you wake. They think you’ve gone mad. I couldn’t tell them about . . .you know.” Dak hung his head and looked miserable.

“My sons. You couldn’t tell them my sons are dead.” Ned made himself say the words. It sounded cold and wrong. “You are certain of this, Dak? There is no mistake?” He tried not to put hope into the questions. He thought of his father, his brother and sister. Hope was cruel. It would not help him.

“Yes, milord. I am sorry. Donnel has people who write him. His brother’s a knight in service to some northern house, and he’s got other friends, too. They all send him letters. So it’s not just a sailor’s tale.” Dak hesitated a moment. “Milord, was one of them the boy like me? The one who likes stories?”

Ned’s heart clenched and he felt the desire to weep for his sons, but knew he would not. He held his grief inside, cold and hard. “Bran,” he said. “My son Bran was forever pestering Old Nan for a story.” He pushed images of Bran and Rickon away and tried to sit up. The room swam before his eyes.

“Easy, milord. It was a nasty blow you took. Lie back and let me get you some water.”

“I thought you were to call the guards.”

Dak shrugged. “Only if you wake. I say you’re not awake. I’d like to get you more steady before they have to come in.”

“You are a good boy, Dak. You will be a man your mother can take pride in.”

“My mother says she is always proud of me,” Dak said with a smile.

 _I am always proud of Bran_. He heard Catelyn’s voice, speaking those words that day in the godswood. That day when their world had changed with the news of Jon Arryn’s death. The thought of Catelyn gave rise to a new fear.

“Dak, what word of the Lady Catelyn? Was she . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to ask the question. But she would never have allowed Theon to take their boys without a fight. He remembered the deep cuts in her palms. No, Catelyn would not have meekly surrendered up her sons.

“There was nothing about your lady, milord. Nothing at all. Maybe Donnell knows more about her. I can ask him.”

 _Oh gods, Cat. Be safe._ With a pang, he realized that if she were safe, she was suffering this unbearable loss as well. He should be with her. He had to get out of here. He couldn’t lie on a bed in Pentos grieving Bran and Rickon. He had Cat, Robb, Sansa, and Arya to think about. His lands had been invaded. He had to go home.

“Tell me more about your Donnell, Dak. I think I need to meet him.”

“Milord, I cannot get you out of here, you know that! I would if I could. I promise you, I would.”

“I know that, son,” Ned said softly. “But how big is this Donnell? Could you perhaps get him here?” He looked meaningfully up at the windows. “Does he have two good legs?”

Dak’s eyes got big as he contemplated the prospect. “I think he could do it, yes. But what can I tell him to get him to come? He won’t believe me if I tell him a dead man wants to see him.”

“No, but perhaps I can speak for myself. Can you get me quill and paper, Dak?”

“Yes, milord. I can do that for sure. That’ll be easy.”

“Good. You do that.” Ned’s head was throbbing and his eyelids felt heavy. “I think, perhaps, I should go back to sleeping for a bit. I quite agree with you that I need to be more steady for what’s to come.”

 

The next day, Ned awoke to find Dak, Alina, and both guards in his room. The guards both wore swords and were quick to put their hands to their hilts when Ned moved.

Alina fell to her knees by his bedside and began apologizing repeatedly in Valyrian. She was speaking so quickly, it took Ned a bit to realize what she was saying. He looked to Dak in confusion.

“Just tell her it’s all right, milord. Tell her in Valyrian. I’ll explain later,” the boy said quickly.

Puzzled, Ned complied, assuring the woman that all was well and she was forgiven. She smiled broadly and thanked him sincerely. She then turned to the guards and told them she was quite certain he would be all right now. At least that’s what he thought she said. It made no sense to him, and he wondered if he had misunderstood her speech. Then he caught her look at Dak with some sort of question in her eyes, and observed Dak give her a small quick nod. Alina retrieved a bowl of warm water and some cloths from the table and began to clean the back of Ned’s head. He realized he had dried blood in his hair.

He watched the guards carefully, and saw them relax as he showed no sign of violence. As Alina worked slowly with her cloths, they began to fidget. Dak noted this as well, and told them he’d stay with his mother if they wanted to go downstairs. They hesitated a moment, but then shrugged and turned to go, reminding Dak they had to bolt the door, but that they would return at once if needed.

When they had gone, Ned looked at Dak. “What on earth is this all about?”

“Well, milord,” Dak hesitated. “I knew I had to tell them you woke up. They planned to tie you down. Like a mad dog, they said. I didn’t know what else to do, so I . . I told Mother.”

Ned looked at Alina, who was regarding him with a sad expression. “Told your mother what?”

“The truth,” Dak said simply. “Who you are, what I’ve been doing, what happened to you . . and your sons.”

“Oh.” Ned didn’t know what else to say.

“She was very angry at first, milord. At both of us.” Dak looked at his mother guiltily.

Alina frowned at him, and Ned felt that she certainly got the sense of what her son was saying even if she didn’t understand the words. She then gave Ned the same frown, but when he tried to speak, she shook her head and waved her hands in front of her. “It is all right,” she told him slowly. “I understand you are a man with no choice. You must leave here whether the fat man wishes it or not. We will not stop you.”

“It was Mother’s idea,” Dak burst in, speaking again in Westerosi. “She told the guards she made a mistake with your milk of poppy--put too much in your drink and it must have given you a nightmare. Milk of the poppy can do strange things to people, you know.”

Now the little scene played out in front of the guards made sense. “Madam, I shall forever be in debt to you and your son.”

She smiled at him. Reaching into the folds of her skirt she produced paper and a quill, and from inside the tankard which normally contained ale, she pulled a small inkpot. “Write your message. Dak will take it.”

 

After another four days and a number of messages back and forth, Ned Stark found himself helping a young man by the name of Donnell Boden through the window of his room in the dark of night. Donnell’s brother, it seemed, was a hedge knight sworn to the service of Lord Cerwyn, one of Ned’s bannermen. As House Cerwyn was not far from Winterfell, the Boden brothers had occasion to visit there in the company of Lord Cerwyn’s men. Although Donnell had left home to explore the wonders of Essos before King Robert had ever made his fateful visit to Winterfell, he had remained in contact with his brother and several others as well as he could.

Now, Donnell stood staring at Ned as if at a ghost. After a moment, he fell to his knees. “My lord! I did not truly dare to believe it. The gods are good indeed!”

Ned helped him rise. “I thank you for your service, Donnell. Have you brought all that we need?”

“Yes, my lord.” He untied a bundle from around his waist containing clothes and cloak fit for traveling as well as a pair of serviceable boots.

“And this, milord” Ned looked toward Dak, who had scrambled in the window behind Donnell, and saw the boy holding up a sword. “This one will suit you better than that wooden one, I think.”

Ned took it from him and tested the weight. It felt good to have a sword in his hand. “Yes, Dak, it suits me just fine.” Turning to Donnell, he asked, “You have arranged passage to White Harbor?”

“Yes, my lord. I will accompany you along with one other man. He is a Braavosi, but he has been with me for over a year, and I trust him with my life. He’s an excellent swordsman and we may have need of him.”

Ned nodded. He had to take help where he could get it. He started shrugging off the clothes he’d worn so long in this little room, and Dak handed him the new clothes a piece at a time as he dressed. “You’ve sent word to Lord Manderly?” he asked Donnell.

“I sent a message on a ship that left two days ago that Vikor’s Daughter would be arriving in White Harbor with important cargo. I didn’t dare be too specific. You did have the boy tell me you wished to stay dead until you knew more about the present situation in the Seven Kingdoms. Is that correct?”

“Yes. I hardly wish to be arrested the moment I step off a ship. I would like to find Robb and my wife before making any other moves.” Now that he was dressed, Ned was anxious to get on with it, but he raised his head from pulling on his boots to see both Donnell and Dak looking rather pale. “What is it? I know my leg isn’t very pretty, but it works far better than I’d hoped. I’ll manage just fine.”

“Yes, milord. Of course you will,” said Dak quietly.

“Your mother is gone, lad?” Ned asked him.

“Yes, she is waiting for me at an inn. We’ll be leaving Pentos tonight, too, milord.”

Ned frowned. “Dak, I am sorry that I brought trouble to you and your mother.”

“You didn’t, milord. We did that ourselves when we went to work for the fat man. He’s trouble, and we knew it. But we’ll be okay. We have places to go. Don’t you worry.”

“I won’t worry, Dak. I’d ask you again to come with us, but I know you won’t leave your mother.” Ned smiled at the boy he’d grown so fond of. “I hope things can soon be set aright in the Seven Kingdoms, and when that day comes, perhaps you can bring her to Winterfell. I know my lady wife will want to meet both of you after all you’ve done for me.”

Dak’s eyes filled with tears. "Y ..yes, milord. I would like that.”

Ned hadn’t expected the boy to cry. He seemed to be getting more distraught by the minute. “Is something wrong, Dak?”

“No!” he cried, a little too loudly, and Ned shushed him quickly, then looked at him carefully. “Dak, are you sure that . . .”

“Lord Stark,” Donnell interrupted. “We haven’t much time. We need to dispatch the guards and be on our way. The boy should leave first.” He looked at Dak rather more sternly than Ned thought necessary, but Dak nodded.

“Donnell’s right, milord. We all need to go. I . . . I hope you find your daughters, milord.” With that, the boy turned and almost vaulted out the window.

“My lord,” Donnell said, as Ned stared after Dak, “when you call for someone, will both guards come, or one?”

“Usually just the one, but we had better be prepared for both.”

Donnell nodded and moved to stand just beside the door, a dagger in his hand.

Ned called for Alina, and continued calling until he heard heavy footsteps and Valyrian swearing. The bolt was raised and the door opened. Ullor stepped into the room and his eyes widened at the site of Ned’s clothing. Before he could do anything else, Donnell had slipped behind him and pulled the dagger across his throat. Ned felt a pang of regret for the man, but they couldn’t leave either guard alive and hope to escape without pursuit.

“I’ll go downstairs and get the other one,” said Donnell. As much as Ned hated it, he had to let Donnell go. He wasn’t sure he could even manage the stairs, much less sneak up on a man and kill him. _Damn the leg!_

There was no sound of struggle from below, but after several moments, Donnell called up. “Come on!”

The trip down the stairs was slower than Ned would have liked, but he did it without assistance and without much pain. Once out in the street, he found he could keep a pretty good pace, with only a slight limp, but the leg did begin to hurt after a time. Fortunately, Donnell’s Braavosi friend was waiting only a few streets away with horses.

Ned had always been a good horseman, and he found that while the leg did hamper him, he could control the horse well enough. He had to use the reins more than he liked, but his spirits were soaring as he followed two near strangers through the streets of an unfamiliar city toward a ship he knew nothing about. He almost laughed at the absurdity of it. He’d have followed a devil if needed. Whatever evils awaited in White Harbor mattered little. He was going home.

The sun was almost up when they reached the ship. Ned hung back as Donnell spoke to someone on board, and then followed him to a small cabin.

“You should sleep, my lord. It’s been a long night. We will cast off with the morning tide.” Donnell turned and left the cabin without another word.

Ned lay down and tried to sleep, eventually dozing fitfully for a few brief hours. When Donnell returned, the ship was underway. Ned stood to greet him. “I think I shall go up on deck, Donnell. Will you join me?”

“Yes, my lord. There are things we must speak of.” The man sounded grave.

“What things, Donnell? Have you had more news?”

“Let’s go up on deck, my lord.” Donnell turned and left the cabin, so Ned followed him.

Donnell walked to the rail of the ship and stood looking out at Pentos disappearing off the stern. Ned stood by him. “You have had more news, haven’t you Donnell?”

Donnell lowered his head. “Forgive me, my lord, for not telling you right away. Dak and I only heard last night, and I needed to get you out of Pentos. There is grave news from home. A grievous crime beyond comprehension.” Donnell swallowed and seemed to have trouble continuing.

“The Lannisters?” Ned asked. A hard lump formed in his throat. “My daughter?”

“No,” Donnell shook his head. “This occurred at the Twins. Apparently, Lord Tully married one of Walder Frey’s daughters.”

“Old Hoster? My Lady Catelyn’s father?”

“No. Old Lord Tully has died. It was Lord Edmure’s wedding.”

“My poor Cat. Yet another loss to suffer.” Ned spoke almost to himself, but Donnell heard him.

“Gods!” the man spat. “How am I to say this?”

Donnell’s expression was tortured and he kept his eyes on the sea. Ned felt the same ice in his veins as he had when Dak had struggled to tell him about his boys. “What happened at this wedding, Donnell?” he asked quietly.

“My lord, it would seem the Freys had some grievance against King Robb. At the feast, they set upon the guests after sharing food and drink with them.” Donnell shook his head in disbelief that such a thing could be done. “They murdered many good people, including the king . . . ”

“Robb . . . No . .” Ned’s voice was a disbelieving whisper.

“and your lady wife,” Donnell continued.

“Cat? Robb and Catelyn both? No. No, no, no.” Ned shook his head, denying the man’s words. He backed away from him. “I will not have it. No.” A great pressure was building in his chest. “No. No!” He turned and fled from Donnell toward the prow of the ship, but he was trapped on this godforsaken floating tub. He had nowhere to go.

He stood in the prow of the ship, gripping the rails so that his knuckles turned white, taking great heaving breaths. He let out one long howling scream, and the sound reminded him of Bran’s direwolf. The beast had howled incessantly after Bran’s fall. Robert had complained about the racket it made. “You’d think the beast was wounded himself,” he’d blustered. _He was, Robert. Oh gods, he was. And this wound will not heal._

Ned’s life suddenly seemed one cruel circle. Almost seventeen years ago he had ridden to war-- hoping to avenge his father and brother and rescue his sister. Now it seemed he must ride to war again--now he had Cat and their sons to avenge, and his daughters to rescue. He had failed his sister. Would he fail his daughters, too? _Oh gods, Cat! I cannot do this! I fear I cannot do this! Help me!_

He remembered the first time he’d seen Robb. Catelyn had ridden into Winterfell carrying their babe to meet him after the war. They’d barely known each other, but she’d held Robb up to him and his heart almost burst when he beheld that tiny face with its fuzz of red hair and thought, _Mine. My son._ And he’d looked at Catelyn, her cheeks flushed and her long hair coming out of her braid after riding all day, her blue eyes full of hope and pride in her child, and he’d thought, _This beautiful woman has given me a son._ He couldn’t even dream then of how much she would give him through the years that followed. _Gods, how I’ve loved you, Cat! Do you know how I’ve loved you?_

And now the woman and the babe were gone. Taken from him. Taken as Bran and Rickon had been. Ned had long been a soldier, and his body bore its share of scars, but only now did he feel wounded. He felt as if his life’s blood was spilling from his heart, and nothing could stop it. He shook with fury and grief until he fell to his knees. And on the deck of the ship that carried him toward home, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to comment and tell me what you think.


	7. Questions of Courage and Honor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of this chapter, readers will encounter some spoilerish stuff from A Feast For Crows and A Dance With Dragons. Of course, Ned and Cat being alive changes a lot of these things fairly dramatically, and other things I just plain make up. But as I try to follow the basic timeline of the novels in terms of major events, if you read further in this story before reading those books, you will find yourself knowing a bit more about certain things than you would have otherwise. Fair warning.

A cold wind blew up from the sea as the small group of men made their way through the streets of White Harbor. Ned kept his head down with the large hood of his black cloak pulled well over his face, but he looked about enough to see that Lord Manderly had indeed fortified his defenses. Catelyn must have gotten that message to him. _Cat._ Just the thought of her name was a knife through his heart. He forced his mind back to the man in front of him and wondered precisely how things stood in White Harbor.

Robett Glover had recognized him immediately when he came to meet the ship, and for a moment Ned thought the man would faint. He literally staggered backwards into one of the two men at arms accompanying him, before recovering enough to fall to his knees and stammer out, “My . . My lord . .” Whatever the man had expected to find on this ship, it was not his dead liege lord returned from the grave with his head still attached to his shoulders.

Recovering from his shock, Glover had remarkably asked no questions, but neither had he offered any answers. He simply bid Ned and Donnell to come with him and asked Ned to put up his hood. The Glovers had ever been loyal bannermen, so Ned followed him without hesitation, but as they walked on in silence, he began to have doubts.

“Robett, stop,” he said, stopping himself. “I would know where you are taking us before we go further.”

Glover turned to face him and paused at the expression he met on Ned’s face. On the ship, Donnell had told him several of the crew were frightened of him as his face seemed harder and more carved in ice each passing day. So be it. Ned could name a good many men who should be very frightened of him.

“My lord,” Glover said quietly and hesitantly. “We dare not speak here. We must get to the Wolf’s Den.”

“The Wolf’s Den? Does Lord Manderly intend to make me prisoner?”

“No! No, my lord.” Glover drew as close to Ned as he dared, and spoke in a whisper. “White Harbor is not a safe place. You must not be seen. And I must not be seen at the New Castle. There is much and more to say, but not here. Please. Come.”

Knowing he had no real option, Ned nodded, and the group continued onward. Ned’s leg throbbed by the time they reached the walls of the Wolf’s Den. Glover led them down a crumbling stair behind a grove of trees to a door not visible from above. Once they had passed inside, he seemed to relax slightly.

“My lord,” he said, turning to Ned, “It is good beyond all hope to see you alive once more. Lord Wyman will be overjoyed. But . . How? How can you have escaped? They said you were executed.”

“Yes, Robett,” Ned sighed. “I was to be executed, but was stolen from the Black Cells and held prisoner in Pentos. I believe the Lannisters think me dead. Their execution was a sham, but they were made to think I had died in my cell. As to the identity of my rescuer or his purpose, I couldn’t say. I have been kept in a locked room, seeing only the guards, a serving woman, and her son, until I escaped with Donnell’s assistance.”

Glover looked at Donnell. “The North owes you a debt of gratitude, sir.” Then he looked at Ned and dropped his eyes. “Have you . . .have you heard any news during your captivity, my lord?”

“I have heard of the deaths of my wife and sons,” the words came out hard and cold.

“I am very sorry, my lord. King Robb was a fine, brave young man, and the Lady Catelyn as lovely and gracious a lady as could be found,” Glover’s sympathy sounded sincere.

“I thank you,” Ned said gruffly, not wishing to speak further of his dead family. “Now, where do we find Lord Manderly, that we might make him overjoyed?”

“Oh, come this way, please, my lord. There are passages that connect the Wolf’s Den with the New Castle so old and twisted, that almost none know of them. It is how I meet with Lord Manderly.”

As they walked, Glover filled them in on the status of the Ironmen in the North, who, in addition to Winterfell, had taken Moat Cailin, Torrhen’s Square, and Deepwood Motte. The last concerned Glover most as it was the seat of his brother, Galbart. Galbart had been with Robb just prior to the Red Wedding (Ned shuddered when he heard the name given to the murders of his wife and son), but did not seem to have been at the wedding itself, and Robett was not entirely certain of his whereabouts.

“My wife and child are at Deepwood Motte, though, held by that Greyjoy girl. Publicly, I am here seeking men to march with me and take the castle back, and Lord Manderly is refusing to see me.”

“What?” Ned was shocked at that.

“Publicly,” Glover repeated. “I told you White Harbor is not safe. There are Lannister spies everywhere and soon to be Freys as well.” Glover spat at the name Frey. “Here we are,” he said as they crested a last staircase and entered a door into a room which obviously was not part of the crumbling old Wolf’s Den. The floor was carpeted and a sheepskin map of the north hung on the wall. One of the men at arms accompanying them set to lighting beeswax candles while another left by a separate door.

He returned a few moments later with the enormously fat Lord of White Harbor. As Wyman Manderly entered the room, Ned lowered his hood. “Lord Manderly,” he said. “I am grateful for your hospitality.”

The fat man sputtered and swayed, and his eyes seemed to bulge out of his head. Finally he gasped, “Lord Stark, can it truly be you?”

“Yes, my lord,” Ned said firmly, and he gave another brief accounting of his non-execution. “ I am here to ask your assistance in putting wrongs to right.”

“Yes . . .yes,” Manderly seemed to be catching his breath. “Many wrongs. Do you know of what occurred at the Twins, my lord?”

“I do,” said Ned coldly. “And I mean to see that Walder Frey pays dearly for the blood he shed there.”

Manderly nodded thoughtfully. “Please, my lord. Let’s sit. Robett, this is quite a surprise. I thought you were bringing me Stannis’s man.”

“As did I,” Glover began. “The message we received was . . .”

“Stannis’s man?” Ned interrupted. “What man? Where is Stannis now? I’ve heard nothing of him since Renly’s death and the siege at Storm’s End!”

Manderly sighed loudly. “Stannis is at the Wall. Apparently, he has aided the Night’s Watch in turning back an invasion of wildlings. He now seeks the aid of Northern lords in his claim to the Iron Throne.”

“They should give it. Stannis has the rightful claim. The boy Joffrey is a bastard born of incest and no son of Robert’s,” Ned stated flatly.

“The boy Joffrey is dead,” Manderly replied. “His brother Tommen sits upon the Iron Throne now, and things are not as clear as you would have them, my lord.”

“Joffrey’s dead? But when? How?” Ned struggled to make sense of it. “What of my daughter?”

“She is being brought north to wed Bolton’s bastard and give him the claim to Winterfell.”

“Ramsay Snow? By gods, Tywin Lannister will pay for even considering giving Sansa to that foul creature!” Ned stood and pounded his fist on the table.

“Lord Stark, please,” Lord Manderly said softly. “You need to hear it all. It is the Lady Arya being given to Bolton--Bolton now, not Snow--the crown legitimized him. Lady Sansa has already been wed--to the Imp, Tyrion Lannister.”

Ned felt sick and he allowed himself to sink back into his chair. “My gods,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Is Sansa safe at least? Is she well?”

“I do not know, Lord Stark. I told you Joffrey Baratheon is dead. He was apparently poisoned at his own wedding and the Imp and Lady Sansa were accused. He was imprisoned, but she disappeared that night, seemingly fled. No one knows where she went.”

“So both my girls are missing,” Ned said quietly. Looking up at Manderly, he added more firmly, “The Lannisters do not have Arya, Lord Wyman. She fled the day of my arrest and the Lannisters were unable to find her.”

“That may be, my lord. But whether they have found your daughter or made you up a new one, a girl called Arya Stark is coming north up the King’s Road with Roose Bolton’s men as we speak.”

“Then we must ride out to meet them,” Ned declared.

“That, my lord, we cannot do,” replied Manderly.

Ned stared at him. Manderly just shook his head slowly. “You were not the only man to lose a son at that bloody wedding, Lord Stark. My Wendel died there as well as your Robb. The Lannisters hold my son and heir, Wylis, prisoner at Harrenhal. I want vengeance as much as you do, my lord. But first I must have my son back alive. To do that, I must convince the Lannisters of my loyalty to them, and there are Lannister spies throughout my city already. Any day now, I expect a party of Freys--bringing the bones of my son. I shall eat and drink with them, and offer them my two granddaughters in marriage, all as a token of the new friendship between our houses.”

“Friendship” Ned echoed, a cold fury building within him.

“I shall mean none of it, of course. Deceit, deception, and betrayal are the best weapons for dealing with liars, and I shall wield them as sharply as I can.”

“I cannot pretend friendship with any Frey or Lannister,” Ned spat out.

“Of course not. And you would never be believed if you tried, my lord. You are a far more honorable man than I, Lord Stark, so you must depend upon me to play this particular game. I am your man. The Manderlys will never forget what the Starks have done for them, but I must play out this farce for the sake of my son. Perhaps for the sake of us all. My lord . . .” Manderly hesitated, as if unsure he should continue.

“Go on, Lord Manderly. I would hear all you have to say.”

“As regards events in Winterfell . .”

“I know Theon Greyjoy took my castle and murdered my sons,” Ned said harshly.

“Ah, yes, that. Greyjoy indeed took the castle and killed the boys, but he did not burn it.”

“Burned? Winterfell is burned?”

“Oh, you had not heard. Yes. The story is Greyjoy put it to the torch when he was under attack by your castellan and about to lose to him.”

“Gods!” Ned exclaimed.

“That is not, however, what happened. I have very good information that Greyjoy was about to surrender the castle, when Ramsay Snow, now made Bolton, set upon your castellan’s forces, killing all the men, torching the castle, and removing some women and children to the Dreadfort.”

“And Roose has stood by and allowed this!” Ned’s head was pounding with fury.

“No, I believe Roose engineered it. The bastard is brutal, but not terribly cunning. The Boltons and Freys are much together now, my lord, and both doing Lord Tywin’s bidding and swearing loyalty to the Lannister boy on the iron throne.”

“Damn Roose Bolton! And damn Tywin Lannister! Damn him to every hell!” Ned was on his feet again pacing and cursing.

“Well, my lord, the second at least has been accomplished, it would seem. The latest word from King’s Landing is that Lord Tywin is dead. Murdered by his dwarf son who somehow escaped the Black Cells.” Manderly looked meaningfully at Ned. “It would seem those cells are not terribly secure.”

 _Varys?_ Ned wondered. _Why would Varys want Tywin Lannister dead?_

“In any event,” Manderly continued, “it would not do to have you here when my friends of Frey arrive, my lord. Where do you plan to go? I would assist you in whatever fashion I am able. Please do not ask me for an army. Not now.”

 _Where do I intend to go?_ Ned pondered the question a moment. “Moat Cailin is presently held by the Ironmen?”

“Yes, my lord. Roose Bolton and his Freys will march toward it from the south once they have their Lady Arya, and the bastard will join the attack from the north. I imagine they’ll take it, but until then, the Ironmen have the North closed.”

“They have Moat Cailin closed at any rate. Could you lend me a ship, my lord? For a short voyage, only.”

“Certainly, I could arrange that. How large a ship would you need?”

Ned looked at him evenly. “That depends, my lord. On how many men and horses you are willing to give me.” Manderly started to protest. “I do not ask for an army, Wyman. I only ask if you have any men and horses you could give me.”

“I do,” Glover spoke up. “I have about two hundred men I could call to your service. I’m short on horses, though.” Glover directed the last at Manderly.

Manderly looked at Glover. “I have a good number of horses, I could spare, I suppose.” He turned to Ned, “but where are we shipping them?”

“Only just down the Bite,” Ned replied. “To a hidden landing I happen to know which belongs to Greywater Watch.”

“Your crannogmen,” Manderly said. “You think they will give you aid?”

“Howland Reed has ever been a good friend. I believe I can count on him. And Robett’s men on your horses will be most useful as well.”

“Well, I can’t give you horses for all two hundred! But I believe we can provide transportation for fifty horses to this landing of yours. There will be more here waiting for you, if you find a way to get through over land.”

“I thank you, Lord Wyman.”

“Robett, if you could see about preparations, I believe the sooner we send Lord Stark on his way, the better.” Turning to Ned, he added, “Perhaps you could send your man with him to lend a hand.”

Clearly, Manderly wanted to speak to him alone. “Go on, Donnell,” he said quietly. Once Glover, Donnell, and the other two men had left through the door leading back to the Wolf’s Den, he turned to Lord Manderly. “You have something else to say, my lord?”

“There are two things, Lord Stark. I told you I had reliable information about the events at Winterfell. In fact, I have a boy, an Ironborn boy who was there. He is a mute, but he is not stupid. Even now, I have a man teaching him his letters. He has managed to convey much of what happened with yes and no and crude drawings, but I hope to learn even more from him. I believe there are many things which may not be as they seem.” The Lord of White Harbor looked pensive. “I would not say more to you on this. You have been too long with only rumor and conjecture to guide your course. Know that should I find anything that could help you, I will get word to you.”

Ned nodded. “I thank you, Lord Manderly. Be it burned to the ground or not, I will return to Winterfell--Boltons, Freys, and Lannisters be damned.” He waited for Lord Manderly to continue, but the man remained silent and shifted uncomfortably in his overlarge seat. “And the second thing, my lord?” Ned asked.

“Well, I . . .I am most sorry for your losses, my lord,” Manderly stammered. “Your sons and your lady wife. I grieve sorely for my Wendel and I know nothing can replace a son.”

“True,” Ned said briefly, wondering where this was going.

“And I know you had a genuine affection for the Lady Catelyn,” Manderly continued.

 _A genuine affection_. Ned repeated the phrase in his mind and felt that knife in his heart again as he contemplated its complete inadequacy for describing even a fraction of what he felt for Catelyn. He looked at Lord Manderly and said nothing.

Manderly shifted again in his seat, sighed deeply, and plunged ahead. “And I do not wish to intrude on your grief, but my lord, with your sons dead and your daughters missing, the North is at the mercy of any number of foul men while you have no heir.”

Ned blinked at him. “Heir?”

“Yes, an heir, my lord. Surely you must see that you must marry again, and quickly. A young wife to bear a legitimate heir to Winterfell that no one could contest. My granddaughters . . .”

“Are promised to Freys,” Ned interrupted cooly.

“Yes, well, I don’t intend those weddings actually to take place! My Wynafryd must remain here to play the willing bride for her Frey intended, but my younger granddaughter, Wylla, knows nothing of my plots. She is quite vocal in her resistance to wedding a Frey. It would be easily believed she had run away. I could devise some other . . .”

“You are offering me your granddaughter? To take away with me?” Ned couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

“Of course. The sooner she’s wedded and bedded, the sooner you have an heir. She’s a brave, spirited girl, and quite lovely. She’ll be five and ten on her next name day.”

“Five and ten!” Ned shook his head in disbelief. “She’s younger than Robb! Barely older than Sansa!”

“Well, Wynafryd is eight and ten. You would have to wait for her, my lord, but once this mummer’s farce is played out I will free her from that Frey betrothal.” Manderly looked at Ned closely, and some of his shocked horror must have been visible on his normally frozen face because Manderly sighed again. “My lord,” he said more quietly. “I know it is a shocking thing to speak of when your loss is so new, and I do not suggest my granddaughters could easily replace the Lady Catelyn . .”

“No one can replace the Lady Catelyn,” Ned said simply.

Manderly nodded and continued, “But these are troubled times, Lord Stark. The North is in turmoil. Clear succession to Winterfell is greatly to be desired.”

Now it was Ned’s turn to sigh. “There is truth in your words, my lord, I know. I am honored by your proposal, Lord Wyman, and I am certain I could find no better maidens in all the North than your granddaughters. Yet, I must be truthful. I cannot wed another woman while my heart is filled only with the desire to take vengeance on those who murdered my wife and sons. I cannot take another woman into my bed while Catelyn lies uneasy in her grave because her children have no justice.”

Manderly looked at Ned for a long moment. “Then we will speak again after we have all played our parts here, my lord. Now, let us get you ready for your journey.”

 

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Catelyn Stark absentmindedly brushed her long hair and wound it into a single braid down her back. She never bothered with styling it anymore. On the rare occasions that Lord Walder insisted on parading her down to the hall for some farce at which he could gloat over his sons’ and grandsons’ exploits with her, Roslin would do it up and put her in one of her better dresses. Catelyn had objected initially, but none of this was Roslin’s fault, and the poor girl was only doing as she was bid. So now she simply sat still as stone and let Roslin do whatever she found needful. It mattered little to her.

The loss of the stone door prop mattered more. She had thought long and hard about ways to conceal it in her dress for one of those visits to the hall. She had imagined all the ways she might get close enough to Lord Walder to smash him in the head with it. It was possible to kill with a blow to the head. A blade would be better, but she hadn’t a blade. So she had prayed fervently for the opportunity and strength to smash his skull. She would like to smash all their skulls, and it would be so easy when the various Freys were rutting and pawing at her, but she knew one Frey death would lead to her own. She had to make it count. She wanted it to be Lord Walder.

But the old man had seen it somehow. He had seen it in her eyes. Damn her eyes. If only she could hide her thoughts as easily as Ned always did. She never smiled or cried or laughed or yelled. She barely spoke, other than to Roslin and occasionally Olyvar. But the hatred shone in her eyes. Roslin had told her so when the men came to search her room and take anything that might conceivably be used as a weapon. She told her the old man had stared after her long after he’d sent her from the hall with two of his wretched grandsons that night, and then ordered the search and seizure proclaiming that any wolf bitch who hated that deeply needed to be declawed.

So, she had lost her stone. She would simply find another way. Killing Walder Frey had become more than an obsession. It was her sole reason for existence.

A soft tap on the door of her room signaled Roslin’s arrival. She alone knocked so softly and politely, actually waiting for permission to enter. “Come in, Roslin,” she called, putting down her brush and facing the door.

Roslin Frey Tully looked deathly pale when she entered, and her eyes were ringed with red. Catelyn felt a small jolt of concern for the girl, an emotion which she found unfamiliar these days. “What has happened, Roslin? You look dreadful.”

The girl literally threw herself at Catelyn’s feet and began weeping, and Catelyn was reminded painfully of her behavior at that unholy wedding. “Tell me, child. What’s wrong?” It was something she might have said to one of her girls when they cried, and it startled her. She had forgotten her voice could sound like that.

“Oh, my lady! I . . I have missed my moonblood! I thought perhaps I was only late. I am sometimes, but it has been much too long now! What shall I do?” she pleaded.

Catelyn gave her a tiny, tight smile. “You shall have a child, Roslin. There is nothing else to do now.”

“But they will kill him!!” the girl wailed.

Catelyn knew the girl didn’t mean her child. She spoke of Edmure. For a woman who had spent only one tearful bedding with her husband, Roslin was surprisingly devoted to the captive Lord of Riverrun. That touched Catelyn in some way that very few things could anymore, and she wished she could offer the girl comfort.

“Edmure is a dead man, already, Roslin. Surely you know that,” she said softly. “You told me yourself they have moved him to Riverrun in an effort to sway my uncle. It will not work. Eventually, they will be forced to kill my brother or admit their threats are empty.”

Roslin cried harder.

Catelyn thought a moment. “Roslin, have you told anyone else about this child yet?”

The girl shook her head.

“I think you should tell your father.”

That shocked the girl out of crying. She looked at Catelyn with wide eyes. “But, my lady!”

“No, listen to me. I have come to understand more about the way that twisted old man thinks. If he can hurt Edmure by telling him he is to have a child he will never see, he will take pleasure in that. He would consider it further justice for ninety odd years of perceived insults from the Tullys. You might just prolong Edmure’s life for the duration of your pregnancy. Now, if you have a boy, there will certainly be no advantage for old Walder in keeping Edmure alive. You say that the Lannisters have made Emmon Frey Lord of Riverrun, but the river lords will never love him or his Lannister wife no matter how many times they are forced to bend the knee. Old Walder knows that. A Tully lord raised a Frey may suit him better, but he’d need to kill Edmure before the child is old enough to know him. If you have a girl . . . Well, mayhaps the old man might pause to consider the advantages a male infant of Edmure’s could provide and keep him alive to give you one.”

The girl listened attentively. “Do you really think so, my lady?“

While Catelyn did think her line of reasoning concerning Lord Walder was sound, she also knew there were many other Freys, Emmon Frey chief among them, who would want Edmure and any of his progeny dead at the earliest possible opportunity. But she didn’t think she needed to share that with Roslin. “Yes, child, I do. In any event, you cannot hide this forever. And I know my brother. Even if it causes him pain, if he is to die, he would wish to know he has a child first. The sooner you tell your father, the sooner Edmure will know.”

Roslin actually smiled at her through her tears at that. “You truly think my lord would be happy to hear I carry his child?” she asked in a small voice.

“Yes, Roslin, I do,” Catelyn said softly, smoothing the girl’s hair back from her face. “Now, are you here with orders to do something to me, or did you just come to share your news?”

“I only came to speak with you. I . .I had no one else to go to, my lady.”

In spite of herself, Catelyn felt another pang of sympathy for this girl whose only confidante in a house filled with relatives was her father’s prisoner. “Go then. Tell your father. With luck, I shall be left alone in my room today, and you can come tell me how he reacts if you like.”

Only after the girl left, did a cold fear strike at Catelyn’s heart. Roslin was with child after one time with Edmure. She was much older than Roslin, but she still bled. She knew many older women who’d borne children and had hoped to bear another of Ned’s herself. She had made herself numb to the visitations of Frey men--to their fists, and their curses, and their filthy cocks. But she had never considered she might get with child from their brutal attacks. _I will bear no child but Ned’s_. And now, as she sat alone in her prison room, she considered ways to kill not only Walder Frey, but if it became necessary, herself.

 

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Ned Stark stepped out of his tent into a gray, cold morning. He could barely make out even the closest other tents in the mists surrounding them. There were no fires and few sounds, very little to give a hint that hundreds of men were scattered in camps in these southernmost reaches of the swamps of the Neck. Adapting to the camping methods of crannogmen had not been easy for all his men, but it had been worth it. They were within two days’ ride of the Twins and remained largely invisible.

Howland Reed had not disappointed Ned when he had stepped off one of Manderly’s boats on the eastern coast of his friend’s almost impassable lands. Guides had met them as if it been arranged, and Ned let Donnell and the other men he’d brought with them believe that they had. It was far easier than explaining that the crannogmen often simply just knew things. They had been led swiftly west of the Kingsroad into the deeper recesses of the swamp along safe pathways only the men who called the place home could know.

Upon reaching Greywater Watch, Ned had discovered more help than he could possibly have hoped for. In addition to Howland Reed, he found Galbart Glover and Lady Maege Mormont, who had apparently been sent there by his son prior to the massacre people had named the Red Wedding. After those events transpired, they had remained there, quietly amassing men in secret, awaiting a chance to put an end to the butchery throughout the North.

None of them had questioned his directive to march south, however. He would take the Twins, and he would take Walder Frey’s head before turning his attention northward. It had been Howland’s notion to split into two parties, with the smaller one led by Galbart Glover going far enough west to cross the tributaries of the Green Fork while they were still little more than streams and thus emerge from the swamps in position to attack the western castle of the Twins once the main party had begun the attack on the eastern castle. It was a good plan, but it all hinged on being able to take the castle quickly, not an easy thing to do. It was by all reports lightly defended, what with Freys sent to Seagard, Freys sent to White Harbor, Freys riding north with Roose Bolton, and Freys laying siege to Riverrun. However, a long siege of the Twins would allow reinforcements to hurry north from Riverrun, and his forces on the western bank of the Green Fork would be overrun.

Ned sighed and walked toward Howland’s tent, stepping carefully on the bad leg that was always stiff and awkward in the mornings. He found the little crannogman eating some form of hard bread which he offered to Ned as well. “They’ve sent a few more scouts our way,” Howland said without preamble.

“And what became of these scouts?” Ned asked him.

“Nothing. They saw nothing but a few crannogmen hunting frogs in a swamp, so we allowed them to pass. It is interesting that we are seeing more of them, though. Almost as if they know something is here, but cannot see what it is.” Reed looked at Ned thoughtfully. “Of course, it’s a common thing for a man to look at something and never see what it really is.”

Ned sighed. “If you have something to say to me, say it plainly. I had forgotten your love of speaking in riddles and proverbs.”

Howland laughed. “You look at the Twins and see a need to take it quickly, do you not?”

Ned had long since given up being amazed by the little man’s seeming ability to read his mind. Howland vehemently denied he could do this, of course. He claimed he simply looked and listened better than most.

“You know I do,” he told him.

“So what will allow you to take it quickly? That is what you need to see.”

“An open gate,” Ned answered, “But I doubt Lord Walder is likely to give me one.”

“No, Lord Walder will not.” He went back to eating his bread silently, and Ned turned to go in search of Lady Mormont, thinking Howland was finished speaking for the moment. “Another thing about these scouts.”

Ned turned and looked back at him.

“We are seeing the same men over and over now. It would seem that only a select few are sent to look for us. I wonder why that is.” This time when he returned to his bread, he spoke no more, and Ned wandered off in search of Lady Mormont, pondering what Howland wanted him to see in the scouts.

He found her digging a stone out of a horse’s hoof. “Have we heard from the Kingsroad yet, my lady?”

“No, my lord,” she replied. "I will make sure you know immediately when we do.”

Ned nodded absently, his mind on the Bolton caravan heading north with a girl who may or may not be his daughter. Among the men gathered at Greywater Watch had been a few Winterfell men, some of the very few survivors of the battle there. They had confirmed Lord Manderly’s version of events, but more importantly to Ned, two of them remembered the girl they had called Arya Underfoot very well, and would easily know her by sight. He had dispatched a small party including these two to await Bolton on the Kingsroad, posing as Northmen trapped in the south after Moat Cailin fell and hoping to join with their forces. They were to discover the true identity of the captive bride and send back word. _Arya, my fierce little swordswoman, could it be you?_ Ned hardly dared to hope.

Lady Maege interrupted his thoughts. “If she’s anything like her mother, she’ll stand right up to those Boltons, my lord.”

“Her mother?” Ned asked. He smiled then. “Sansa is her mother. Arya always put me in mind of my sister, Lyanna--fierce, stubborn, and brave.”

It was Lady Mormont’s turn to smile. “Yes, Lyanna was all those things, all right. And wild. But as for brave, my lord, your daughter cannot possibly inherit courage greater than her mother’s.”

Ned looked at her and waited for her to continue.

“I spent a great deal of time with Lady Catelyn, while we were on campaign with your son, King Robb. She was no warrior, and she was certainly not wild like your sister, but I have rarely seen a woman of more courage, my lord. We have all told you how proud you should be of your son, and it’s true. He became a man and a king before our very eyes. But men will seldom speak of women’s courage. I tell you truly, my lord, I hope to see half the courage of your wife in my own daughters.”

Ned started to reply and found himself suddenly unable to speak. He reached out and touched Lady Mormont’s shoulder, nodded to her and walked away. He then stood by himself for a bit, thinking about many things including the courage of women, revisiting scouts, and open gates.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Perwyn Frey walked slowly down the corridor. He had avoided this part of the castle completely since his return after the mass murder his father insisted on calling a wedding. In truth, he was ashamed to look her in the face. He had taken no part. He refused to be a part of a deed so without honor. Yes, he had been as angry as Hosteen when word of Robb Stark’s faithless marriage to the Westerling girl had reached Riverrun, and he’d wanted justice for the slight to his sister. He had always thought of Roslin as the only possible choice for the Young Wolf’s bride. She would have made a fine queen. He could still get angry at Robb just thinking about it. But justice was a far cry from murder and shattered guest right. Could he claim to have honor simply because he didn’t take part?

Honor. His whole life he’d been taught to guard his honor and that of his family. He’d never questioned it before now, but nothing seemed honorable now. And Lady Stark. Where was the honor in the treatment his father had sanctioned for her? He had ridden by the lady’s side when King Robb sent her to treat with Renly Baratheon and never once saw her lack for courage or courtesy. He had sworn to protect her then. Now he hid his eyes as his half-brothers and nephews molested her.

He realized he had stopped walking and forced himself to continue down the corridor toward her room. He needed to speak with her. As he neared her door, it opened, and Ryman stumbled out, fumbling to lace his breeches and nearly colliding with the guard. He looked up and grinned when he saw Perwyn.

“Decide to come play with Father’s little pet, after all, Perwyn? Didn't think you had it in you!”

Perwyn suppressed a desire to smash him across the mouth. “I thought you were at Riverrun, Ryman. Get tired of listening to the Blackfish insult you?”

Ryman’s face turned ugly. “I came up with men to get more supplies. I’m heading back right away.” He pushed past Perwyn and staggered down the hall, a distinct aroma of alcohol wafting off him. “And I’ll have the Blackfish’s head on a spike the next time I’m here!” he yelled as he disappeared around a corner.

Perwyn swallowed hard and knocked on the door. After a few moments of silence from within, he knocked again. “Come in,” came a tired sounding voice.

When he opened the door, she was standing with her back to him, her braid mostly undone. She appeared to be adusting something on the front of her dress. When she turned to face him, her blue eyes widened in surprise, but her face was otherwise expressionless. She did have a purple bruise beginning to bloom on her left cheek, however, and her lower lip was bleeding. Perwyn could not stop a gasp when he saw it.

“Ser Perwyn,” she said cooly. “If you are looking for your brother, I fear he has just left.”

“Nephew,” he corrected automatically. “And I rarely seek him out if I can help it.” He then stood there stupidly, gawking at her.

“Come to take your turn then, Perwyn? I would have delayed getting dressed if I had known.”

Her cold words hit him like a slap across the face. “My lady! I . . I never. . I . . I shall call Ryman out for his treatment of you! Your face . . . Should I get Roslin? I . .” he stopped speaking, feeling rather helpless as she simply continued to stare at him without expression.

“Don’t trouble yourself about Ryman. Apparently, my uncle refuses to hand him Riverrun. As he cannot beat my uncle, he must content himself with beating me.” Her voice didn’t waver in the slightest as she said that, and it caused a chill to go through him.

She turned away from him then, picking up a cloth from a table and dabbing the blood on her lip. “What do you want, Perwyn?” she asked without turning around.

 _What do I want? Absolution?_ “I merely came to see if you have need of anything, my lady. I have been remiss in not coming to you before.”

She did turn back toward him then and laughed, a short, bitter sound. “Don’t worry about it, Ser Perwyn. There are plenty who have not been so . . .remiss.”

“Please, my lady, do not speak so.”

She raised one eyebrow and continued to regard him coolly. “Do not speak so? Why not tell them not to do so, brave knight?” She walked toward him. “Would you like to know the charming things your nephew Ryman spoke of just now? He said he’d like to take me to Riverrun and have me at the castle gate while my uncle watched. Perhaps that might impress him more than my brother with his neck in a noose.” She was standing right in front of him now and she shrugged. “I almost wish he’d do it. I’m dreadfully tired of this room, and I’d like to see Riverrun again before I die.”

At that, he couldn’t stop himself. He grabbed her hands and dropped to his knees in front of her. “My lady, I beg you, do not say such things,” he beseeched her.

She jerked her hands from his, and he finally saw a flash of anger in those blue eyes. “Why?” she demanded. “Do you think the things you Frey men do to me are any less vile in a bedchamber than they would be at a castle gate? Do you?” She spit in his face and turned away again. “Go, Perwyn. Either rape me, beat me, or go. I have no desire to converse with you.” The fire was gone, and her voice was ice again.

“My lady, I will get you out of here,” he declared, rising to his feet. “I will help you escape.”

“And where shall I go, good knight, after this escape?”

He looked at her, willing her to turn around again, to see that he meant what he said. “Well, you can go . .” He hesitated.

Then she turned to look at him. “I can go nowhere. My family is murdered, my home destroyed, and my honor stolen. I can go nowhere.”

He wanted to contradict her, but he didn’t know what to say.

“Go, Perwyn.”

He turned and went, just as she bid him. He wandered aimlessly for a bit, and then decided it was time to take some sort of action. He went in search of Olyvar and found him up on the castle wall. “I went to see Lady Stark,” he said by way of greeting.

“Did you?” Olyvar said acidly.

“Damn it, Olyvar, not like that and you know it!” His brother was silent, so Perwyn continued. “We have to get her out of here, Olyvar.”

“Really? That just now occur to you, Perwyn?” Olyvar sighed. “She won’t go, though, even if you found a way. She wants to kill Father, you know. I think it’s all she really wants now.”

“Do you blame her?” Perwyn asked softly.

“Not in the least,” Olyvar replied. “But it’s one thing I can’t do for her, Perwyn. I’m no kinslayer.”

“Nor am I, little brother. Although, in truth, I’m not sure what I am any more.” After a moment, he looked around making sure they were alone. “There are northmen in the swamp just north of here.”

Olyvar shrugged. “Crannogmen. They live there, Perwyn.”

“No. There is a camp. I’m sure of it. I’ve had the perimeter scouting duty for some time now, and there’s one area . . .well, there’s more there than meets the eye. I can feel it.” Perwyn shook his head. “I pulled all the scouts from there except the men I can trust to report only to me, and I’ve had them doing extra patrols.”

“Why would you do that, Perwyn? Do you mean to keep these imaginary northmen a secret?”

“I don’t know what I mean to do!” Perwyn shouted, suddenly angry, but not at Olyvar. “Perhaps I mean to repay a debt.”

Olyvar caught the tone in his voice. “Perwyn, you can’t raise arms against your own father. You can’t.”

“No, little brother, I can’t. But I didn’t raise arms against my king, did I? I am no kingslayer. Yet my king is dead. All I had do was stand by. Perhaps I can repay my debt without becoming a kinslayer, either. Perhaps, I need only stand by once more.”

Olyvar heard more resolve in his brother’s voice than he had heard since before the Red Wedding. He looked out in the direction of Perwyn’s invisible northmen and shivered.


	8. Unexpected Tidings and Unlikely Allies

Ned had determined it was time to capture one of these scouts who kept coming from the Twins. As Howland’s crannogmen were the only ones who seemed able to reliably spot them, he had assigned them the task of bringing one to him. His men could not sit in this swamp forever, and he wanted as much information as he could gather before launching an attack. Hopefully a Frey scout could give them specific information about the castle’s current state of defense. Ned frowned at the thought of persuading a man to talk. He knew well what methods may need to be employed and despised them, but he had no choice. The Freys had left him no choice the moment they murdered Robb and Cat.

He looked up to see Lady Maege Mormont approaching him as he sat in front of his tent. “You asked for me, my lord?” she inquired as she strode toward him.

“Yes, Lady Mormont. The Freys know you from the time you spent with them at my son’s side. I would have you act as the head of our company when Howland’s men bring us a Frey to question.”

“Why, my lord?”

Ned sighed. “They know you to be loyal to Robb, and they certainly should not be surprised to find you wish to seek some vengeance for the King in the North and for your daughter. Should we find ourselves using this man as an envoy for any reason, I would rather not have my presence revealed until necessary.” He gave her a tight, grim smile. “I have noticed that my return from the dead has a marked effect on people. There may come a time when we can use that to our advantage, and I’d not give it away lightly.”

She nodded. “A wise course of action, I think. You seem awfully certain Lord Reed’s men will bring us a Frey.”

“I have no doubts at all, my lady. All we need do is wait.” He hesitated a moment, and then pressed on. “There was one other thing, Lady Maege. Have you perchance had any word from your brother on the Wall?”

Her eyes opened wide. “My brother? You have not heard, my lord?” She shook her head sadly. “I am afraid Jeor is dead.”

“Dead? I am sorry, my lady. I had not heard.” Ned was genuinely sorry. He had liked the Old Bear. But now a new fear gripped at his heart, one he had refused to consider too closely since leaving White Harbor. “Was he killed in the Wildling attack on the Wall? Lord Manderly mentioned Lord Stannis coming to the aid of the Night’s Watch to repel an attack, but I had no idea . . . .were there many casualties?”

Lady Mormont shook her head. “My brother was killed before then. Some nasty bit of business north of the Wall.” She looked at Ned closely. “You worry for your son, Jon Snow, don’t you, my lord? He lives, as far as I know. We had word he was chosen to succeed Jeor.”

The relief that had instantly filled Ned with the words “he lives” became shock at her last statement. “Succeed? You mean . . .Jon? Jon is Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch?”

“So it would seem.”

“But he’s just a boy!” Ned exclaimed.

Maege Mormont laughed. “He’s of an age with your Robb, is he not?” Her eyes became quite serious as she continued, “Robb Stark was a king, my lord. Why should it surprise you that his brother should command the Night’s Watch? It would appear that the sons of Eddard Stark grow to be men when the need is upon them.”

Ned looked at her thoughtfully. “Your words are kind, my lady. May the gods protect Jon and help him command wisely.” He shook his head in wonder, still having difficulty accepting the image of Jon as anything other than Robb’s accomplice in all manner of mischief at Winterfell. _King. Lord Commander. My boys became men and I wasn’t there_ _to see._ The thought filled him with pride and grief at the same time. At least Jon lived. He wasn’t lost to him forever. And there was so much Ned still had to say to him.

“Perhaps, when we’ve prevailed here, my lord, you could journey to the Wall,” Lady Maege said softly.

Shaken from his brief reverie, Ned answered firmly, “When we have prevailed here, Riverrun will still be under siege and the North still under the sway of the faithless Boltons. Both the North and the Riverlands proclaimed my son their king. I cannot turn away from them while they still bleed.”

“No, my lord, you could not. Perhaps another man could, but not you. Know that you will not fight alone.”

Ned regarded Maege Mormont and marveled at her; this warrior who fiercely fought in battle, this mother who understood his concern for his son, this woman who knew without being told what losing Catelyn and their children had cost him. “I thank you for your loyalty, Lady Mormont. Truly, there is no lord or knight in all the Seven Kingdoms I would rather have in my service.”

Maege Mormont dipped her head then, and asked leave to go see to some of the men. She walked away leaving Ned alone with his thoughts. _Be safe, Jon. I promised Lya I’d keep you safe, but now you must keep safe yourself._

 

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Olyvar Frey urged his horse forward through muck so deep he feared the beast’s hooves would become hopelessly mired. He hated this swamp. You could be on firm ground one moment and up to your knees in mud the next. The frogeaters could have this godforsaken place!

As he rode among the trees, straying from the path intentionally in hopes of attracting some of Perwyn’s mythical northmen, he wondered again why he had agreed to this. Even if his brother were right about northern soldiers camping here, riding right into them would only serve to get him killed. He had very little faith in Perwyn’s assertion that his status as King Robb’s one-time squire would give any northman cause to hear him out before stringing him up. His name was still Frey.

So why was he here? Was he doing it for Perwyn? For Catelyn Stark? For his dead king? While he was pondering these questions and attempting to cajole his horse into continuing this ill-advised adventure, he was suddenly hailed.

“Stop, and tell us who you are!”

He looked toward his left, and three men were standing there, not ten feet from him. They hadn’t been there a moment before. “Why should I stop and tell you anything?” he responded.

“Well, you’ll stop because we’re blocking your way,” came another voice. Olyvar looked toward it and saw two more men standing directly in front of him. How did they do that?

“And we won’t let you go until you’ve told us who you are,” said the first man.

So this was it, then. He might as well get it over with. “I am Olyvar Frey, squire to Robb Stark, King in the North, and I am looking for you.”

The second man who had spoken walked forward and grabbed the bridle of Olyvar’s horse. Olyvar did not object or attempt to move away. “Thanks to you Freys, King Robb doesn’t have much need of a squire anymore, does he?” the man said.

“I had no part in the Red Wedding,” Olyvar said truthfully. “I did not even know of it until it had been done. That is why I’m allowing you to take me. I hope to still be of service to my king.”

“You’re allowing us to take you?” The first man laughed as if that were the funniest thing he had heard in a long time. “Well, since you allow it . . . Keejen, take his weapons. You just climb down off that horse and walk with us. Jon, you keep hold of his horse.”

Olyvar complied with all their requests, including being blindfolded and having his hands tied together. They led him carefully along, and he noticed that with their guidance his feet did not sink into muck one time. He knew he would not have managed half so well on his own with both eyes and hands free. After they had walked for some time, he began to hear the unmistakable sounds of men all around them, and when someone stopped him and removed his blindfold, he was not surprised to find himself in the midst of a circle of tents.

“This way,” one of the men said, pushing him toward a fairly large tent. “They want you in here.”

As he entered the tent, he realized someone was seated on a chair directly in front of him and two men stood just behind the chair. Other men seemed to line both sides of the tent all around them. He blinked his eyes trying to get them to adjust to the dim light inside and suddenly saw clearly who was seated on the chair.

“Lady Mormont!” he cried and fell to his knees before her. “You are alive!” He was genuinely happy to see her.

“Of course I am alive, Olyvar. I was not at that bloodbath your lying, faithless father disguised as a wedding,” she said coldly.

“I was not there, either, my lady,” he said quickly. “I did not know that you . . I mean I wondered about you when I heard that Dacey was . . .’ He couldn’t finish the sentence.

Lady Mormont finished it for him. “Murdered, Olyvar. That is the word you seek. My daughter was murdered, along with King Robb, Lady Stark, Lord Umber’s son, and too many others to name.” She continued to glare at him coldly. “Why are you here, Olyvar? Lord Reed’s men say you were making so much noise and wandering so far into the swamp, either you are too stupid to live or you meant to be caught. I never found you to be stupid, so why have you come to us? And get up. You needn’t grovel on the ground any longer.”

Olyvar got slowly to his feet, hampered a bit by his bound hands. He took a deep breath and addressed Lady Mormont. She seemed to be in charge. He didn’t know either of the men behind her. One of them was rather short and slightly built, but he had an intense gaze and looked at Olyvar as if he already knew everything about him. He was dressed similarly to the men who had taken him off his horse. The other man was taller and more muscular. He had brown hair streaked with grey and a beard that was more grey than brown. His hard face looked carved in granite and he stared hard at Olyvar with cold grey eyes. Olyvar shivered and looked back at Lady Mormont.

“I am here at my brother Perwyn’s bidding. Nothing can atone for the crime committed by my family against King Robb and the others. It was completely without honor. They had eaten and drunk at my father’s table only to be cut down after the meal. I cannot undo it. I can only say how very sorry I am that . . .”

“You came here to apologize, Olyvar?” Lady Mormont asked incredulously.

“No! I mean, yes, but not only that. I, we, Perwyn and I . . .” He found himself tripping over his words and stopped to take a deep breath before continuing. “Perwyn and I cannot act against our father. We would not become kinslayers. We believe, however, that if you choose to act against House Frey, your cause is just. We would like to see you have justice.”

“So you came here to give us your blessing should we wish to attack you?” Lady Mormont asked, still looking at him as if he didn’t quite make sense. He didn’t blame her. He was making a mess of this. He needed to just come out and say it.

“No.” He looked directly in her eyes. “I came here to tell you how to get into the Twins.”

That made her pause a moment. “Why should I believe you, Olyvar?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I would say because you know me, Lady Mormont, and because you’ve ridden to battle with me. But you’ve ridden to battle with Hosteen and Ryman and the others as well. And they were there at the wedding. They killed people there. So I don’t know why you should believe me, my lady. But I’m telling the truth.”

“Do you have some secret entrance you would allow us to use?” The shorter man behind Lady Mormont asked that question, speaking in a voice that while quiet, demanded attention and respect.

“No, my lord,” Olyvar responded. “I wish there was one, but there isn’t. And you must get inside the walls to take the castle. Once inside, you could win the battle easily. Most of our men are at Riverrun or sent elsewhere.” It felt very odd to be telling this stranger that the Twins were ripe for the taking. Olyvar believed he was doing the right thing, but it still felt wrong. He turned back to Lady Mormont because somehow it was easier talking to her. He knew her. She and he were both King Robb’s which made this feel less like a betrayal. “Perwyn and I have talked and talked, and as much as I hate it, the only way we could come up with is to use the Lady Catelyn.”

Suddenly Olyvar was back on the ground, this time lying on his back with a blade pressed to his throat held by the grim faced man with the icy eyes. “Use the Lady Catelyn? It was not enough to murder her in cold blood? What do you mean, use her?”

The knife’s point dug slightly into his skin and Olyvar, terrified, sputtered, “but . . .she’s not . . .dead. She’s . .”

Suddenly the knife dropped against his chest and fell to the floor as he was jerked up into a sitting position. The grey eyed man had him by the arms and was shaking him. “Not dead? Not dead? What do you mean, she‘s not dead?” His face had undergone an incredible transformation. Where there had been expressionless ice a moment ago, there was now a desperation so raw that Olyvar almost couldn‘t bear to look at him.

The shorter man had come forward, and he put a hand on the other’s shoulder. “Ned,” he said quietly. “Let the boy go. Let him speak.”

His voice seemed to reach the man because he stopped shaking Olyvar. He lessened the grip on his arms, but did not move his hands away. He took a ragged breath, and then spoke in a rasping whisper through his teeth. “Tell me. Tell me the truth. . . . . Does she live?”

Olyvar could barely find his voice as those grey eyes stared into his, demanding an answer. He nodded and said simply, “Yes.”

The man uttered a brief cry as if he had been struck, let go of Olyvar, and sank to the floor himself. No one spoke or moved for what seemed like the longest of moments, during which Olyvar simply stared at the inexplicable reaction of this man to the news of Lady Stark’s survival. He knew she was widely believed to have perished at the wedding, but this man behaved as if . . . _“Ned.” The other man had called him “Ned.”_

He looked up at Lady Mormont and was stunned to see that she had tears in her eyes. She was the first to recover, though. “Please leave us,” she said to the other men in the tent, rather roughly. As they filed out, she turned to him. “Olyvar, this is far better news than we had ever hoped to hear. You are certain of it? This would be far too cruel a lie. I beg you to tell us true.”

Olyvar got to his feet again. “Yes, Lady Mormont. Lady Stark is alive and is held prisoner at theTwins. She was grievously wounded at the Red Wedding, and I feared for her life when I first returned. She . . She had been shot by a crossbow and her throat was cut.”

The sharp intake of breath directly behind him told him that the man called Ned had gotten to his feet as well. Olyvar turned to face him and found the shorter man standing beside him holding his arm. “She had lost a lot of blood,” he continued, looking at the man whose identity he was becoming more sure of. “But my sister Roslin nursed her diligently, and she recovered. Your lady wife has suffered, but she is no more dead than you are, Lord Stark.”

The man did not react to Olyvar’s use of his name. “I was told they stripped her body naked and threw her into the river,” he said quietly. Olyvar noted he was shaking just slightly and standing with his weight all on one leg.

“A serving girl," Olyvar said, "who had the misfortune of having red hair. She really looked nothing like Lady Stark, but sufficiently bloodied and then allowed to rot for two days before they put on their charade . . . Well, from a distance, it appeared as my father wished it to.”

“Why?” the one word question was so quiet, he barely heard it.

Olyvar hesitated. How was he to answer that? Certain things, he wasn’t about to say. Not now. Not to this man. “My father had plenty of hostages to bargain with. He sought favor from Lord Tywin by giving him two dead wolves. He gained leverage over Roose Bolton by keeping one alive. Lord Bolton wants all Starks dead, of course. And my father likes secrets. They make him feel powerful.” Olyvar shrugged. “Lady Stark has been his secret.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark stared up at the stars. He knew sleep would not find him this night. _Catelyn is alive_. He sat outside his tent with the bad leg propped up. He had twisted it when he leapt at Olyvar Frey. In his rage at the young man for suggesting some ill use of his dead wife, he had forgotten it did not work as it did before. _But Cat lives!_

He had repeated that to himself a million times through the day. _Catelyn is alive_. As he and Reed and Lady Mormont had listened to young Olyvar’s plan, the thought had in turns given him courage, caused him to fear, spurred him to action, and given him reason for caution. _Catelyn is alive_. And he meant to keep her that way.

The Frey boy’s plan was not without peril, much of it for Cat. _Use the Lady Catelyn, indeed!_ Ned thought. _Use her as bait. Use her as a distraction. Gods! How can I do this?_ But while he had initially rejected Olyvar’s plan outright because of the danger to Cat, he could not come up with any other plan which offered as much chance to get her out of that place. And he must get her out.

 _Catelyn is alive._ Very soon now, he would see her, touch her. So much had happened since he‘d seen her last. So much had been lost. She’d watched Robb die, Olyvar had told him. _Gods, how did she survive that?_ Ned had never doubted the strength of his wife, but to have been a prisoner all this time, knowing her sons dead and her daughters lost, believing Ned to be dead himself. _Catelyn is alive._ She needn’t be strong alone much longer. Soon he’d hold her in his arms and be strong for her. He thought of the last time he’d held her, in King’s Landing. She’d trembled in his arms then, full of fear for their future. How right she’d been. _I couldn’t protect you, Cat. I couldn’t protect any of us_.

He couldn’t dwell on that. The failures of the past were done. He could regret them for the rest of his life, but he couldn’t change them. _Catelyn is alive_. That thought had to guide him now. The leg would be better, the Frey boy would go back to the Twins tomorrow to set things in motion, the plan would work, Walder Frey and his brood would be served justice, and he would hold his wife in his arms again. _Catelyn is alive._ Ned Stark allowed that one thought to push aside all others as he continued to gaze at the stars.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Maege Mormont shivered slightly in the cold, grey dawn as she stood with Howland Reed watching Lord Stark walk away with young Olyvar Frey. Maege was a woman used to cold and she knew better than to think it was the temperature that made her shiver. The four of them had risen early to once again make certain of every detail of this convoluted plan. So much could go wrong here, and failure would cost lives. Ned and Olyvar had disappeared into the trees. She turned to Reed. “What do you suppose he wanted to speak to him about?”

The crannogman shrugged slightly. “He did not say. But as young Frey is the only person Ned knows who has been in the company of his wife, I would imagine he wishes to ask more about her. Less than a day ago, he still mourned her death. None of this can be easy for him.”

“Mmm.” Maege responded absently, looking back to the spot where the two men had disappeared. Turning back to Reed, she gave voice to her fears. “Yes, my lord, one day ago he mourned her, and in another three days he could mourn her again! Or we could mourn them both! We place Lord and Lady Stark both in grave danger with this scheme.”

“Yes,” Lord Reed responded quietly, “but the lady has been in grave danger since the Freys took her, and Ned cannot allow her to remain there.”

“No, he can’t.” She sighed and then said thoughtfully, “I’ve known Ned Stark most of his life, you know. Even as a boy, he was too serious by far. He was courteous and kind, but he smiled seldom and laughed out loud almost never. He lived in Brandon’s shadow or Robert Baratheon’s and seemed content there, I think. Then when the war came and all his family was killed save Benjen . . .” she shook her head. “The serious boy became an even more solemn man.”

“I was with him,” Reed said quietly. “I know what he suffered.”

“But you weren’t with him afterward,” Maege protested. “You mostly stayed in your swamp, and you didn’t see them together like I did. There are many leagues between Bear Island and Winterfell so visits were not frequent, but they did occur. Catelyn Tully brought that man to life. It didn’t happen right away, but each time I saw them through the years, they were closer and he was warmer. He laughed with her, Lord Reed, as I’d never seen him laugh in all his life.” She paused. “When he came to us in Greywater Watch, at first I could see nothing but the fact that he lived. I was so glad of it. But then I saw that he was frozen again, as cold as the ignorant southrons like to say he is.” She shook her head. “We have all lost much in this war, my lord. I shall mourn my Dacey for the rest of my days. But he has lost so much. I fear he cannot survive losing her twice.”

Howland Reed regarded her closely. “You actually see what you look at, Lady Mormont. It’s a rare gift. Lord Stark is fortunate to have you as bannerman and friend. It is a risky thing we do, but I believe we shall be successful.”

She hesitated before asking her next question as it made her feel rather foolish, like a child asking for a story. “Is there a reason you believe that, my lord? I have, um, heard that some of your people can . . .see things. Is there any truth in that?”

Reed laughed. “There is some truth in most tales, my lady. We remember the Children of the Forest more than most others do, that is all. Most of their lore is lost to us, true, but we still pay attention to our dreams, and some of us dream things that will be.”

“And did you dream of this?”

“No, my lady. I dream of my children. I dream of Ned’s children. I dream of the North. And in all those dreams, I see Lord and Lady Stark. They are somehow important to all of it. The dreams disturbed me when I thought them both dead, and I feared for our future.” He shrugged. “The dreams still disturb me, in truth, for I don’t know their meanings, but now I have hope. I must believe we will succeed.” He bowed slightly to her then. “Now if you will excuse me, my lady, I must give my messenger the instructions to be given to Lord Glover about his part in this.”

“And how, pray tell, is this messenger going to cross the Green Fork anywhere near here?”

The little man smiled enigmatically and said, “You need not worry about that, my lady. He knows the way. Lord Glover will get word.”

She smiled after him as he left. Even after spending so much time in Greywater Watch, the ways of these crannogmen remained a mystery to her. She only knew she was exceptionally grateful to have them on her side. Lady Maege Mormont then squared her shoulders, put aside all speculative thoughts, and went to prepare for her own journey to the Twins on the morrow.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Olyvar had been startled when Lord Stark had asked if he might speak with him privately before he left for the Twins. After spending all evening and half the night in discussions with him and Lady Mormont and Lord Reed, he wasn’t truly frightened of the man anymore, but he was still rather intimidated by him. He hadn’t forgotten just how cold those grey eyes could be, and Olyvar devoutly wished never to have them turned on him in anger or displeasure again. He dreaded what the man might ask him, for he knew he couldn’t lie, but there were some things he could not imagine telling him.

Their pace was slow, as the northman’s leg pained him, and he moved with a noticeable limp. Once they had walked a ways in silence, Lord Stark spoke. “Olyvar, I would like you to tell me of my son’s marriage.”

Olyvar stopped suddenly. He certainly hadn’t expected that. “His marriage, my lord? To Jeyne Westerling, you mean?”

“I am not aware of him having married anyone else.” Lord Stark stopped walking as well, and turned to face him. “Lady Mormont has spoken to me of your devotion to my son. She says that you wished to stay with him when Ser Ryman demanded all of your family to leave after he broke the marriage pact.”

“Yes, my lord, that’s true.”

“Why?” Those intimidating eyes were turned full on Olyvar now, and Stark waited for an answer.

“Why what, my lord?” Olyvar stammered.

“Why stay?” Lord Stark elaborated. “Robb had broken a marriage pact with your house. That is a serious breach of honor, Olyvar. Ser Ryman was not acting without cause when he withdrew your family’s support. Were you not angry as well? What had Robb done to earn your loyalty to him over your family?”

“I . . .well, it wasn’t that simple, my lord.”

The older man gave him an almost sympathetic look. “It rarely is.” Then he was quiet, simply waiting for Olyvar to gather his thoughts and speak.

That gave Olyvar confidence. It reminded him of King Robb. This man looked nothing like his son except perhaps in build. Robb’s coloring and features had been entirely his mother’s. Yet, the direct way he had of looking at you when he spoke; the quiet way he listened when you spoke; the impression he gave that your thoughts and words mattered to him--he found the echoes of all that in this northern lord.

“We were fighting in the west, my lord. We had taken the Crag with relatively few casualties, but his Grace had taken a wound in the arm, so we stayed there to allow him time to heal. Jeyne Westerling was a daughter of the house, and she tended him herself. She was pretty, my lord, and kind. We were still there when we got word of your other sons.” Olyvar paused then and looked directly at Stark. “I am sorry about them, my lord. I know his Grace loved them very much.” Stark simply nodded at him and waited for him to continue. “His Grace took it hard, my lord. Very hard. He stomped and screamed and blamed himself. You see, he had sent Theon Greyjoy to treat with his father even though Lady Stark warned him against it. She had been . . . quite vocal in her opposition, my lord.” Stark snorted at that, and Olyvar almost smiled. Apparently, the man knew his wife well. “Anyway, we couldn’t do anything for him. But Lady Jeyne, she . . .comforted him.” He dropped his eyes. “The way only a woman can comfort a man,” he added softly.” When Stark said nothing, he looked up at him again.

“I am familiar with the concept, Olyvar,” Stark assured him, and again waited for him to continue.

“She came to him, my lord. He never forced her,” Olyvar said adamantly. “But still, he felt he had dishonored her. And he couldn’t have that, my lord. He truly felt his only course was to marry her. He knew it was wrong to break his agreement with my father. He knew he would have to beg forgiveness and try to make amends. But he thought it was more wrong to dishonor the lady. I was angry, my lord. But I couldn’t hate him for that. And he was my king.”

Olyvar stopped speaking and waited for the older man to respond. It surprised him not at all that he was silent a bit longer while he thought about Olyvar’s words. This man truly was King Robb’s father.

“Thank you, Olyvar,” he finally said. “I have wondered what possessed my son to break his word of honor. It is not a thing I would have expected of him. You are the first person I felt I could ask.”

“Me, my lord? Why?” Olyvar asked.

“You were his squire. You were close to him. And you are a Frey, so you had reason to feel the slight to your honor. I felt I could hear a more complete truth from you. I was right. And I understand his actions much better now.” He sighed deeply. “My son wronged your House, Olyvar. I do not deny that. However, the wrong he did could never warrant the violation of guest right and foul murder done by House Frey.”

“I know that, my lord. That is why I am here. I will not take up weapons against a member of my family, but in all else, I am your man, as I was your son’s.”

Lord Stark nodded. “Fair enough, Olyvar. It’s time you were on your way. I have one other favor to ask of you, though.”

“Anything, my lord.”

“My lady,” the man started. He looked at Olyvar intently. “If all goes according this plan of your brother’s, Catelyn will soon believe her death is imminent.” Stark swallowed and took a deep breath. “I would spare her that, at least. Tell her all is not as it seems. She is intelligent and brave enough to play her part. Please tell her I am coming for her.” His voice almost broke as he said the last.

Olyvar closed his eyes. This was what he had hoped to avoid. He simply could not lie to this man. “ She is brave, my lord. I know that. And I will try to give her courage. But I cannot tell her you live.”

“Why?” Disbelief with an edge of anger had crept into Stark’s voice. “She will be more than stunned, I know. I cannot describe what I felt when you told me she lived. But she is rather less likely than I to put a knife to your throat,” he added half apologetically. “And she can guard her emotions. She can play her part. Tell her I will come for her.”

Olyvar swallowed hard. “I fear that I cannot, my lord. The Lady Catelyn, she is . . .well, she is . .”

“She is what, boy? What are you trying to tell me?” Stark’s eyes warned of an impending storm.

“She is surviving, my lord. She is surviving because everyone she loves is dead, and because she waits to take vengeance on my father. She has survived by becoming hard and cold to everything around her, and she has to be. She has to be because . . . .because she has been sorely abused, my lord.” The words were now falling from his lips very quickly. “She doesn’t let it touch her. She doesn’t feel anything. She told me she was stone . . . But if she knew you lived . . . Don’t you see, my lord? She couldn’t be stone. She would think of you and she couldn’t stand it when they . . .” he couldn’t finish the sentence. He had been speaking without looking at Lord Stark. He couldn’t look at him and speak of Lady Catelyn this way, but now he looked up at him.

Lord Stark’s face was ice. There was no color in it, and his expression was hard and cold. His eyes were alive, though. His eyes were filled with pain and rage. His voice, when he spoke was cold, quiet, and controlled. “Sorely abused, Olyvar? Sorely abused? Who has abused my lady wife . . .what precisely have they done to her?”

“Please, my lord,” Olyvar forced himself to look at the man. “Don’t make me say it. I wouldn’t shame her by speaking of it.”

“Shame her?” the icy control left Stark’s voice and that came out as a shout. “Shame her? As if any thrice damned Frey could ever shame my lady!” He turned then and walked about three paces. Then he clenched his fists and roared at the sky. He turned back to Olyvar and shouted again. “You shame only yourselves!! You cannot touch her honor! Do you hear me? You cannot touch her!”

Footsteps came crashing through the trees and suddenly Lady Mormont was there with three men, and all had their swords drawn.

“What has happened here?” Lady Mormont demanded.

Lord Stark was shaking and did not speak. Olyvar walked directly up to Lady Mormont disregarding her weapon. “Lord Stark asked a question about Lady Stark’s treatment at the Twins,” he told her quietly. “I answered him honestly, and it is not an answer any husband wants to hear.” He pleaded with his eyes for her to understand.

Lady Maege did not disappoint him. “There is nothing to fear here,” she told the other men in a commanding voice. “Go back and get Olyvar’s horse so we can get him on his way.” More quietly, she said to Olyvar. “This is ill news, but it changes nothing. Ride for the Twins. Be ready for my coming on the morrow.” She looked at her liege lord and back to Olyvar. “I will tend to him,” she said softly.

Olyvar was shaking, but he nodded to her, and turned to follow the men.

“Wait.”

Lord Stark’s voice was cold and commanding, but once again controlled. Olyvar turned back and found the man facing him. He walked toward Olyvar, standing straight up and barely favoring the bad leg.

“You understand that I will kill your father,” he said.

Olyvar nodded mutely.

“And I will kill every man that has laid a hand on my wife. You must know that before you leave here.”

Olyvar forced himself to speak. “I know that, my lord.”

“And you are still resolved to do this?”

Olyvar stood straight and looked the Lord of Winterfell in the eyes. “I am, my lord. You spoke truly. The Freys have shamed only themselves. I would see the Lady Catelyn have justice from them.”

Stark looked at him long and hard. “Go, Olyvar,” he finally said. “See to my wife. Keep her strong, however you must, until I come for her.”

Then Eddard Stark turned and walked slowly away alone. Olyvar felt a hand squeezing his own and turned to see that Lady Mormont was holding his hand tightly. “You heard him, Olyvar. Go, and do not fail him.”

He nodded. “I won’t fail him, my lady. I won’t fail either of them.”

Olyvar Frey walked to his horse and as he mounted up, he prayed he would be able to keep his promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who is reading Love and Honor. I hope my tale of Ned and Catelyn continues to entertain. For those of you who have left comments, your feedback is much appreciated and keeps me motivated! Thank you!


	9. An Open Gate

 A cold drizzle had fallen continuously upon them since leaving the larger part of their force and riding toward the Twins under a flag of parley and flying the bear banner of House Mormont. Ned Stark was grateful for the thick, hooded cloak which kept most of the water off him. He rode at the back of their little group, an arrangement which pleased him none, but Lady Mormont had not wanted him to come at all, so he conceded this point to her.

They had argued long about it after Olyvar Frey had left them. After Olyvar Frey had told him that Cat . . .that Cat had been . . . _Gods!! I will kill them all!_ Ned’s horse bolted forward suddenly as he had stiffened and inadvertently dug his knees into the beast at the thought. He quickly reined him back, but Lady Maege had noticed from her place at the head of the procession.

She called a halt and turned her own mount back to him. Reining up beside him, she looked at him steadily. “Are you quite certain you can do this, my lord?”

Ned returned her look with a glacial stare. “Ride a horse? Why, yes, my lady, I am quite certain that I can.”

She frowned at him. “You know perfectly well that is not what I meant.” She hesitated only a moment and then asked him, “Can you sit on that horse, silent and still, before the gate of that godforsaken castle, while I trade insults with some Frey, and you imagine your wife being raped behind its walls?”

“Gods, Maege!” he growled at her, courtesies forgotten.

“Because if you can’t,” she continued, “then turn around and ride back, Ned Stark. You cannot help her by getting yourself and the rest of us killed.”

Lady Mormont’s eyes held understanding and sympathy, but her voice was steel, and Ned knew she was right. This had been her fear since Olyvar’s revelation--that he’d single-handedly attempt to storm the Twins, indiscriminantly killing Freys and screaming Catelyn’s name as he rode. She wasn’t wrong to believe that was his desire. He’d thought of little else all the long previous day and night. But he wasn’t Brandon. He wouldn’t sacrifice all hope of rescuing Cat on the altar of his rage. He pushed his fury deep inside and felt it freeze hard around his heart. He breathed deeply and looked levelly at the woman who waited for his response.

“The horse simply startled, Lady Mormont,” he said flatly. “I shall be no more than a shadow behind you during this parley, my lady. I simply wish to hear all that is said with my own ears. We have been through this already.”

Her expression softened slightly. “As you wish, my lord. I only fear that this shall be a hard thing for you to bear.”

“A hard thing for me to bear?” He shook his head. “As you have so bluntly just reminded me, Lady Maege, my lady wife has borne far worse evils than I have ever known. If she has the courage to survive such treatment, she deserves a husband who is not unmanned by simply hearing about it.” He looked at Lady Mormont steadily. “I can do this,” he told her quietly.

She simply nodded and resumed her place at the front.

They rode on and were soon hailed by riders from the Twins. Ned pulled his hood about his face and kept his head down, but he did not recognize any of these men. Asked to state their business, Lady Mormont said boldly that they came under a flag of parley to treat with the Lord of the Crossing and requested safe passage to the castle gate.

Two of the riders turned back to the castle at a gallop to bring word of their coming, and the others fell in with them to escort them the short distance left. As they approached the eastern Twin, Ned could see archers positioned on the wall. The large gate was closed, but several mounted men waited in front of it, apparently having come through the sally port to meet them. _Cat_. Her name came unbidden to his mind, and he had an absurd urge to call it out. She was just there, somewhere behind those walls. So close. His breathing sped up slightly, and he realized his heart was pounding. _I cannot do this. I must not think of her. I must stay still._ He forced his breathing to slow and concentrated on Lady Mormont’s interaction with the men in front of them. Two, at least, appeared to be Freys, although Ned did not know their names. Lord Walder had far too many sons, grandsons, and great grandsons for him to have met them all.

“Lady Mormont,” one called out. “How pleasant to see you again. You remember my brother, Ser Raymund, do you not?”

“I do, Lothar,” Lady Maege responded. “But I fear it is not pleasant to see you at all. We come to seek redress for the foul acts committed here by House Frey against the King in the North and his men.”

“Oh?” Lothar replied. “I fear you have been misinformed, my lady. The only treachery committed here was perpetrated by Robb Stark. After breaking his marriage agreement with my lord father, he came here as a guest and attacked us under our own roof, he and his barbarous Northmen warging into wolves and tearing out the throats of innocent men and women.”

Ned felt the frozen fury within him threatening to boil again at this abominable slander of his son, and he closed his eyes and forced himself to stillness.

“Lies!” responded Lady Mormont angrily. “You are speaking to a lady of the North, ser, and I name you liar. I would like nothing more than to raze your castle to the ground, but while I have the men to do it, I hesitate to waste their lives against filth such as you, for I have need of them in the North.”

Lothar Frey passed his eyes over their small party. “And where is this great host, my lady?”

“Not far,” she assured him. “You shall see them on the morrow.”

“I will?” he asked, raising a brow. “And why should you bring your host here, Lady Mormont, if you do not wish to attack.”

“You do not hear well, Lame Lothar. I told you I would like nothing better than to attack and kill every man among you. I will return tomorrow and do precisely that if you do not meet my terms.”

The man had bristled when Lady Maege called him Lame Lothar, and now he laughed nastily. “Terms? What terms would you have, my lady?”

“You will give us the Lady of Winterfell,” Maege Mormont stated boldly.

The man next to Lothar made a startled sound. “She . . .she is dead,” he sputtered.

“No, she is not,” Lady Mormont answered him confidently. “Although, according to the information I have received, that’s no thanks to you, Ser Raymund.”

The man sputtered again, and Ned suddenly recalled where he had heard his name. Olyvar had identified him as the man who . . . _This damnable whoreson cut Catelyn’s_ _throat!_ He swallowed hard and his hand flexed on his sword hilt. _Still. I must be still._

“I . . .I don’t know what you mean,” Raymund Frey sputtered some more. “The Stark woman went mad, killed my nephew, a poor helpless idiot, and then was killed with the rest of the wolves before she could murder anyone else!”

Ned felt as if he could not bear to hear one more word from this man’s throat without leaping from his horse to throttle him.

“She lives,” said Lady Mormont calmly. She addressed her remarks to the one she called Lame Lothar, now ignoring Raymund Frey as if he were beneath notice. “She is held prisoner here. We know this to be true, and we shall not suffer it to continue. She is the widow of our murdered lord and mother of our murdered king. She belongs to the North. Tomorrow, you will produce Lady Catelyn Stark. We shall take her with us, unmolested, or you shall suffer the consequences.”

Without another word, Maege Mormont turned her horse and began to ride away from the gate. As she passed one of their men, Ned heard her whisper sharply. “As soon as we are away, to the archers. Not a raven leaves this castle.” One by one, each member of their party turned to follow her, and the Freys watched them leave in silence.

As she rode by Ned, she game him a grim smile and said softly. “The first move is made, my lord. The game is Ser Perwyn’s now. The gods be with him.”

Ned offered his own prayer as he forced himself to turn his horse and follow the column away from the Twins, away from his wife, leaving her fate in the hands of one man barely more than a boy and another man he did not know. _Gods protect her. Please keep her safe and deliver her back to me_.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Perwyn Frey had watched from the wall as the little scene played out in front of the gate. He had looked carefully at the men who rode with Lady Mormont, but all were heavily cloaked against the foul weather, and he couldn’t see much of their faces. He wondered if one of them was Ned Stark, risen from the grave. That had been a shock when Olyvar reported it. Perwyn hoped the man had the good sense to stay hidden for the present. Convincing his lord father of Lady Catelyn’s relatively low value as hostage and small potential to cause trouble if freed would be considerably more difficult if she became once again the wife of the living Lord of Winterfell.

Perwyn sighed and turned to go down to the hall where he knew his father would await them. Lady Mormont had played her part well. Now it was his turn. As he descended into the courtyard, he saw Lothar and Raymund had returned within. _What a stroke of luck that Raymund had been sent out with Lothar!_ The She-Bear had played him like a fiddle, and Perwyn smiled at the memory of his discomfiture in spite of the daunting task ahead of him. He stopped smiling as he looked at Lothar, though. That man was too clever by half, and Perwyn needed to use him for his own purposes today. If Lothar even suspected he was being played . . .Perwyn shook his head as if to clear it of troubled thoughts, and proceeded to the hall.

His half-brother Merrett caught up with him as he entered, half in his cups as usual. “Did you hear? They said the Mormont woman asked for the Stark bitch. She knows we’ve got her!”

Perwyn suppressed the urge to rebuke him for the manner in which he referred to Lady Stark. Gods knew drunken insults from Merrett were the least of the lady’s difficulties. “Yes, I heard it all from the wall,” he said simply. “Let’s go see what Father has to say about it, shall we?”

Lord Walder sat in his large throne with a blanket wrapped around his legs. “It would appear someone has very loose lips,” Lothar was saying as he gazed around at the assembled Frey men. “The old She-Bear seems remarkably well-informed about events at the Red Wedding.”

“She can’t possibly know anything,” Raymund protested. “She’s just guessing, that’s all.”

“Heh,” Lord Walder laughed shortly. “Just guessing that you, in particular, tried to open Lady Stark’s throat, and that she survived and is held here at the Twins. Heh. Pretty good guesser, that She-Bear.” He looked darkly at Raymund and then at his other assorted progeny. “So would one of you like to tell me who’s meeting with Northmen and telling them what they shouldn’t know?”

Silence fell for a few beats. Then Lothar sighed. “She could have heard it from any number of sources. There have been countless people in and out of this castle, and while we haven’t paraded Lady Stark about, she isn’t precisely hidden away, either. The question for us is not so much how she knows, but what do we do about it.”

Lord Walder looked carefully at Lothar. “Do you believe her about this host of men she has?”

 _Time to jump in_ , Perwyn thought. “I do.” Lord Walder turned his watery eyes toward him, and Perwyn continued. “I don’t know how many men, but I believe there have been men in the southern swamps of the Neck, likely for some time.”

“Oh, are you on about your frogeaters again, Perwyn?” Merrett interjected. _Gods be thanked the man was so predictable_. Perwyn had given him vague information off and on of suspicious reports by his scouts just in case he found the need to give evidence he had performed his scouting duties diligently. “I told you that . . .”

“Let Perwyn speak,” Lord Walder interrupted.

Perwyn sighed. “There was never anything concrete, my lord, and I never saw anything myself, but several men came to me with impressions of having been watched or followed, and twice they found evidence of horses having been ridden recently in unexpected places. They saw no one but the occasional crannogman, however, and when I discussed it with Merrett, he felt it was nothing. I realize that we can’t take impressions or odd feelings as evidence, but these are experienced scouts. Given Lady Mormont’s rather surprising appearance here today, I think perhaps they were right.”

“And why haven’t I heard any of this before?” Lame Lothar asked him sharply.

Perwyn shrugged. “I was unaware of any need to report to you, ser,” he said stiffly. Every man in the room knew he had barely spoken to Lothar since the Red Wedding. “And I am not the only man scouts report to. I discussed those few odd reports with Merrett and had to admit they didn’t amount to much.”

“With Merret, eh? Why not your brother, then?” Lord Walder asked him.

“Merrett is my brother, my lord. I have a great number of brothers, as you are wont to remind me.” He met the old man’s eyes directly. “I assume you refer to Olyvar, however. You were very specific in your directive that he not be involved in any matters regarding Northmen. He was not to be trusted.” He let his bitterness come through on the last.

“Heh. You disagreed with me, I recall,” his father said.

“I did, and I do. But I know my duty, my lord.”

“This gets us nowhere,” Lothar interjected. “Father, I say we kill the Stark woman and be done with it. Let Lady Mormont believe what she likes, but we continue to insist Catelyn Stark was killed at the Red Wedding while in the act of murdering Aegon. She cannot prove differently once the woman is dead. Perhaps we can even give her her daughter’s bones as a token of good will.”

“We don’t have them,” Raymund put in. “I don’t even know what happened to the Mormont girl’s body after the wedding.”

Lothar looked at Raymund and shook his head. “Bones are bones. We can find some.”

Perwyn watched his father consider Lothar’s suggestion.

“We could kill Lady Stark,” he said thoughtfully. “Of course, that wouldn’t keep Lady Mormont from attacking the castle.”

“She can’t take it,” said Lothar.

“No,” Perwyn agreed. “But she could trouble us for a time. We don’t have enough men here to ride out and defeat even a modest force. We’d have to send to Riverrun and pull men from the siege there to rid ourselves of her. That would take time and waste resources needed elsewhere.”

Both Lord Walder and Lame Lothar seemed to pause and consider that. “We should send a raven to Ryman at Riverrun,” Lord Walder said, “to inform him of these developments.”

“She’ll have archers,” Perwyn and Lothar said at almost the exact same time. Lothar looked at Perwyn as if shocked that the two of them would agree on anything. “She’s too smart to come and make her demand only to allow us to send ravens. It will have to be a rider. She can’t stop anyone riding out of the western castle for Riverrun. She’s on the wrong side of the river. She must be hoping to get whatever it is she really wants before a rider can bring aid.”

 _A rider that won’t get past Galbart Glover’s men, who are on the right side of the river_ , Perwyn thought. “What she really wants?” Perwyn asked Lothar. “You don’t think she wants Lady Stark?” _Careful, now. Don’t push him too quickly. He has to get there on his own._

Their father watched the interchange between Lothar and Perwyn carefully. Perwyn knew the old man respected Lothar’s wits, and that he trusted him as much as he trusted anyone. “I can’t think why she would,” Lothar said slowly. “Catelyn Stark has no family left save the second daughter, whom the Lannisters have already given to Bolton. She’s not a Stark by blood, so she’s no claim to Winterfell of her own. Why not ask for Umber? He could rally his House to her cause, at least. And we’ve made no secret about having him. It’s won us one of his uncle’s for Bolton’s cause.”

“Perhaps Lady Mormont knows Lord Umber’s more valuable and that Father is unlikely to give him up. Perhaps she only seeks to rescue Lady Stark for honor’s sake. I could see her doing that. Lady Stark once told me that Lady Mormont may be the most loyal bannerman her husband ever had,” Perwyn mused.

“I will not simply hand Catelyn Tully Stark over to that She-Bear,” said Lord Walder, almost petulantly. “She is my hostage and I intend to keep her.”

“Perhaps, if the woman outside our gate is truly silly enough to want the woman we hold within our gate out of some misguided sense of honor, we can use this to our advantage,” Lothar said thoughtfully.

 _Yes_! Perwyn thought. “I agree,” he said to Lothar. “Perhaps it’s time we used Lady Stark.”

Raymund laughed at that. “I thought we’d been using her pretty well, but you never seemed keen on the idea before, Perwyn!”

Perwyn looked at him coldly. “Lady Stark is not a tart out of some brothel, Raymund, and every man here knows how I feel about what’s been done to her.” He nodded stiffly to his father, “Including you, my lord. I have not kept my opinion secret from you, but I have not gone against you, either, Father.” He paused a moment to collect himself. “Lady Stark is, however, a hostage, and hostages are taken to be used, are they not?”

He had everyone’s attention now, but he only cared about his father and Lothar. He paused again as if thinking through a plan of action, and then continued. “I say we show Lady Stark to Lady Mormont when she comes in the morning. You have the large gibbet in the courtyard which faces the gate. Why not take a page from Ryman’s book and greet the She-Bear with the site of her dead lord’s widow with her neck in a noose.”

“Because that is working so well for Ryman with the Blackfish,” Lothar said drily.

“It worked on Jason Mallister,” Perwyn countered. “And Maege Mormont is a woman, for all she prances around like a soldier. She’s more likely to be swayed by such a sight.” Perwyn again silently thanked the gods that the Northmen in the swamp had been led by a woman, as it lended support to his plan. “Tell her that if her force attacks us, Lady Stark will swing. We might, however, be willing to part with her if other hostages are exchanged for her. Have her bring us one of her surviving daughters, for instance, to insure her good behavior.”

“Why would I trade Hoster’s daughter for the She-Bear’s daughter?” Lord Walder asked.

“Because Lady Mormont has an army and Lady Stark does not,” Lothar answered him. He looked at Perwyn carefully. “You surprise me, Perwyn. I had not thought you interested in making war on the men of your dear, departed king.”

“You mistake me, Lothar,” Perwyn responded. “I have never been against defending our house or our honor. I will never agree that any honor could be found in that wedding massacre of yours, but hostages are taken and used by all sides in war. I accept that.”

“You would open our gate to an enemy army, Perwyn,” his father said. “Why not take the wolf bitch out for them to see?”

“To see her scars? Her fresh bruises?” Perwyn responded coldly. “I would not be anxious to have these northmen see their Lady too closely, Father. Outside our gate you would have a large force of northmen, a small group of Freys and one bound and beaten woman. They could take her easily if they chose, and the sight of her would likely motivate them to do at least that."

“We could send out a larger force with her,” said Raymund.

“And end up with a full scale battle at our gate,” snapped Lothar. “That serves no purpose. No, Perwyn’s plan makes the most sense.” He looked at Lord Walder. “We will have the lady in the noose, horseman mounted all across the gate, and make it clear if one Northman crosses, the lady swings immediately.”

“So we’d have a dead woman and a castle full of angry northmen?” Raymund said stupidly.

“We’d have only few angry northmen, Raymund,” Perwyn said softly. “We’d close the gate against the rest. We could hold them outside as long as need be, and easily rout them once we are reinforced from Riverrun.”

“Assuming the woman is stupid enough to attack,” Lothar added. “Possibly, she’ll just stare at the gibbet and listen to our terms.”

“Possibly,” Perwyn agreed.

“Perwyn,” his father said, looking at him carefully. “There is a distinct possibility this plan of yours will get your Lady Stark hanged. Heh, heh. You ready to do that, boy?”

Perwyn clenched his jaw. “She is not my lady Stark, Father. Yes, I do respect her, and would rather her not come to harm.” He looked hard at Raymund and some others in the room. “But, in truth, if it comes to it, I would rather see her hanged than continue as she is.”

With that, Perwyn turned and strode from the hall. He had much to do.

 

. _____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Olyvar Frey stood by the gibbet in the courtyard watching Wallen work at the rope. “It will do what it’s supposed to?” he asked. The Freys’ hangman was actually a very kind man which had always struck Olyvar as odd for a man of his profession. He was near fifty years old and had a son about Olyvar’s age with whom Olyvar had played as a child. The two small boys had spent nearly all their time together, and Olyvar had come to view Wallen in some ways as more of a father to him than Lord Walder was. Even after a flux took Wallen’s son when the boys were about ten, Olyvar had continued to spend time with Wallen, and he loved the man.

“It’ll do,” the man said briefly, looking up from his knots to see Perwyn and Lothar approaching. “It’ll snap her neck clean, lad. I won’t let her suffer needlessly.” Perwyn and Lothar had reached them to hear the last part and they looked up at Wallen sitting on the elevated platform of the gibbet as he worked.

“All prepared, Wallen?” Lothar asked him.

“Aye, ser. Good seasoned rope here and the trap’s in good working order. If it comes to it, I’ll be ready.” Wallen looked at Olyvar with sympathetic eyes, and Olyvar saw Perwyn follow the man’s gaze to him.

“It might not come to it, Olyvar,” Perwyn said softly. “Lady Mormont might not attack. She might choose to bargain.” He shook his head sadly. “I can’t honestly see her giving up her daughters, though.”

“I’d just as soon she attack,” said Lothar bluntly, and Olyvar looked at him in surprise.

Lothar caught the look and laughed. “I never thought I’d say this, Olyvar, but I agree with your brother about this business of keeping Lady Stark as some sort of twisted amusement for Father. The Starks got what was coming to them, make no mistake, but we’ve got our vengeance. This business with the woman was bound to end messily. She should have been killed at the start.” He looked up at the rope on the platform again. “Now we’ve got a way to be done with it. Maybe with her traded, maybe with her dead. Either way, I’ll like it better.”

“Roslin’s been crying. She really likes Lady Stark,” Olyvar said.

Lothar shrugged. “Roslin’s a woman.”

Olyvar frowned. “I like Lady Stark, too. Could I escort her down in the morning? You can send as many men as you like if you don’t trust me, Lothar,” he added angrily.

“I don’t see why not, Olyvar. But why would you want to escort your dear lady to her probable death?”

Olyvar looked at Perwyn when he replied. “I would give her courage, and help her stay strong, however I can.”

Perwyn nodded, but Lothar just laughed and shook his head. “You two are quite a pair. You truly are.” He was still laughing as he walked away.

Once Lothar had gone, Wallen the hangman finished his work and the noose swung ominously from the crossbar above. He looked at the two brothers standing below him and gave them an almost imperceptible nod as he decended the steps and then turned and walked away himself.

Olyvar and Perwyn Frey lingered only a moment longer, looking up at that noose before they parted ways silently, each to their own tasks and thoughts.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

It wasn’t raining this morning, but otherwise the weather had not improved. The sky was a leaden grey, and the air was cold with a biting wind. Maege Mormont rode at the head of her column in full armor. She flew no flag of parley today. The Freys knew she came to attack if her demand was not met, and of course, it would not be. Her standard bearer rode to her left. To her right, also in full armor and with his visor down, rode Ned Stark. He had demanded that he be the one. No amount of reasoning from herself or Lord Reed had swayed him from his decision. She knew his bad leg was thickly bound from knee to calf to lessen the pain he felt when he dug the leg into his horse’s side. She also knew it still hurt him like hell.

No riders came out to meet them as they approached the Twins on this day. They rode toward the eastern castle with every man they had, some of whom would be dead come sunset. She prayed it would not be many, and that victory would be earned for the price of the blood spilled. As they approached, she could see many more archers on the walls than had been there the previous day, all with their bows trained on them. But no shots were fired yet.

The gate was open, just as Olyvar had said it would be. She looked quickly to either side to make certain Reed’s men were close, the men who had to get through that gate quickly once Ned had made his charge. They were there, looking toward the gate as intently as she was. The wide opening was lined by men mounted on horseback. And behind them was . . .

 _Oh gods!_ Olyvar had told them, but she hadn’t fully believed it until now. Well behind the men on horseback, just visible in the center of the courtyard stood a raised gibbet, and there with hands bound behind her and a noose tight around her neck was a woman whose long red hair fell loosely down her back and blew wildly with each gust of wind. Maege swallowed. Even at this distance, she easily recognized Catelyn Stark. Beside her, she heard Ned Stark strangle the cry that had come from him.

“Steady, my lord,” she said softly. “Go steadily. We’ll have her in a moment.”

He didn’t answer her. She didn’t imagine him capable of speech at the moment, and she was grateful she couldn’t see his face beneath the visor of his helmet. As they closed to within twenty paces of the men on horseback, she saw that Walder Frey had been carried out into the courtyard on his litter.

“What is the meaning of this, Lord Frey?” she called loudly. “How dare you treat Lady Stark in such a manner? I demand you release her now!”

Ned was positively vibrating beside her.

“Heh. The lady’s my hostage. Heh, heh.” The old man’s voice was not as clear and strong as her own, but Maege had no trouble hearing him, and neither did Ned Stark. “I’ll treat her any way I see fit, and if you cross that line, she swings. You want her? Heh. What’ll you give me for her? Not promises, I hope. Your promises are no good. Heh. Some of my sons have gotten a bit attached to her, heh . . .”

That was enough for Ned. Maege heard him kick his horse with a great, growling roar, and he had charged forward and cut down the two men directly in front of him before the Freys could react. As the Lord of Winterfell galloped into the courtyard of the Twins, Maege spurred her own mount to follow him, with Lord Reed’s men already doing the same.

Arrows began raining down from the walls, and just like that, full battle was joined. Maege slashed about her, called to her men, and prayed for that gate to remain open.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn Stark shivered in the cold wind. They had not seen fit to give her a cloak, and the thin material of the blue dress Roslin had brought her did little to keep her warm. Roslin had cried ceaselessly as she helped lace that wretched dress over Catelyn’s shift in the pre-dawn hours. She had finally ordered the poor girl out of her room in an effort to preserve her sanity. She had brushed her hair herself, started to braid it, and then decided to simply let it be. She was going to die today. She had closed her eyes and run her fingers through her hair, wondering if she would find Ned when it was all done. She didn’t really have much hope of it. Hope had left her long ago. And yet, he would want her hair down.

Olyvar had come for her after an indeterminate amount of time. “Walk with me, my lady,” he had said quietly, and offered her his arm.

He was a good boy, Olyvar Frey. She knew he was older than Robb, but he always seemed younger to her. She wanted to say something to him, but she couldn’t quite manage it. She felt somehow even colder and harder than usual, and stones do not speak.

Olyvar had been the one to tell her. He had come with Roslin to her room the previous night and told her of Lady Maege’s ultimatum. Foolish woman! She should be riding out to find and kill Roose Bolton rather than seeking the dead here. She should seek Arya and Sansa. Now, Catelyn would die, good Northmen would likely die, and Walder Frey would go on living.

Catelyn found that she didn’t mind dying. It was Walder Frey living that left her feeling cheated. She had lain awake all night wondering why the gods had never seen fit to let her kill him. Ninety-two years that twisted, evil man had drawn breath while she, Ned, and their sons would get barely more than that to share among all of them.

By the time Roslin had brought the blue dress, Catelyn realized she had been dead for a long time. She had started dying piece by piece the day that Tallhart boy had told her about Ned. Today, her body would finally admit to being dead. Olyvar had said Maege had a sizable force. Perhaps she could manage to kill Walder Frey after all. Catelyn would hope for that. That would be enough.

As Olyvar had walked her into the courtyard, he had whispered to her, “Things are not what they seem, my lady. Be of good courage. I will be with you. All is not lost.”

She looked at him then, and forced herself to speak. “I have been lost for awhile now, Olyvar. Do not fear for me, for I do not fear this. I thank you for taking this walk with me, child. I fear it has been harder for you than for me.”

Two men had taken her from him then, roughly tied her hands behind her, and walked her up several stairs to the gibbet. The man who waited for her there actually looked at her with genuine kindness, and his hands seemed oddly gentle as he fastened the noose snugly around her neck. “There, milady,” he had said quietly. “Don’t you worry. I’ll let no hurt come to you. No pain.” He stood her over a rectangular trap in the platform and pulled the rope so it was almost taut from the crossarm above to her neck below. Then he left her alone.

And there she had stood, shivering in the wind as her hair blew across her face and all around her. She saw the Freys assemble at the gate and saw Lady Mormont’s company ride up with her bear banner flying. She would have liked it to have been the direwolf of Stark, but there were no Starks left save her. And soon, she would be no more.

There was some talk to which she gave no heed, although she was aware of Walder Frey’s hideous chuckle as he spoke. Then suddenly an armored knight beside Lady Maege reared his horse and broke ranks. He rode down two Frey men and galloped through the gate. More Freys converged upon him, blocking him momentarily from her view, but then she saw him again, hacking and cutting through them with a single-minded determination that defied possibility. She was vaguely aware that others had joined battle, but she could not take her eyes from this man. She suddenly feared for him and desperately wished for him to be safe. Watching him ride toward her, fighting for his life, she felt her heart pound and her pulse race as it had not done in a very long time.

He broke away from the last of his immediate pursuers, and he was now galloping directly toward her. He had raised his visor and as he approached, she could see his eyes. _Oh gods, his eyes_! She must be losing her mind. Perhaps, she was already dead, for the man racing toward her stared at her intently with her husband’s grey eyes.

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t take her eyes from his. She was vaguely aware of the sounds of battle: swords clanging against each other, horses screaming, arrows whizzing overhead, and the groans of dying men. _Ned is coming to me._ She heard shouts: “The gate!! Lower the gate!!” “Pull the trap, damn it! Pull it!” She kept looking at Ned’s eyes. He had almost reached her. She must be dead. Now, she even heard his voice. “Cat!!!” She had opened her mouth to answer when she felt the trap beneath her give way, and Catelyn Stark found herself falling into darkness.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark wheeled his mount this way and that, slashing with a sword, as men came at him, on horseback and on foot. Damned Walder Frey’s laughing voice had stopped when he cut down those first two men, he thought with grim satisfaction. He had no more thoughts to spare for Walder Frey, though. His entire world had narrowed to the woman on the platform ahead, and he rode for her as hard as the horse would go, screaming in rage at every man who dared slow him down by giving battle. He couldn’t see well enough so he threw up his visor and rained blows down on the men on all sides of him.

He couldn’t move fast enough. Others had followed him through, and now he had men covering his flanks, attempting to clear his way forward. It wasn’t fast enough. Arrows were being fired into the courtyard now as well on the men outside, and his heart stopped as one sailed within a hair’s breadth of her on that godsforsaken platform. _Why is_ _she still up there? She is an easy target for anyone!_ He had shaken most of his pursuers now, and was able to ride straight for her. _Oh gods, Cat!_ She was looking right at him. She could see him coming for her.

“Cat!!!” He screamed her name just as the trap beneath her gave way.

He had expected it to happen, had been waiting for it to happen, but it still shook him badly to see her drop. The rope gave way near the crossarm, and she dropped through the trap out of sight beneath the platform. He rode quickly to the rear of the gibbet and found the platform open beneath it there as Olyvar had described. She was lying in straw beneath the platform attempting to sit up with her hands bound behind her and the noose still around her neck.

He vaulted off his horse, giving no heed to the bad leg and fell to his knees beside her. He grabbed her up and crushed her to him, pressing his face into her hair. “Cat, oh gods . . .my Cat.” He felt her move in his arms and realized he was probably bruising her against his armor. He reluctantly loosened his hold on her and maneuvered her into a sitting position facing him. Then he cupped her face gently with his hands.

The light was very dim beneath the platform, but her blue eyes glowed. They widened as she looked at his face. “Ned?” she said his name hesitantly. “You did come. I didn’t know. I was afraid.” She looked at him in wonderment and seemed dazed.

He felt rather dazed himself, but they were in the middle of a battle, and he forced his mind to focus. “Don’t be afraid, my love. I’m here now. Let’s get that rope off your neck. Were you hurt at all when you fell?”

She looked at him as if she didn’t understand him at all, and then her mouth fell open. “Oh gods!” she exclaimed. “You’re alive! We’re alive!” She looked at him with such joy and amazement, he actually laughed, and then pressed his lips to hers in a brief, but desperately longing kiss.

“Yes, my love. We are both alive. But if I’m to keep us that way, I must get you out of here.” He began to pull the noose over her head, and with only a second’s hesitation, she lowered her chin to help him. His breath caught as his fingers brushed the angry red scar on her throat, but he put aside thoughts of that. As soon as her neck was free, she turned her back to him and he went to work on the bindings at her wrists. The moment she could pull her hands apart, she spun back around to face him, throwing her arms around his neck. Heedless of his armor, she held him as if she would never let him go again, and he put his arms around her once more, holding her wordlessly.

He could not help but hear that sounds of battle were closer to them now, though, so he gently pulled her arms from his neck. “Come, my love. We must go. Stay close to me.” As he helped her rise, a knifing pain shot through his leg. _Gods! What did I do to it when I got off that horse?_ He made it to his feet, but then fell back with a sharp cry of pain when he tried to put his weight on it.

“Ned! You’re hurt!” she cried. She started to kneel back down to him, but suddenly she was pulled up and backwards, away from him.

“No!” he cried, and forced himself to his feet once more. He could see the man holding her by the hair, could see the knife at her throat. He’d never get to her in time. “Cat!” he screamed, stumbling toward her.

Suddenly, the man crumpled to the ground and Catelyn was standing there alone shaking. Ned reached her and pulled her into his arms. Behind her, he saw the man lying on the ground bleeding from a large stab wound in his side while another man stood over him, looking at the bloody sword in his hand as if he couldn’t quite comprehend it. The living man’s face was as colorless as the dying man’s. “Merrett,” he said.

Catelyn turned then and looked at the man with the sword. “Perwyn?” she said softly, and reached out to touch his arm. He looked at her as if he didn’t know her and then let the bloody sword in his hand fall to the ground. “Perwyn,” she repeated softly. “You saved me.”

The man looked at her more clearly now. “My lady,” he said in a choked voice. He didn’t seem able to say anything else.

“You are Ser Perwyn Frey?” Ned asked him. “I owe you a great deal, Ser Perwyn.”

The man shook his head. “Just go, my lord. Take your lady and get her safely gone from here.”

Ned looked around them. The battle did not seem as furious as it had been initially, but there were pockets of fighting all around the courtyard. The gate still stood open, he saw with relief, so Perwyn’s men and Reed’s men had done their jobs. There was danger still, to be sure, but this had the look of a victory to it. He turned to thank Perwyn again, but found the man had gone, leaving his sword on the ground behind him.

He caught sight of his horse a short distance away, and as he wondered how he would get it, Olyvar Frey came running to them. “My lady!” he called. “You are well! Oh, thank the gods!” Ned realized the boy was crying and that he had blood running down the back of his head.

“Olyvar, what . .”

“Merrett came after you, my lord. I tried to stop him and he hit me over the head. I feared he . . . Oh!” Olyvar had just noticed Merrett Frey’s body on the ground. He looked grim, but raised his eyes to Ned’s. “I am glad you killed him, my lord, if it means Lady Stark lives.”

Catelyn reached for the young man’s hand. “He was going to kill me, Olyvar, but it wasn’t Ned who killed him. Perwyn saved my life.”

Ned saw the meaning of her words sink in as an anguished look came over the young man’s face. He sympathized with him, but he had to get his wife out of this courtyard, so he spoke to him before he could think too hard about Perwyn. “Olyvar. My damned leg is done for now. Grab that horse and help Lady Catelyn and me get on him.”

Olyvar had been squire to a king, and hesitated not at all to do the bidding of his lord in battle, regardless of his own troubles, and Ned was soon riding out of the gate with Catelyn holding tight to his waist behind him.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn was vaguely aware that a cheer went up as she and Ned rode through the gate and out of the Twins, but Ned didn’t stop the horse until they were well out of the range of any archers still shooting from the castle wall. He then stopped and lifted her carefully down before sliding off the horse slowly himself, careful to put no weight on his injured leg. She helped him to sit on the ground and then sat beside him.

She tentatively reached out a hand to touch his face, still not quite believing him real, and he returned the gesture. He ran a finger gently down her cheek, and she realized that he was tracing one of the faint red scars she had given herself when their son had been murdered.

“You have suffered too many hurts, my love,” he said.

She looked down, unable to to contemplate telling him of all the hurts she had suffered. Her eyes moved to his leg, stretched out in front of him. “As have you, my lord. How badly did you injure your leg?”

He gave a short laugh. “Today? I don’t think I’ve done anything dreadful to it. It was damaged in King’s Landing when I was set upon by the Kingslayer’s men. It festered badly. I fear I return to you a lame man, my lady.” His words sounded bitter.

“You return to me a living man,” she said softly. “That is more than I ever thought possible. And it is more than enough.” She wanted to hold him. “Shall I help you take off your armor, my lord?”

“I should return, Catelyn. I cannot ask my men to fight while I sit here with you.”

“You are injured!” she protested. Suddenly, she couldn’t bear the thought of not touching him. She grabbed his hands and held them in hers. “And you were dead! You were dead and I had lost you,” she said desperately. “They sent me your bones!” The last came out as a sob, and she threw herself against him again. “Please don’t leave me now,” she whispered against his armored chest. “Please.”

He said nothing more, but held her tightly and made no move to go.

After a time, Lady Mormont rode up. She dismounted and dropped to her knees before them, ignoring the fact that her liege lord and his lady were on the ground, holding each other as if their lives depended on it.

“My Lord and Lady Stark,” she hailed them. “It gladdens my heart to see you both well.”

Catelyn unwrapped her arms from around Ned and stood up. “Lady Maege,” she said warmly, walking to other woman and extending her hand to pull her from her knees. “Your presence here gladdens my heart. I cannot begin to thank you for what you have done today. I don’t truly know what has happened or how it came to pass, but . . .I thank you.”

“The battle, Lady Mormont, how goes the battle?” said Ned from his position on the ground. Catelyn was glad he didn’t attempt to rise. She was rather worried about that leg of his and wanted a look at it.

Lady Mormont smiled. “All but over, my lord. Lord Glover’s men are locking up Freys as we speak.”

“Lord Walder?” Catelyn asked sharply.

“Taken alive. He awaits my lord’s justice with the rest of them,” Lady Mormont said grimly.

“And he shall certainly receive it,” Ned said darkly. Catelyn felt a deep satisfaction at that.

“Tell me more, Lady Mormont. Did Galbart get into the western castle?” Ned almost grinned. “ I saw that our gate remained open.”

“Oh, yes, Lord Glover got into the western castle. The men assigned to ride through and open the gate for him went almost unopposed once they got to the bridge as virtually the entire Frey force was in the eastern castle. And almost no one tried to stop them from leaving the eastern castle because almost every man there was watching you, my lord! What a charge! I have never seen anything like it. Someone’s probably writing the song already,” Lady Mormont laughed. “Anyway, Lord Glover faced no opposition in the western castle, so he simply put a force of men on the bridge and caught every Frey that tried to flee that way. He also freed our captives from the dungeons. Lord Umber is most anxious to see both of you.”

Catelyn smiled at the thought of the huge man they called the Greatjon. “I am glad he is free.” She turned to Ned. “He was Robb’s fiercest bannerman, my lord. Your son won his loyalty by having Grey Wind bite a couple of fingers off!” The look on Ned’s face made her want to laugh out loud, and she realized it was the first time she’d thought of her son with laughter since his death. She also realized how much she and Ned did not know of each other’s lives now.

Having lost herself in her thoughts for a moment, Catelyn was startled to realize Lady Mormont was speaking again, telling Ned something about the gate.

“The two men Perwyn Frey hired were able to do precisely what Olyvar said they could. They had done something to the gate mechanism to sabotage it. Once it was raised, it could not be lowered again with any speed. Lord Reed’s men had plenty of time to get to the gate and take control of it for us. Truly, my lord, for a plan with far too many players and parts, it went perfectly.”

“Wait,” Catelyn said. “Do you mean to say that Perwyn and Olyvar were in on this plan?”

“Yes, my lady,” Lady Mormont responded. “We could never have done it without them.”

“Olyvar Frey knew you were alive and didn’t tell me?” Catelyn demanded of Ned.

“My lady, Olyvar was concerned about you,” Ned said softly. “He felt that if you had to worry about me, you would find your . . .captivity . . .harder to bear.”

Catelyn noticed the slight hesitation around the word captivity. She looked at Ned and then at Maege Mormont. Neither of them met her eyes. “He told you, didn’t he?” she asked softly. “He told you everything. I am so sorry, Ned. I am so sorry.” The shame of it colored her cheeks.

“No.” He spoke quietly, but the word came out with ferocity all the same. He rose to his feet then and walked to her, limping badly. He stood in front of her and took her hands in his, oblivious to Maege Mormont standing not five paces away. “You shall never be sorry for pain you did not cause, my lady.” The pain she heard in his voice broke her heart. “They will pay for every hurt they caused you. I swear it.”

Catelyn was silent then, very aware that they were not alone. Tears filled her blue eyes as she looked into his grey ones. Lady Mormont seemed to sense her difficulty, for she quickly said to Ned, “My lord, I am going back to the Twins. We shall secure the castle and set up camp nearby. No one shall disturb you until you return there. You have my word.”

Neither Ned nor Catelyn had looked at her as she spoke, continuing to look only at each other, and Lady Mormont did not wait for a reply before mounting up and riding away.

“I never wanted to bring you shame, my lord,” Catelyn said when she had gone.

“You never have, you never could, and you never will,” he told her.

“But people . .”

“People be damned, Cat!” he interrupted. Then he let go her hands and began tearing his armor off. Silently, she went to help him. Freed from his armor, he grabbed her and held her against him. “I am a man who was dead, Cat, holding my wife who was dead, and I can feel both our heartbeats.” He swallowed. “No one can touch us.”

“Oh, Ned . . .” the tears were flowing freely from her eyes now, falling for everything they suddenly had again and for everything they had lost. “Our babies, Ned,” she choked out. “They killed our babies.”

He sank back onto the ground pulling her with him, and wrapping her in the cloak she hadn’t even noticed Lady Maege left behind. Then he simply held her in his arms while she sobbed, finally crying all the tears she’d kept back for so long. Her grief was like the castle gate, she realized. Once she opened it up, she couldn’t close it again. And that was all right. Here in Ned’s arms, she could cry until all her tears were spent, and he could hold her close without speaking and know she understood his silent grief as well.

They stayed there just holding each other until daylight began to fade. Then Catelyn raised her head and looked at her husband to find him looking back at her. “I thought I’d lost you,” he said quietly. “And now I hold you again.”

She smiled at him. Her eyes ached from crying and she was stiff from lying on the hard ground, but she was well content. “Come, my lord,” she said sitting up and and offering him her hand. “Your men have won you a great victory today. They deserve our thanks. It’s time we go to them.”

He smiled at her and took her hand. Laughing, they pulled each other to standing. Then the Lord and Lady of Winterfell went to greet their victorious troops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, they are together! (FINALLY!!), but the north is still a mess, they don't have Winterfell, Robb is the only one of their children whose fate (sadly) they actually know, and there are a few secrets, lies, and fears still about to trouble them, so, no, the story is not over! :)


	10. A Bitter Cup

Ned Stark lifted the ale to his lips and drank deeply. It had been a long day, and this bloody hall was the last place he wanted to be. He wanted to be with Catelyn, alone in the large tent the men had so graciously presented to them last night, a slight distance from the castle gate. When they had returned to their men last evening, Catelyn had gone pale at Lord Glover’s suggestion that they take rooms inside the Twins. He had felt her tremble beside him and had quickly informed Glover that he and his lady would be more comfortable outside those walls. That had meant a great deal of fuss, of course, setting up the tent and selecting guards to watch over them, but not one man protested.

They had held a celebration of sorts outside the gate last night, and the lords and their men had come out to pay homage to them. One by one, they had knelt before Catelyn and himself, and while he knew her to be as exhausted as he was, she was gracious to each. Wearing that blue dress and a borrowed cloak, with her hair hastily braided, Ned thought she had never looked more beautiful, with her blue eyes reflecting the flames of the fire she sat close to for warmth. The scars on her face and neck did not detract from her loveliness at all, serving only as testaments to her courage and stirring an even greater protectiveness in him than he‘d had already. The fading bruise on her cheek and the recently healed lip, though; as well as the other bruises he’d glimpsed briefly as she undressed in the tent---those provoked a fresh anger in him every time he thought of them.

Ned saw Howland Reed staring at him with concern from his seat just down the table, and he could only imagine what expression had been on his face at those thoughts. He nodded to his friend to indicate he was well, and looked further down the table at the Greatjon roaring with laughter at something Galbart Glover had said. The big man had picked Catelyn up by the waist and spun her in the air last night when he came out to greet them. Ned had to forgive the impropriety of it for the sheer joyful expression on the man’s face at seeing her alive. Cat had laughed out loud, the only true laughter he heard from her through all the greetings.

Later, she had sat quietly beside Lord Umber and told him of his son’s valiant defense of Robb. Apparently, the young man had single-handedly lifted a table off its trestles and laid it over Robb as he lay wounded to protect him from further arrows. He had fought with whatever weapon came to hand, including mutton from the table, and had not ceased his fighting until Bolton’s men had run into the hall and taken his head. Catelyn had recounted the tale for his father with dry eyes and a clear voice, but Ned had noticed the tremor in her hands as she spoke. He had moved beside her to take her hand in his, and she had clutched it tightly as the Greatjon thanked her for telling him of his son. Lord Umber had nodded solemnly at the two of them and walked away. It was the only time Ned had ever seen him quiet.

As he walked away, Catelyn had turned to him and said simply, “I am tired, my lord.”

He had nodded silently and led her to their tent. Inside, he looked approvingly at the furs laid upon the cot for her. The nights were cold now, and she was his summer lady. The Frey girl, Roslin, had brought out some clothes for her including a sleeping shift. He had helped her with her laces, but then felt her tremble and move away from him as she stepped from her dress. He turned aside as she pulled off her thin shift to get into the thicker one for sleeping, but not before seeing the bruises on her back and thighs. He caught a glimpse of an older wound along the edge of her spine as well. _The quarrel_ , he remembered thinking.

She had crept quickly beneath the furs and then looked up at him, still standing there fully dressed. “I would sleep, my lord,” she said quietly, lowering her eyes. He had wondered if she wished to hide herself from him or only her injuries. “You should go back to the men, Ned,” she said softly. “Unless your leg troubles you. Stay here if it does.”

That had been the first thing she had seen to when they’d returned that evening. She’d sat him down, sent for the Frey’s maester, and had the man look at his leg. She had drawn her breath sharply when she saw the long twisted scars, but she hadn’t looked away. She had watched everything Maester Brenett did closely that she might care for him herself as needed. Only once the maester had pronounced him reasonably well, had she permitted him to receive his men with her at his side.

Ned wished she were at his side now. He looked around the hall to see that no one seemed to be leaving yet. He had long since had his fill of the food and company. He knew Roslin Frey was with Cat, but he wanted to be with her himself. He didn’t want her to go to sleep only to wake without him there. Not after last night.

He sighed. He had returned to the men last night after seeing her abed only to hear her cry out a short time later. She sounded terrified, and he had rushed back to the tent to find her still asleep, but thrashing about in the cot, struggling against an enemy only she could see. “Cat,” he had said to her. “Cat, I am here. You are safe.” She had fought him at first, but then relaxed into his arms as he continued to murmur her name. He had spent the rest of the night holding her as she slept, dozing off and on, never even bothering to undress.

Upon awakening this morning, she had smiled at him and chided him for sleeping in his clothes. She never mentioned her nightmare, and he didn’t know if she remembered it. He recalled the nights after Robert’s Rebellion when he would wake screaming and she had held him and whispered soothing things to him, never asking him the next day what had frightened him. He didn’t ask her now, either. He wondered if the not knowing had eaten at her the way it did him.

“My lord.” Ned looked up startled. He’d been so lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t seen young Marq Piper approach him. The toll of his imprisonment showed on the boy, Ned thought. He was far too thin, and his face had a haunted look that seemed out of place on such a young man.

“What can I do for you, Marq?”

“ I know you met with Lord Umber and the others today, my lord, about where we shall attack next. I wondered if you had come to a decision.”

Ned regarded the boy. “We have unfinished business here, first. I plan to address that tomorrow.” He looked levelly at the heir of House Piper. “By the next day, I hope to ride for Riverrun.”

“Yes!” the young man shouted. “I am your man, Lord Stark, as I am Lord Tully‘s.”

“You have heard that your father fights with the Lannisters and Freys. I would not ask you to take up arms against your kin, Marq.”

“My father is an old woman!” the boy proclaimed. “Bending the knee to those treacherous bastards because they might bloody my nose! He should have shown the courage Ser Brynden does.”

“Do not judge him so harshly. You are not yet a father. I have lost all three of my sons and I cannot say what I would do to have one of them back,” Ned said quietly. “As it happens, Marq, I may have need of you to speak to your father.”

The hope in the young man’s eyes at that belied the cold words he’d spoken of his father a moment before. “How could I possibly get to him through all those Lannisters and Freys, my lord?”

Ned looked at his friend Howland Reed who was now conversing with Lady Mormont. “Lord Reed’s men have a talent for going places they should not be able to. We may be able to devise a way for them to get you into Lord Piper’s camp. If we can count on your father joining us once we attack, it would make our plans easier.” Ned sighed. “We must free Riverrun quickly, before word travels widely that we have the Twins. Once we hold the Twins and Riverrun, whatever Freys remain will be in no position to help the Lannisters in their conquest of the Riverlands, and the other houses are likely to return their loyalties to House Tully with Edmure in his rightful place. Then, there’s the Mallisters at Seagard to be liberated.” Ned paused. “And eventually Winterfell,” he added sadly.

“I had thought you might wish to march for Winterfell at once, my lord.”

“Oh, I do, Marq. Make no mistake about that. But I can’t take Winterfell. Not as things stand now. I believe I can take Riverrun, with the Blackfish already there to help us, and possibly your father as well. And while I am of the North, my wife is a Tully, and House Tully called their banners for my son. I cannot leave them to the Lannisters and Freys. I will not.” Ned thought of the home he had left so long ago. “Winterfell must wait.”

Marq Piper nodded and took his leave, and suddenly Ned was even more tired than before. He had spent the entire day planning for tomorrow’s executions, planning the Riverrun campaign, discussing the future of the Twins, and the fate of House Frey. He had wanted Ser Perwyn to be a part of those discussions, but no one had seen the man since the battle. Olyvar had been a part of several discussions today, but not all. Regardless of his assistance here, many Northmen were hesitant to completely trust anyone named Frey: and regardless of his convictions about their cause, Olyvar was understandably not feeling celebratory about his family’s downfall. Perwyn’s killing of Merrett Frey and his subsequent disappearance had hit Olyvar hard.

Ned looked around the hall again. _Who planned this bloody feast?_ he thought. He had no desire to celebrate on the site of his son’s murder. Catelyn had categorically refused to attend, and he defied any man to say a word about it. He again recalled her quiet, but vivid retelling of Smalljon Umber’s last moments to his father and realized that she could give him as clear an accounting of Robb’s if he asked her for it. _Could I ask that of her? Do I even really want to hear it?_ He knew that he very definitely did not want to be in this hall any longer. He rose to leave and nodded at Lady Mormont and Lord Reed as he passed them.

They nodded in return and made no move to stop him as he went out. Quite a few men at arms were drinking and laughing in the courtyard, and some hailed him as he walked by with shouts of “Stark!” and “Winterfell!” and “The North!” He acknowledged them all with nods, but continued toward the gate. As he walked through, he was surprised to see the guards challenging three men on horseback.

The three stopped willingly enough and seemed to be identifying themselves to the guard. As Ned walked toward them, the torchlight lit up their faces, and he broke into as much of a run as his leg would allow. The two Winterfell men he had sent after Roose Bolton’s party to seek out Arya had returned. “What word have you?” he called to them.

At his voice, the third man gave a cry, and leapt from his horse. Coming to Ned, he literally fell on his face. “Lord Eddard! I did not believe it!”

When the man lifted his face, it was Ned’s turn to be shocked. “Hallis? Hallis Mollen? Where have you come from?”

Catelyn’s voice came from behind him as she approached from their tent. “I sent him north from Riverrun,” she said quietly. “With your bones, my lord.”

Mollen remained on his knees looking between his dead lord and lady as if his eyes could not be trusted. “We aren’t ghosts, Hal,” Ned assured him, pulling him to his feet. “I don’t know whose bones the Lannisters sent my lady wife, but they assuredly were not mine.”

Ned turned to the other two men. “Arya?” He couldn’t say any more than her name. His heart was pounding.

It was Mollen who answered. “No, my lord. It isn’t her. It’s the little Poole girl. Vayon’s daughter.”

“Jeyne?” Catelyn asked. “What has Jeyne to do with Arya? She was Sansa’s playmate.”

Ned’s heart had fallen at Mollen’s words. He hadn’t really believed Arya was with Bolton, but had clung to the hope of snatching her back all the same. “Come, my lady, let’s bring these men in to sit down and we will tell it all to you.”

He gave her his arm and the two of them led the three Winterfell men back to their tent. Once all were seated, Ned explained to Catelyn Bolton’s plan to marry Arya Stark to his bastard son, while Roslin Frey poured them all drinks. Then the men Ned had sent out explained that they had reached the Kingsroad after Bolton’s caravan already passed and had turned north hoping to catch them at Moat Cailin. Instead, they had found Hallis Mollen fleeing south. He had been trapped south of Moat Cailin when the Ironmen took it. When he heard that Roose Bolton’s men marched north to bring Arya Stark home to Winterfell, he jumped at the chance to join them.

“Just before we got to the battle, though, my lord, I had a chance to see the Lady Arya. I’d asked if I could speak to her before, but they always said no. As soon as I saw her, I knew why. I recognized Jeyne Poole right off. She doesn’t look anything like Arya Underfoot! She’s not even the right age! And she knew me, too. She looked right scared. I knew then I had to leave or I was a dead man.” He looked apologetically at Catelyn. “I’m afraid I had to leave his lordship’s bones, my lady.”

Catelyn snorted. “His lordship’s bones are right here with the rest of him,” she said, reaching out to touch Ned’s hand. “You are certain my daughter was not with the party? Could Jeyne have been there as her companion?”

“No, my lady. They all called the Poole girl ‘Lady Arya’ or ‘Lady Stark.’ There was no other girl.” Mollen told her.

“So my daughter is still missing,” she said softly. Then, she added, “Poor Jeyne. I have heard nothing good of Bolton’s bastard.” She sat very still and looked downward.

Ned shook his head. He knew more of the Bastard of Bolton than he’d yet had a chance to share with Catelyn, but now was not the time to talk of Winterfell. “Do you know if Bolton gained Moat Cailin?”

“Yes, my lord,” one of the other men said. "We had Hal wait for us and rode on to see for ourselves since none of the Boltons knew us. Boltons and Freys held the Moat and Lord Roose and the girl were already through.”

“Freys!” Catelyn spat. “Is there nowhere in the Seven Kingdoms not infested by Freys?” She stood suddenly and walked away from the men, turning her back toward them.

Ned looked after her and then stood as well. “Gentlemen, I thank you for your service. Go back to the castle and accommodations will be found for you. It is time my lady and I retired.”

The men took their leave, but Catelyn did not turn back around, standing still and silent as a stone statue.

Ned turned to Roslin who was looking at Cat with tears in her eyes. “You may go, Roslin. I will see to her.”

Roslin shook her head slightly. “She does this sometimes, my lord. She goes quiet and makes herself hard and still. You just have to leave her be.” She bit her lip. “Do you want me to stay until she’s ready to get into bed?”

“No,” he said quietly. “Go.”

As Roslin left the tent, he walked slowly toward his wife, who still stood unmoving. “Cat?” he said softly, putting a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t turn, but she didn’t pull away from him. “Cat,” he said again. “I will leave you be if you choose, but I’d much prefer to hold you, my love.” Carefully, he walked around to face her, putting both hands on her arms. She raised her eyes to his and fell into him, letting him gather her into her arms. He held her tight against him, rubbing her back with his hands and softly kissing the top of her head. _Gods, help me know what to do._

 

._____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn Stark let herself collapse into her husband’s arms, and it felt good. She had missed him desperately throughout the day, but she could not face going back into the Twins. She simply couldn’t. And he had to. She felt weak and broken and ashamed of herself, but she could not go with him today. The least she could do was be strong enough to let him do what he needed to do. Now, she was failing at that.

Arya. Ned had been trying to get Arya back. Of course, he would. He would try to get Sansa back, too. She had to believe that he could. But how could her daughters ever be safe in a world with Lannisters and Freys? Freys at Riverrun. Freys on their way to Winterfell. _Gods!_ The mere thought of them in her home made her want to vomit. She shivered and Ned held her tighter.

She realized his kisses had changed from the soft, comforting touches of a moment ago to something else entirely. His lips brushed along her ear to the nape of her neck, and she tilted her head to the side to allow him to continue. He brought his hands up to the back of her head, his fingers tangled in her hair, as he turned her face up to his. He looked at her so tenderly, she thought her heart would break, but there was a hunger in his look as well. He kissed her forehead and her eyes, then ran his lips down her cheek until they found her mouth. He kissed her lips, lightly at first and then more urgently, and she parted them to allow him to explore her mouth with his tongue. _Ned_ , she thought. _How I have missed you. How I have needed you._ He could feel her respond to his kiss, and she felt him slide one hand down her back to press her hips to his. She could feel his need of her through the fabric of her dress and his breeches.

She panicked. “No!” she cried, pulling away. “I can’t. . .I can’t!” She turned away from him and began to cry.

“Cat.” Her name was a plea. “Cat, tell me . . . .tell me what to do.”

 _Gods!_ The pain in his voice was killing her. She was hurting him, and she couldn’t explain it to him. Not all of it. She had to tell him the one thing, though. She blinked to stop her tears and turned to face him. The expression on his face nearly broke her in two again, but she steeled herself against it. “Sit down, Ned,” she said, as she sat down herself.

He sat across from her and reached for her hands. “Cat . .” he started.

“No,” she said, pulling back from him. “It is easier if you don’t touch me.” She saw him flinch when she said it, and she tried to explain. “It isn’t that I don’t want you, my love,” she said softly. “I do. More than anything.” She swallowed hard. “The things that were . . .done to me . . .”

His face was carved in ice, his jaw set in a grim line, and she desperately wanted to comfort him, but there was no kind way to say this. “Ned, I could be with child.”

A shudder ran through him, but he said nothing, so she continued. “I do not think I am, but the last time that . . .” she couldn’t look at him and say it, so she dropped her eyes to the floor. “It has only been a few days since.”

He was shaking now. “Gods, Cat. I want them dead.” His voice was ice.

“No more than I,” she said. “But, Ned, I want . .I want . .moon tea. I want to be sure.”

“My lady?” he asked, not understanding.

“I will not bring you a bastard!” she cried. Then she saw his face and realized what she’d said. What he thought. _Oh, Ned_. “That was not a reproach of you, my lord,” she said quietly.

“Why not? I brought you home a bastard, did I not?” She couldn’t stand the ice in his voice.

“That was different,” she said. “That is not what I meant.”

“Different, how, my lady? Different because I had a choice and you had none?” Now the ice was breaking and she heard the guilt in his voice.

“I do have choice now,” she hissed. “And I choose to be sure that I am not with child.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then she looked directly into the grey eyes she loved so much. “This is not about Jon, Ned. It isn’t. I will not deny that I have wanted to hurt you at times for the pain you caused me with Jon, but this is not about that. I simply cannot bear a child that isn’t yours. I won’t. I can’t.”

He met her gaze and nodded wordlessly in understanding.

“And I cannot lie with you until I am sure.” Then her voice broke as she finished,  "I could never seek to rid myself of a child that might be yours.” She allowed herself the tears then, and she allowed him to come to her and take her hands.

“Catelyn,” he said softly, when her crying had slowed. “Is this the only reason you fear to lie with me? I could feel your fear, my love.” He said the last before she could deny it.

She swallowed and tried to answer her husband as honestly as she could. “I do not know, my lord. But it is the thing I fear most, and I will not be easy until I am sure I need not fear it any longer.”

“Then I will talk to Maester Brenett in the morning,” he said.

He had Freys to kill in the morning. He didn’t need this task as well. “Tonight,” she said.

“Truly? It grows late, my love.”

“It is not that late. Can’t you hear them still going on in the castle? If the maester is truly abed, leave him be. But if he is awake, I would have it done.”

He nodded, kissed her hand, and walked back out toward the castle. _I will survive this_ , she thought. _I will survive this. Ned will break the siege at Riverrun. We will find our girls._ She couldn’t think any further than that. That was quite enough.

She didn’t know how much time had passed before his return, but he came back with a cup of warm liquid.

“Here, my lady,” he said, handing it to her. “Maester Brenett says to expect your moonblood within three days. If it does not come then, you should drink another cup.”

She nodded silently and raised it to her lips. He moved to stand behind her and rubbed her shoulders as she drank. “How is it?” he asked.

“Bitter,” she answered. “But I can stand it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will generally not come quite this quickly! But this chapter is not terribly long, and it was literally banging around in my brain begging to get out! :)


	11. The Man Who Swings the Sword

It was cold in the tent as Ned stretched and opened his eyes. He reached beside him to find Catelyn gone. That alarmed him as he always woke before she did. Last night’s events were still fresh in his mind, and his heart ached as he recalled the hurt and shame he had seen in those blue eyes. He needed to go and find her.

As he was sitting up, she entered the tent, carrying a bundle of some sort of linens and a large mug. She smiled at him and handed him the mug. “Here. It’s warm.”

As he drank the hot liquid, he noticed she was fully dressed in layers suited to the colder temperatures outdoors. Her hair was back in its customary braid and her cheeks were flushed from the outside air.

“My lady,” he inquired, puzzled. “Where have you been? Why did you not wake me?”

“You slept so soundly. You were beyond tired, my love.” She put a hand on his face and then brushed it back through his hair. “You have done so much, and I believe you hadn’t truly slept in days.”

Well, he couldn’t deny that. “Still, Cat, you should have awakened me.”

She laughed, but there was little mirth in it. “Today will be a grim and terrible day, my love. And while I am anxious to have it done, I saw no need to have you start it before necessary.”

He looked at her closely as he continued drinking. She hadn’t mentioned last night or the tea she had drunk. He would not remind her needlessly of painful things, but he needed to know if she were truly all right. He asked her simply, “Are you well, my lady?”

She paused in unrolling her linen bundle and looked him in the eyes. “Yes, my lord. I am well.” Bending back over her bundle, which Ned now saw contained several small potion bottles as well as linens, she said, “Now lie back and let me treat and wrap that leg.”

“The leg is fine,” he protested.

“Of course it is,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Lie back.” When he didn’t comply right away, she put her hands on her hips. “Eddard Stark, today is going to be long, grim, and terrible. I am not going to watch you suffer through it on a leg that pains you with every movement if I can do anything to help it.”

He conceded defeat and lay back. As she began massaging some foul smelling ointment into the flesh around his knee, he had to admit it felt wonderful, even if it did offend the nose. He watched her deftly wrapping the linen around it in spite of the several fingers which didn’t bend correctly and was suddenly struck by what she had said.

“Cat. You do not have to watch. I would not ask you to come with me today.”

“You need not ask. I am coming.” She finished wrapping his leg and looked at him. “Ned, you will be putting men to death today. And you’ll be doing it yourself.” She sighed. “I spoke with Wallen this morning. I sought him out to thank him for those skillful knots of his that saved my life. I found him preparing for hangings, but not very many.” She looked at him, but he didn’t respond, and she continued. “He told me that you intend to behead all of the Freys. Only some of the men-at-arms involved in that wedding get the noose.”

“The man who passes the sentence . .” he began softly.

“Swings the sword,” she interrupted. “I bloody well know that, Ned! I’ve been the Lady of Winterfell half my life now. I understand northern justice.” She paused. “But these men will die for treason I witnessed. I am one of the only people left alive who can testify to their crimes. Let my presence condemn every man who took part in their Red Wedding.” After another brief silence, she continued softly, “And some will also die for crimes against me. They are condemned by my word and for the sake of my honor.” She reached for his hand. “The woman who condemns them should stand by the man who swings the sword.”

He sat in silence for a moment, just holding her hand. The gods knew he would spare her any pain he could, but it seemed she would not spare herself. In truth, he would be glad to have her by him. He sighed and squeezed her hand. “As you wish, my lady.”

He stood up and found that the leg did bear his weight better as she had wrapped it. She helped him dress and he reached for the sword he had carried since Pentos. “Would that it were Ice,” he said. “I fear this blade will not be as well suited to the task today.”

“Robb demanded Ice back from the Lannisters, but they would not part with your sword. Only bones, and those not even yours.”

Ned shrugged. “The Lannisters likely thought they were mine. It was Varys’s intent that they believe me dead, anyway.”

Catelyn’s eyes widened. “Varys? The eunuch helped you escape? He works against the Lannisters?”

Ned sighed. “Who can say whom Varys works for or against? I certainly can’t. He removed me from the Black Cells and certain death only to imprison me in Pentos. To what purpose? I cannot begin to guess.”  He pulled on his cloak and placed Catelyn‘s over her shoulders. “But that is a puzzle for another day. Come, my lady,” he said, offering her his arm. “It is time to dispense the lord’s justice.”

“Then put on your lord’s face, my love,” she said to him as she took his arm, “and let them receive what they deserve.”

Looking into her eyes at that moment, Ned could not imagine any hell terrible enough to truly be what the men who had hurt her deserved. He thought of that terrible wedding and his son’s last moments on this earth. Then the Lord of Winterfell nodded to his lady and walked her out of their tent, his mind set on the task before him.

 

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Although she had dressed warmly enough, Catelyn shivered as they walked through the gate and into the courtyard of the Twins, but she allowed no distress to show on her face. She had already entered the castle once earlier that morning, to seek out medicine for Ned’s leg from Maester Brenett, to speak with Olyvar, Roslin, and Wallen, but mostly to assure herself she could actually do this before coming with Ned now. She knew what a difficult day lay ahead, and she was determined to be strong for his sake. There would be no collapsing into his arms today.

They were met by Lord Umber, looking uncharacteristically somber. “My lord, my lady,” he said, nodding to each in turn. “We have placed a small platform near the headsman’s block. You said you wanted all to be able to see and hear you. Lady Tully and her brother await you there.”

Catelyn realized with a start that he was referring to Roslin and Olyvar. Roslin was indeed Lady Tully, and she carried the heir to Riverrun. Gods help them, Catelyn thought. Roslin was even more tenderhearted than Edmure, and they would both require stern resolve if they were to reclaim and rebuild the Riverlands. As she and Ned ascended the platform to join the sister and brother, she was pleased to see that Roslin’s eyes were dry. Olyvar looked ill at ease, but that did not surprise her. She knew he was still very uncomfortable with Ned’s plan for him. He had only agreed to it because the alternative was for House Frey to lose the Twins altogether.

In front of the platform was the headsman’s block, and standing to the side of it, all in irons and heavily guarded were most of the adult male Freys currently in the Twins who had survived the battle two days ago. A chair had been placed there for Lord Walder, out of consideration for his age and infirmity, but Catelyn was pleased to note it did not look comfortable. Behind the prisoners, the other members of the household were gathered, the Frey women and their children, and the servants. Ned’s commanders and their men stood to the other side waiting to hear what their lord would say.

Ned squeezed her hand and then stepped to the front of the platform, slightly in front of Olyvar, Roslin, and herself. He cleared his throat, and all in the courtyard quieted. “I am Eddard Stark,” he called out in his clear, strong voice. “The Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I stand before you today to pronounce sentence on these men . .” He indicated the Freys. “who committed treason and murder against their king and murder against their king’s men all in a despicable and craven violation of sacred guest right. The penalty for this is death.”

“I wasn’t there, Stark!” yelled one man from the group of Freys. “You can’t kill me just for being a Frey! I wasn’t part of it!”

Before Ned could reply, Catelyn stepped forward. “But you were there, Jammos Frey. I remember you clearly.”

The man glared at her, but said nothing further.

“You have heard Lady Stark’s evidence,” Ned continued. “As she was indisputably at this Red Wedding, you stand convicted by her testimony.”

Lord Walder actually started to laugh. “Convicted by her testimony. Heh, heh. Convicted by the word of the little trout whore. She tell you where else she’s been, Stark? She tell you how she likes to bed with my boys? Heh, heh.”

Catelyn felt Ned tense beside her, and she grabbed his arm lest he leap from the platform at Lord Walder. He had to be the Lord of Winterfell dispensing justice right now; not her angry husband seeking vengeance. “Lord Walder!” she cried out. “I name you liar as well as murderer.”

“Oh, you haven’t spread your legs for my boys then, Lady Stark? Tell it true, my lady. Heh.” Malice glittered in his eyes and she realized that he wanted to humiliate Ned, to make him appear weak by shaming her.

There was no holding Ned back now. He was off the platform and his hand was on the old man’s throat before Catelyn could make any reply. “My lord!” she called to him. “Do silence him. Put a rag in his mouth that no one should have to hear him again until you take off his head for his crimes!”

Galbart Glover was in charge of the guard detail and he was there by Ned’s side swiftly, pressing a large piece of cloth into his free hand. Ned stared at it, and then loosed the grip his other hand had around Frey’s neck. He allowed the old man about five gasping breaths and then shoved the rag into his mouth. “You will be silent,” he said coldly.

Everyone else was completely silent, and they were all staring at her. Catelyn willed herself not to blush or look down or show any sign of guilt that would be taken as evidence that old Lord Walder’s attempt to shame her had any merit. “He will be silent,” she said, “but I will speak the truth. I am Catelyn Stark, Lady of Winterfell and daughter of Riverrun. I was brutally attacked and nearly killed at my brother’s wedding where I saw my son murdered before my eyes. Since then, I have been held prisoner at the Twins, and have been beaten, humiliated, and yes, raped, all at the direction of Lord Walder Frey. I am guilty of nothing. But the guilt of Lord Frey and his family is compounded by their crimes against me. I condemn them, and I defy anyone to defend them.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Lord Umber shouted, “Hear, hear!” His shout was followed by someone yelling, “For the lady!” and more shouts of “Lady Stark!” and “Justice!” Catelyn stood silently on the platform and met Ned’s eyes. She nodded to him, and she saw him swallow hard twice. Then he ascended the platform and stood again at her side. He offered her his arm and she took it. “Be assured that my lady will have justice,” he said to the people assembled. “House Frey has many crimes to answer for, and today that will be done.”

He let the crowd settle down a moment before continuing. “But we shall not punish the innocent with the guilty. The Twins has long been the seat of House Frey. With Lord Walder and so many of his heirs proved traitor, we must have a new Lord of the Crossing. I now speak on behalf of Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Trident.”

“Who are you to name our lord? Who gives you the right to speak for Tully?” called a woman. Catelyn thought she remembered her from the wedding as one of the Frey daughters or granddaughters.

“I do.” The voice which came from behind her was not loud, but it was firm, and Catelyn turned to see Roslin Frey Tully stepping up to stand at Ned’s other side. “I am the Lady of Riverrun, and while my lord husband remains a captive of his disloyal bannermen, I give his good-brother, Lord Stark, leave to speak with his voice.

“You’re no Tully, Ros!” another woman called out.

“Oh, but I am. I am wedded and bedded, and I carry the heir to Riverrun.” She turned to Ned. “Pray continue, Lord Stark.”

Ned nodded to her and then spoke again. “In the name of Edmure Tully, I name Olyvar Frey Lord of the Crossing and master of the Twins.”

Another murmur went up, this one mixed in tone, with some noises of approval and some of anger. Ned beckoned Olyvar forward, and Catelyn stood aside to allow him to come and kneel before Ned and Roslin. He looked younger than ever, Catelyn thought, but he knelt and said his words clearly, pledging fealty to House Tully. Ned had Roslin accept his pledge on behalf of Edmure, and for better or worse, it was done.

“And now, the task that remains to us is to carry out the sentence on the men condemned here today. I am a Stark, and Starks follow the old ways. As the man who passed the sentence, I shall swing the sword.”

Without another word, he descended the stairs, stood by the block, and drew his sword. Catelyn had seen him execute men before and knew how deeply it affected him. No one watching would know, though. His face was ice, frozen in an expression as stern as any of the statues of the old northern kings in Winterfell’s crypt.

The first man brought to him was Lame Lothar Frey. He spat in Ned’s face and cried out, “Your son spit on our honor, Stark! And I spit on yours!” Then he was pushed down on the block, and Ned raised his sword over his head, naming Lothar and pronouncing him guilty of treason and murder. The sword flashed downward and red blood spurted onto the ground as his head rolled away. _A clean death_ , Catelyn thought, looking at the blood staining the ground. _They call this a clean death._

One by one, the Frey men were brought to the block and each was allowed to say last words. Some cried. Some cursed. Some simply stayed silent. One by one, Ned named them, called out their crime of treason and murder, and brought his sword down upon their necks. He killed each of them with one blow, but some took a second blow to completely strike off the head. Catelyn watched him closely and saw that his arms shook more with each man, and he was leaning more heavily on the good leg.

Raymund Frey was the eighth man brought forward, with only his father still to go. Ned looked visibly tired now, at least to Catelyn, but when Raymund was brought before him, he drew himself up straighter. “You,” he said. “You cut my lady’s throat.”

Raymund sputtered, “I . .I . . No, my lord. I . .”

Ned pushed him down on the block himself, named him and his crime, and swung the sword with as much force as he had at Lothar. No second stroke was required to remove Raymund’s head. Ned stood there, panting, for the space of time it took to remove his body. As he prepared to call for Lord Walder, another voice hailed him from the rear of the crowd. “Lord Stark, I am here to have sentence passed upon me!”

Catelyn looked up and saw Perwyn Frey walking through the spectators. He came from the direction of the gate, as if he had only just returned to the castle. He looked terrible. His clothes were dirty, and his hair was uncombed. He had a sad, defeated look in his eyes as he approached Ned.

Perwyn fell on his knees before Ned. “I confess my crime, my lord. I am guilty of treason against Robb Stark, the King in the North, and my life is forfeit.”

Roslin gasped, and Catelyn couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Perwyn, no.”

Perwyn turned to look up at her. His eyes were full of guilt and sorrow.

Her heart went out to him. “You saved my life!”

“Yes, my lady, and I am glad of your life. But I slew my brother in that act, making me kinslayer as well as traitor. No man is more accursed.”

“Ser Perwyn,” Ned said. “You took no part in the Red Wedding. My lady wife was present, and has told me you were not there.”

“I was not there, my lord,” Perwyn said. “But I knew of it. I knew precisely how it was to occur, from the bowmen in the balconies to the rigged tents outside. I knew all of it, and I did nothing, my lord. In fact, I did worse than nothing. I removed my brother Olyvar from the Twins.” He shook his head sadly. “Had Olyvar been here and discovered the plot, he undoubtedly would have warned King Robb. So it isn’t true that I had no hand in it, my lord. I took away your son’s only hope.”

Ned shook his head. “I owe you Catelyn’s life,” he said softly.

“Had I done my duty to my king, you might have both your wife and your son alive, my lord. But I chose my family’s honor and my duty to my father. And in the end, I failed that, too, killing my own brother.”

Perwyn stood and looked at the assembled northmen and Freys and raised his voice louder. “I am Ser Perwyn Frey. I do not come here for Lord Stark to judge me. I have no need of judgment, for I confess my guilt. I stood with my family as the Red Wedding was planned. I deserted my king. I am as guilty of treason as any of my kin. I come now to receive my sentence.”

Catelyn stood frozen. What could Ned do? The man stood there confessing guilt for all present to hear.. He could not simply let him go. He had to serve equal justice to everyone, or there was no justice for anyone. Catelyn shivered. But how could he kill Perwyn? She could hear Roslin, who had been so strong today, softly crying. _Oh gods,_ _Ned. What can you do?_

Ned appeared to be wondering the same thing because she could see past the mask of his frozen face to the deep sorrow showing in his grey eyes. Finally, he spoke, “Perwyn Frey, by your own words, you are condemned. You are guilty of the crime of treason, and your life is forfeit.”

There was complete silence at this pronouncement, and Perwyn knelt again on his own to place his head on the block. Ned reached out to take his arm and pulled him back up to stand. He looked him in the eyes.

“Your life is forfeit, Perwyn. But it need not be for nothing. I shall allow you to take the black. Become a man of the Night’s Watch. Defend the realm from threats beyond the Wall and regain your honor there. What say you, Perwyn Frey?”

Catelyn saw Perwyn turn to look at his brother and sister on the platform. Both looked back at him now with hope in their eyes. Perwyn turned to her, and she gave him an encouraging nod. Perwyn then turned back to Ned.

“I shall take the black, my lord. I shall do my best to serve the Night’s Watch honorably for all my days.”

“I have no doubt of it,” Ned told him quietly. “Lord Glover,” he said more loudly, “Take Ser Perwyn into custody until we can arrange escort for him to the Wall.”

As two of Lord Glover’s men escorted Perwyn away, Ned remained silent. He looked so tired.  Catelyn could see exhaustion etched into every line of his face. She wanted to go to him, but knew she could not. She remained in her place on the platform with Olyvar and Roslin as her husband sighed deeply and looked at Walder Frey.

“Bring Walder Frey forward.” His voice was so cold it was lifeless, and Catelyn noticed he did not give the man the courtesy of his title, as Olyvar had now been named Lord of the Crossing.

Two men lifted Frey from the chair, and he half shuffled and was half dragged before Ned. “You are an evil man,” Ned said in icy tones almost too quiet for Catelyn to hear. “An evil, twisted old man who talks about honor but has none. You have brought shame upon your house, and you deserve a thousand painful deaths. Would that I could kill you more than once.” Raising his voice, Ned cried out, “Walder Frey, you have been found guilty of treason and murder against your king! Your life is forfeit!”

The men holding Frey up pushed him down in front of the block, but before they could push his head down, Ned commanded them, “Remove the gag. Even such as he should get a chance to speak before his death.”

One of the men pulled the gag from the old man’s mouth and he retched, coughing up thick globs of blood. Looking at Ned with pure hatred, he rasped, “You win nothing, Stark. Your sons are dead, your daughters sold, and your wife ruined. You win nothing.”

Ned said nothing. He simply nodded at the men holding Frey, and they pushed his head down onto the block. Ned raised his sword, and Catelyn saw it there for the briefest of moments outlined against the grey sky and stained with the blood of Frey’s sons and grandsons. Then it arced downward and met the old man’s neck with a dull thud. His head fell and rolled several feet before coming to rest with his toothless mouth open and his malevolent eyes staring sightlessly toward the heavens.

Catelyn felt nothing as she looked at those dead eyes. Neither revulsion nor relief. She found she cared not at all about Walder Frey in that moment. She cared only for the man who stood with his hands still on the sword with its blade pressed into the block. Ned didn’t move as a man dragged Frey’s headless body away. He seemed frozen.

She descended from the platform and went to him. “My lord,” she said softly, touching him on the arm.

He looked up at her slowly, and his eyes held more pain, anger, grief, and exhaustion than she thought possible for one man to know. “My lady,” he said softly. “I would leave this place.”

She nodded at him. “As would I, my lord.” She looked to the platform. “Olyvar,” she said simply.

The new made Lord of the Crossing understood immediately, and like the squire he had been, he came to them and gently removed the bloody sword from Ned’s hands, wiping it on the grass before replacing it in its sheath.

As the show was over, people were gradually dispersing. Catelyn stood by Ned, her hands firmly holding his arm. “Lord Umber! Lord Glover! Lady Mormont!” she called. The three came to stand before them at once. “See to the castle, my lords and my lady. I would have no unrest here. Please assist Lord Olyvar in whatever he asks.”

The three of them nodded their assent as Ned stood silently at her side. “Lord Stark and I will be in our tent should you have need of us.” She gave them a look which very clearly indicated they should not have need of them any time soon. She hoped Lady Maege, at least, would understand her.

“And those, my lady?” Lord Umber asked, indicating the heads which had been gathered in a grisly sort of pile near the block.

“Mount them on the wall.” Ned’s voice was still ice. “Let the crows feed on them.”

Umber smiled grimly. “It will be done, my lord.”

“And have someone see to the bodies,” Catelyn added. “Treat them properly. When the heads are taken down, we must give the bodies to whatever kin wish to have them.”

“I thank you for that, my lady,” said Olyvar quietly. “It is . . .generous of you.”

Catelyn knew he was thinking of what his father had done to Robb’s body. “No, Olyvar,” she said. “It is only decent.”

She heard Ned take a deep breath beside her. “I would have you all come to my tent this evening. And Lord Reed. There is still much to speak of before the morrow.“ He looked at Olyvar then. “Lord Frey,” he said solemnly, “The castle is yours.” Turning to Catelyn, he said simply, “Come, my lady.”

Catelyn nodded and began to walk with her husband toward the gate. His limp was far more pronounced than it had been when they entered the courtyard, and she held his arm firmly that he might lean into her.

After they had gone about twenty paces, she stopped and turned back. The three lords and Lady Mormont still stood looking after them. “Lord Umber,” she called. “About the heads. Please mount them to the north of the gate.” She looked briefly at the grisly pile. “Our tent lies to the south, and I would prefer to never look on those men again.”

She turned to Ned who nodded grimly to her, and they continued out of the courtyard together.

 

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Olyvar Frey stood between Lord Umber and Lady Mormont and watched Lord and Lady Stark walk slowly toward the gate, her last words echoing in his head. He needed to see to Roslin, to speak with Perwyn, to do any number of things now required of him as the lord of this fractured and divided house. Yet, he could not turn away from them. There was an undeniable courage and strength in their halting progress that had drawn the eyes of many in the courtyard.

Lord Stark stumbled just once, his bad knee buckling as they passed through the gate. His lady’s hands were on his arm though, and he did not fall. With barely a pause, they turned and passed out of sight in the direction of their tent.

Lady Mormont shook her head slightly. “He asks too much of himself,” she said quietly.

“The leg troubles him far more than he lets on,” Olyvar agreed. “He should have used a headsman for so many.”

“Hah!” Lord Umber said loudly. “I’ll forgive the boy lord as an ignorant southron, but you should know better, Maege Mormont.”

Lady Mormont snorted softly, and Olyvar raised his brow at Lord Umber. “An ignorant southron?” he inquired.

“Aye, lad, an ignorant southron.” He turned to face Olyvar, looking down at him from his much greater height. “Lord Eddard is a Stark of Winterfell. If there’d been thirty Frey heads to take today, he’d have taken them all. The man who passes the sentence swings the sword! Those aren’t just words, young Olvyar.”

“No, they aren’t,” Lady Mormont said quietly. She looked gravely at Olyvar and said, “The north is a hard land for hard men, my lord. Lord Stark knows that well. Northmen have followed the Starks for more than a thousand years, but they won’t follow weakness.” She smiled at Olyvar then. “Lord Eddard has always proven himself a true Stark of Winterfell, and his men will follow him anywhere.”

Lord Glover, standing to the other side of Lady Mormont, had been silent to this point, but now he waved an arm in the direction of the army camp. “There isn’t a man out there who wouldn’t die for him,” he said simply.

Lord Umber nodded agreement, and then added thoughtfully, “And after today, not a man who wouldn’t die for her, either.”

Lady Mormont smiled, and Olyvar heard a distinct teasing note in her voice when she spoke. “Why, Lord Umber, do you refer to that southron lass Eddard Stark brought north? The one whose thin blood couldn’t possibly survive a northern winter?”

The Greatjon snorted loudly. “Oh, she may have been a Tully when Lord Eddard wedded her, but, by the gods, Lady Catelyn is a Stark!”

The other three regarded him carefully after this pronouncement, and the big man almost blushed. “Well, we have enough work to do,” he roared. “No reason for us to be standing around.” He turned on his heel, and strode off, calling to some men. Lord Glover followed, chuckling softly.

Olyvar looked after the two men, shaking his head.

“You must find us strange, Lord Olyvar,” Lady Mormont said to him, smiling.

“Well, my lady, I’ll never be a northman,” he answered, returning her smile. “But if I ever hope to be lord here in more than just name, I believe I would do well to learn more from Lord Stark’s example than my father’s.” He bowed formally to her and took his leave. The new Lord of the Crossing had a long day still ahead.

 

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Ned felt oddly cold as he walked with Catelyn out of the Twins. Cold weather never bothered him, and he knew it wasn’t the wind that chilled him now. He had killed nine men. Nine men had lost their heads to his blade that day in the name of justice. Justice! he thought bitterly. He had executed any number of men in his years as Lord of Winterfell, and never found it an easy thing to do. He had killed men whose crimes were heinous enough to provoke anger and revulsion within him, but he had never felt actual hatred for the men whose heads he took in the name of the law; only the solemn responsibility of ending their lives.

Today was different. He hated every man he’d killed today. They had taken his son and abused his wife. And in spite of his damned leg, every swing of the sword had come easily to him. Justice. He could name it that when he spoke to others, but to himself he admitted what he’d done today. Vengeance. He had taken vengeance on House Frey, and he wished to take still more. That left him cold.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed Catelyn had led him past their tent. As he realized they were walking into the woods, he stopped. “My lady?” he asked, puzzled.

“Just a bit further, Ned. Come with me.”

He nodded and let her continue to lead him to a small grove of trees near an icy stream. In the midst of the dark trees, he saw the white of a solitary weirwood. “Cat,” he said softly, unable to say more as he realized what she had done for him.

“There isn’t a proper Godswood,” she said. “I asked Olyvar this morning and he showed me this place.” She looked at the weirwood. “It doesn’t have a face, but I thought at least it’s quiet here. And there’s water.” She pulled a cloth from the folds of her dress. “It’s freezing, I’m afraid, but it will clean your blade.” She fell silent and simply waited for him to say something.

Looking at her there, he felt so many things at once, he couldn’t speak. He simply reached out, took the cloth, and whispered, “Thank you.” He walked to the stream and plunged it into the frigid water, and then took out his sword and sat before the weirwood to wipe it thoroughly.

He could feel her watching him. After a moment, she said quietly, “I’ll leave you, my lord.”

“Stay.” His voice sounded to his ears like a command, so he looked up at her and added, softly, “Please.”

She nodded and knelt down near him, spreading the skirt of her dress on the cold ground. They stayed there in silence for some time, he cleaning every spot on his blade and then drying it against his breeches, and she sitting with her head bowed.

Finally, he asked her, “Do you pray, my lady?”

She smiled at him. “I suppose I do. I don’t really know how to pray to the old gods. I find the words to prayer come more easily to me in the sept. But they are your gods, so I find myself asking them to keep you safe.”

“And I ask them to keep you safe.” He sighed. “Since I have not.”

“Ned . .”

“No. It is true, my lady. I should never have left Winterfell. Robert and his iron throne be damned. My place was with you and the children.” He gave voice to the bitterness and guilt he’d felt since the day of his arrest in King’s Landing.

“Ned, I told you to go. It was my . .”

“No,” he interrupted her. “You encouraged me to go at first, I know. But it was my decision. Mine.” He paused. “And after Bran’s fall . . .you asked me not to go. You begged me not to go.”

“I said a lot of things after Bran’s fall,” she said quietly. “I was mad with grief. You did what you had to do, my love.”

“And what’s come of it?” he nearly shouted the words. “Our sons are dead, Cat! Our daughters are lost! I have failed all of you.”

“Don’t do this, Ned. It isn’t your . .”

“It is mine. My responsibility. I am their father. I am your husband. You are all mine to protect. I failed you! And if I take the heads from every Frey, Greyjoy, and Lannister in the Seven Kingdoms, I cannot change any of it.”

She looked at him. “No,” she said simply. “You can’t.”

He looked carefully at her then, but he saw no recrimination in her eyes. No anger or disappointment in him. Only sadness. “You truly do not blame me, Cat?” he asked her.

She closed her eyes. “Do you blame me?” she asked.

“Gods, no! How could you even think such a thing?” He grabbed her hands and held them tightly, resisting the urge to shake her for even asking such a foolish question.

“For the same reason you do. It seems we both blame ourselves.” Her voice didn’t waver, but he saw tears shining in her eyes.

He nodded slowly. “It seems we do. Perhaps, my lady, it is time we both find a way to stop.”

Ned let go of her hands, and shifted on the ground until he sat leaning back on the trunk of the weirwood. “Come here, Cat.” She moved beside him, and he reached his arms around her, drawing her in to sit cradled against him. “You said you weren’t sure how to pray to my gods. It isn’t difficult, my love. You don’t even need words. Sometimes to pray is only to be silent and still.”

“I can do that,” she said.

“Mmm,” he answered and kissed the top of her head where it rested beneath his chin.

After that, they were silent and still for a long time. He knew he could not banish the anger and bitterness completely. They were too much a part of his grief. Yet, as he sat by the weirwood holding his wife, he also knew he would not be controlled by them. He still had far too much to live for to allow vengeance to dictate his life. Wordlessly, he prayed for wisdom as they moved forward. So much still had to be done. He still had to find his daughters.

Finally, he said, “We should go back now, my lady.”

“If you are ready, my lord,” she answered. “I will stay as long as you wish.”

He laughed a little at that. “What I wish and what we must do are two different things, I fear. It is past mid-day now, and the evening will bring our men around for yet another strategy meeting.”

“Our men? What of Lady Mormont?” she asked with a smile. “Leaving her out, are you?”

“Never,” Ned’s laugh was bigger at that. “She’d not allow it. I’m not leaving you out, either, Cat. That’s why I asked them to come to our tent. Any discussions of Riverrun should include you. You know more about the place than any of us.”

“I should hope so. Come on, then,” she said, getting to her feet and offering him her hand. “I’d like to work on that leg of yours again before then.”

“If you insist,” he told her.

As they walked back from the woods, holding hands, he considered all she had done for him that day. His wife knew him well and he thanked the gods for it. He squeezed her hand, knowing she’d already done far more to heal him than her foul-smelling leg potion ever could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who continue to be interested in my tale. Comments welcome!


	12. Strategies, Secrets, and Lies

"No, Olyvar,” Ned Stark said for what felt like the millionth time. “You cannot come. Your place is here.”  The lords and ladies gathered in his tent had been discussing the march on Riverrun for well over an hour, and Ned was ready for this meeting to be at an end.

“I would fight for you, my lord,” the young man protested.

Ned sighed. “No one here doubts that for a moment. But, Olyvar, the force besieging Riverrun is made up, in large part, of Freys. I would not have you fight your own kin.” He frowned at the new lord and continued before Olyvar could protest. “And you have quite enough of your kin to be dealt with here. My naming you Lord of the Crossing did not sit well with at least half of the Freys who remain in the Twins. You must deal with all opposition here before any of your older brothers and their offspring who are elsewhere come to challenge you.”

“Lord Stark speaks truly, Lord Olyvar,” Galbart Glover put in. “The current state of quiet here is largely dependent on our presence. When we leave for Riverrun . . .”

“We’ll leave men behind,” Ned put in quickly. “Until Lord Olyvar has enough men of his own that can be counted loyal, we must assist him.” To Olyvar, he added, “Gaining the loyalty of your men is your task, my lord. You must show them that while you are an ally to the north, you are not our possession, to be used as we decree. You owe allegiance to Riverrun, yes, but your main concern must be the welfare of your people here.”

“I know all that!” Olyvar exclaimed, rubbing his face with his hands. “I just don’t know how to do it,” he finished quietly.

As Ned pondered how to answer that, Catelyn spoke. “Just be yourself, Olyvar. You are a good, honorable man. Treat your family here and all others for whom you are responsible fairly and reasonably. At first, you will need the backing of my lord husband’s soldiers, but as the people here come to know you as their lord, they will support you. I know it.”

Ned watched the young man look to his wife as if she held the answers to all his questions. “You truly think so, my lady?”

Catelyn smiled at him. “Yes, Olyvar, I do.”

Olyvar seemed to Ned to visibly grow stronger at her words, and he was not surprised when the young man turned to him and said, “My lord, you are correct. My place is here. I will offer whatever assistance I may to you, and I thank you for whatever men you may offer me to maintain the peace at the Twins.”

Ned nodded to him. “You will have whatever men you need, my lord,” he said. He looked at Catelyn who sat across the table from him and smiled at her. She returned his smile and his heart jumped in his chest at the sight. Then he noticed Howland Reed who sat next to her regarding her closely, and he felt an old anxiety seize him.

“Lord Reed,” he said, drawing the man’s attention back to him, “Your men have left already in the company of Marq Piper?”

“Yes, my lord,” Reed answered him. “If contact can be made with Lord Piper without giving us away, it shall be done.”

“And we are certain no word of events here has been sent to Riverrrun as yet?” Ned inquired.

“Quite certain, my lord.” Glover responded. “The rider sent out before the attack was easily apprehended, and no one has left the western gate since.”

“And I have had men guarding the ravens since we took the castle, my lord. The maester has not been allowed near them,” put in Lady Mormont.

“Maester Brenett will not act against me,” Olyvar interjected.

“I am glad of your faith in him, Olyvar,” said Ned, “but for the present, I believe Lady Mormont’s precautions should be continued.” Ned took a deep breath before continuing, “You have heard our basic plan of attack, Olyvar. You are better informed about the force surrounding Riverrun than any of us. What do you know about this Daven Lannister? I only recall hearing of him as an able soldier, loyal to Lord Tywin.”

“Well, you know near as much of him as I do, then, my lord,” Olyvar responded. “Since Lord Tywin’s death, things have seemed somewhat unsettled in King’s Landing. Cersei Lannister rules as King Tommen’s regent, and Ser Daven has been appointed Warden of the West. Most of us had thought that would be Ser Kevan Lannister or even the Kingslayer. But, in any event, Ser Daven appears to be a patient man, considering options before taking any decisive action against Riverrun. I know he thinks little of my nephew Ryman who commands the Frey forces. I have heard he has little patience for my half-brother Emmon as well, for all that he’s married to Genna Lannister and has been named Lord of Riverrun.”

Ned looked at Catelyn as Olyvar spoke, noting again the tightness in her expression that had occurred whenever Ryman Frey had been mentioned during the evening’s discussions. He suspected the reason, and the rage that rose up inside him at that made it difficult to concentrate on the discussion at hand.

Lord Umber was asking something about the river lords who were encamped with the siege army. Ned forced himself to attend to Olyvar’s reply that neither Ser Daven nor Ryman Frey were convinced they could be depended upon.

“This is good,” he said. “Our enemies mistrust each other, and we know we can count on assistance from within the castle once we engage.”

“Without fail, my lord,” Catelyn put in. “Ser Brynden is an able soldier. He will see what you are about and join battle to assist you.” She hesitated and then added, “I do fear for my brother. The Lannisters hold the Lord of Riverrun hostage.”

“Actually, my lady,” said Olyvar, “It is my nephew Ryman who holds Lord Tully. And I fear Ryman is no man of honor.” Ned noticed that Olyvar would not meet his eyes when he said that, and again a black cloud of rage descended on him.

“We will do all in our power to protect Lord Edmure, my lady, but we must attack the siege army. Riverrun must be liberated.” _And Ryman Frey must die_. Ned looked at her carefully, wondering if she could read his thoughts, but she only nodded at his words.

“What of Roslin, my lord?” asked Olyvar.

“What of Roslin?” Ned responded.

“She is quite insistent that she go with you tomorrow,” Olyvar said.

At this, a general mumbling broke out around the table. The loudest came from Lord Umber who was bellowing about women being useless near a battlefield.

“Lady Tully would be safer at the Twins,” Ned began.

“So are you leaving Lady Mormont at the Twins?” Catelyn asked him.

He sighed. “You know perfectly well that is not a fair statement, Catelyn. Lady Mormont is a soldier. She will command men in the battle.”

“Are you leaving me?”

Ned stared at her, wishing she wouldn’t do this in front of all their battle commanders. She knew the answer to her question, of course. He wasn’t about to leave her anywhere without him. “You must come with us, my lady,” he said quietly.

“And I am not a soldier,” she said. “I assume you will assign a guard to protect me during the battle.” She waited for his response, and for one brief moment he devoutly wished he had wed a stupid woman.

He nodded.

“It should be no more trouble to guard two useless women than one,” she said, nodding to Lord Umber. “Roslin is the Lady of Riverrun. Her husband is there. She carries his heir. She has more right to be there than any of us.”

“Lady Stark is right,” Lady Mormont said firmly.

Ned put his face in his hands for a moment and looked up to see both women staring at him expectantly. “Lady Tully will come with us,” he sighed. “You,” he said, pointing at his wife, “will see that she stays out of the way.”

He watched her duck her head to hide the little smile which appeared on her face, and he found it hard to keep the stern look on his own face. “Are we finished here? If there is no more to discuss, we should all get some rest. It has been a long day and it is a long march to Riverrun.”

“There is one thing, my lord,” the Greatjon said. “You have not declared yourself King in the North. I would have you for my king.”

Ned sighed. He had wondered when this would come. He had carefully avoided any mention of Robb’s title except as it pertained to the Freys’ treason. “I have no wish for a crown,” he said softly.

“But who else is there?” Umber insisted. “All the north will follow you, my lord. You know that’s true.”

“The north should follow me as Lord of Winterfell. I need not be crowned for that.” Ned looked around at the two women and four men gathered around him. “The Seven Kingdoms bleed. Setting up opposing kingdoms will only prolong that bleeding. You must see that. We have been too long one great kingdom to splinter into parts now.”

“So you would have us declare for Stannis Baratheon?” asked Galbart Glover. “Surely you do not accept Tommen on the Iron Throne after all the Lannisters have done!”

“Stannis has the legitimate claim,” Ned stated firmly. “Tommen is not Robert’s heir. All three of Cersei’s children are bastards born of incest. I had confirmation of this fact from her own lips before my arrest in King’s Landing.”

“And I heard the same from Jaime Lannister,” said Catelyn quietly. “When he was in the dungeon at Riverrun, he confessed to me his crimes.” She met Ned’s eyes then, and it was plain to him that she did not mean only the incest. _Bran_. He could not think about that now.

“So Stannis’s accusations are indeed true?” Howland Reed asked.

“They are,” Ned said flatly. “Stannis Baratheon is Robert’s only legitimate heir, and by rights, king of all the Seven Kingdoms. He is a hard man and not much loved, I know. But I have ever known him to be an honorable and just man. The realm could do far worse.”

“And the north could do far better!” Umber exclaimed. “Let the stag and the lion squabble over their iron chair. We can retake the north and defend it against any of them with little blood spilled by merely closing Moat Cailin and White Harbor! Be our king, my lord! Be like Robb Stark, King in the North!”

Ned was on his feet before he realized it. “I am not a boy of six and ten, Jon!” he shouted, slamming his fist on the table. “I know what lies that way, and it is folly!” He took several breaths to gain control of himself. “Close Moat Cailin, you say. What of the Riverlands? Were they not included in my son’s kingdom? Their borders are long and practically indefensible. Shall we just abandon them, then? Or be perpetually at war to hold them as the small folk starve and watch their homes and their crops burn?”

Ned looked at each person around the table. None spoke, so he continued. “And if we abandon the Riverlands and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, who shall feed us? Winter is coming. Who shall send ships to White Harbor bearing grain when the snows lie deep over our lands for the next five or more years?” He shook his head slowly and seated himself again. “I spoke truly when I said the Seven Kingdoms have been one too long to break apart now. We are dependent on one another. I will fight to unite the kingdom under a rightful king, but not to tear it apart.”

“Then it is to be Stannis Baratheon,” Lady Mormont said quietly. “There is no one else.”

“What of the Targaryen girl?” asked Olyvar.

“Daenerys?” Ned asked. “What of her?”

“There are stories out of the east, my lord. They say she has caused chaos in Slaver’s Bay. That she conquered cities,” Olyvar hesitated. “The stories I’ve heard are confused and fantastic, but they even speak of dragons.”

“People always speak of dragons when they speak of Targaryens,” Howland Reed said.

“Yes, but there are tales of real dragons, my lord.”

Ned rubbed his forehead. He had heard dragon tales in Pentos from Dak, but had paid no heed. His mind had been focused only on news from Westeros at the time. Besides, he knew that no living man had ever seen a dragon. He looked up to see Catelyn’s eyes upon him. As he met her gaze, her voice came to him in memory from the godswood at Winterfell, _Until this morning, no living man had ever seen a direwolf, either_. He resolved to call for Donnell Boden and see what the man could tell him of Daenarys Targaryen and her activities across the Narrow Sea.

“Be that as it may, Olyvar, I can only fight the foes I have now,” Ned said tiredly. “We shall march to Riverrun, liberate the castle, and drive the Lannisters and Freys away from it. Once we have the Tullys with us and I hope the other river lords as well, we shall devise our next move. I hope to gain more information on what Stannis is doing in the north and what the Lannisters are doing all around us once we have Riverrrun.” He smiled grimly. “I cannot stay dead forever, and perhaps the time to send out word of what we have done here will come soon. But, enough for tonight. I believe we are finished here.”

As Maege Mormont and the men rose to take their leave, Catelyn got to her feet. “I will see our guests out, my lord,” she said to him. He understood her unspoken directive to remain still and rest his leg. He was tired enough not to protest and nodded in farewell to the lords and Lady Maege as Catelyn walked them out.

As the group broke up outside the entrance to the tent and began going separate ways, he saw Catelyn stop Howland Reed. She said something to him, and then he offered his arm. She took it and they walked out of his sight. He suppressed the urge to jump up and stop them. He knew he had no legitimate reason to stop his wife from speaking with his closest friend.

 _Gods! What is she up to?_ Catelyn knew Reed had been with him at the Tower of Joy and throughout Robert‘s Rebellion. She had to suspect Reed knew the answers to questions she’d not asked him since the early days of their marriage. For over fifteen years, Ned had kept the two of them apart, not trusting himself to keep his secrets if faced with the two of them together. He couldn’t imagine she’d actually ask the man questions about Jon, and he knew Reed would not betray his secrets. But what in the Seven Kingdoms did she want to talk to the man about? Ned couldn’t quite banish the anxiety he felt at that question.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“It is good of you to speak with me, Lord Reed,” Catelyn said as she walked with the man through the camp. Dusk had fallen and torches were being lit around the tents. Alone among their lords, Reed had chosen to remain camped outside with his men instead of taking lodging in the castle. Ned had told her the crannogman was always more comfortable outdoors.

“It is my pleasure, my lady. What is it you wished to ask me?”

Reed’s look was very direct and Catelyn’s resolve faltered a bit. But this was too important. She steeled herself, and smiled at him courteously. “I am glad to finally have a chance to know you. I had hoped to host you at Winterfell sometime after the rebellion, but Ned told me you seldom left Greywater Watch.” She sighed. “And of course, when he traveled there, I always had the children keeping me at Winterfell.” She felt the usual ripping sensation in her heart at the thought of her children.

It must have showed on her face, for Lord Reed said, “I am sorry for your sorrows, my lady. And I am glad of the chance to know you as well.”

Catelyn sighed. She may as well get on with it. She looked around. They were within sight of several people, as was only fitting. It would hardly be proper for Lord Stark’s wife to wander off alone in the dark with one of his bannermen. And though she hated to admit it even to herself, Lord Walder’s words from earlier in this endless day still wounded her. She felt compelled to do all in her power to rebuild her tattered honor. So she and Lord Reed must remain in sight, but she hoped they had walked far enough to be out of earshot.

“I wish to ask you about the papers Lord Glover and Lady Mormont carried with them when my son sent them to you.”

She could have sworn a momentary look of surprise passed over the man’s face. Had he expected another question? “You mean the false orders, my lady? The ones they carried in case of their capture?”

“No,” she said simply. “I mean the paper sealed by Robb and his lords indicating his wishes for succession in the event of his death.”

“Ah,” he said. “You know about that.”

“I watched them affix their seals to it.” She hesitated. “What I would like to know is why my husband does not appear to know about it. He has been in your company for some time now since he first arrived in Greywater Watch. Why have you not shown it to him?”

“Have you asked Lady Mormont or Lord Glover about this, my lady?”

“No.” She regarded the man carefully. “I do not truly know you, Lord Reed, but I know my husband well, and he considers you to be one of his closest friends. He regards you highly, and therefore I am inclined to do the same.” She paused, choosing her words with care. “I believe that keeping Robb’s wishes from him is your plan, that Lord Glover and Lady Maege are acting at your direction. You must have a reason, and I wish to know it.”

“You know what is in the paper, my lady?” he asked her.

“A royal decree legitimizing my husband’s bastard and making him Robb’s heir in the event that Robb and Jeyne had no children,” she said flatly. It bothered her how much it hurt to even say it, but she kept her voice as even as she could.

“And you would wish to see this done, my lady?” Lord Reed’s voice was as courteous as ever, but she heard the note of disbelief in his words.

“My wishes have nothing to do with it.” That came out louder than she intended, and she heard the bitterness in her own voice. She breathed deeply and looked directly at Lord Reed. He was such a small man, and being fairly tall for a woman, she actually had to look slightly down. “My husband rides to battle in a very few days, my lord,” she whispered.

“As do we all, my lady,” Reed replied.

“Yes, and you may not all return.” She swallowed hard. “My sons are dead, Lord Reed,” she said, choking on the words. “My daughters are missing and may be dead as well. How do I send my husband to battle believing he has no heir? How can you do it? And why?” She felt her voice breaking and fell silent, staring at the ground before her.

Howland Reed was also silent. Catelyn looked back up to find him looking at her intently. Finally, he said, “I had thought you might question me, but I had not expected this, my lady.”

“You hadn’t expected that I might wonder at a man my husband considers a trusted friend keeping secrets from him?” she asked. Then, as she watched his face, she realized what he meant. “Oh,” she said quietly. “You thought I sought you out to ask other questions.” Catelyn swallowed hard and drew herself up to her full height. Gazing directly down at Lord Reed, she said stiffly, “I would not ask you anything I do not ask my husband, my lord.”

Reed nodded slowly. “I will answer the question you do ask as best I can, my lady. Word of the Red Wedding reached us almost immediately after Lord Glover and Lady Mormont arrived in Greywater Watch. At that time, I counseled them not to send word to Jon Snow on the Wall.” He sighed heavily. “Jon is sworn to the Night’s Watch. A king’s decree has only as much power as the king who makes it, and your son had been killed. Had Jon left the Wall to heed Robb Stark’s call, he would have been named deserter by many and his life could have been forfeit. We had no fit army then to give him even if he did wish to take up the Stark cause. We decided to bide our time.”

The man paused and looked at her, but Catelyn remained silent, waiting for him to continue. After a moment, he went on. “Then Lord Stark found us. You cannot imagine our shock and joy when he appeared.”

Catelyn simply raised her eyebrows at that, and Reed actually chuckled. “Forgive me, my lady. Of course, you know quite well what we felt. However, as we told Lord Stark what we knew of happenings in the North and the Riverlands, he never once indicated a desire to take his son’s crown. Knowing him as I did, this did not surprise me. I suspect it does not surprise you, either.”

“No,” she said simply, and again waited for him to go on.

“If Ned believes there should be no King in the North, then the succession of that title would mean little to him. And after his remarks this evening, I cannot imagine he’d wish the crown on Jon any more than he would have wished it on his son, Robb. As to Winterfell, while your husband is alive, he is Lord of Winterfell, and it was never his son’s to dispose of.” The crannogman shrugged slightly. “I spoke with Lord Glover and Lady Mormont and obtained their agreement that we should not speak to Lord Stark of any of this until we had some indication of how he felt about such matters. He was rather single minded about taking the Twins and bringing Lord Walder to justice before considering any other actions.”

Catelyn nodded. She knew the bitter taste of knowing her children dead and believing Ned dead as well. She had no difficulty imagining exactly what her husband had wanted to do once he had men to lead against the Freys.

“Then we found you were alive,” Lord Reed said. “The effect of that news on your husband was . . .I don’t have words, my lady.” He looked at her with that intense gaze of his again. “Everything became about getting you out of the Twins alive at that point.”

Tears stung Catelyn’s eyes and she blinked to keep them in. “Lord Glover and Lady Mormont both know that I knew about Robb’s decree. Neither has said anything to me about it.”

Reed cleared his throat. “Well, my lady, while Lady Mormont did not specifically tell me you knew your son’s plans, she did say she was quite sure you would oppose them.”

“I do,” Catelyn’s voice sounded hard to her ears. “Make no mistake, Lord Reed, the thought of a bastard sitting in Ned’s seat at Winterfell in the place of my son . .” She stopped speaking as she feared she could not keep her voice from breaking. She looked down and felt a tear escape her eye in spite of blinking hard several times. After a moment, she was able to look at Reed again. “Yet, how do I send him to fight, maybe to die, believing none of his blood will ever hold Winterfell again?” she said, in a voice scarely more than a whisper. “How do I deny him the knowledge that our son would have given it to Jon Snow?” She shook her head and looked at Reed sadly. “I am heartily tired of secrets, Lord Reed, and would wish not to keep any from my lord husband.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “So what shall you do, my lady?”

“I do not know,” she told him honestly. “I do not know.”

She took her leave of him, and as she walked back to the tent she shared with Ned, she felt Howland Reed’s eyes watching her. He knew the secret that lay so heavily between Ned and herself. She felt certain of it. That man knew the identity of Jon Snow’s mother. He knew the woman Ned had loved. _Gods! How does it still hurt so badly?_ She knew Ned had risked his very life for her. He loved her. She didn’t doubt it. Yet, the woman was still there, _Ashara Dayne_ , whispered a voice in her head, and Catelyn couldn’t help feeling second best. _Gods help me,_ she thought. _Help me to know what is right. And then help me to do it._ She suddenly felt a wet warmth between her thighs as she walked. She was bleeding.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned heard her as she approached their tent, her footsteps not quite running, but quicker than her normal gait. She hadn’t been gone that long, and he had not yet moved from his seat. He had remained there brooding over what she might be discussing with Howland Reed.

“My lord,” she greeted him as she came in, barely looking at him as she went immediately toward a chest where the linens she used on his leg were kept. She reached into the chest and ripped a length of cloth before moving to the chest containing her own clothing.

“My lady?” he asked, puzzled. “Surely, you don’t feel my leg needs doctored again already?”

“No,” she said quietly, straightening up to look at him. “My moonblood is come, my lord.” She stepped behind the small screen which hid their washbasin.

Her moonblood. The tea had done its work, then, and quicker than the maester had indicated it might. He wondered if that meant she had never been with child at all. He hoped so. His jaw tightened and he felt the icy cold that gripped him at any reminder of what the Freys had done to her. Would that moonblood could wash away the very memory of it. But he knew it wouldn’t. Not for either of them. Lost in his dark thoughts, he didn’t realize she had come to stand beside him until she spoke.

“My lord? Are you well?"

She looked concerned for him, and he willed his expression to soften. “I am quite well, my lady.” He reached to take her hand and pulled her down to sit in the chair beside him. “And you, Cat?” he asked softly. “Are you well, yourself?”

She shrugged slightly. “My belly cramps a bit. No more than I am used to with my moonblood, though. I do not think this any different, except the tea brought it early.”

 _Good_ , he thought. “I am glad of it,” he told her, still holding her hand as they sat beside each other. “Did you enjoy your walk with Lord Reed?”

It was difficult to be sure in the low light inside the tent, but Ned thought he caught a flash of panic in her eyes at the question. “Yes, my lord. He was quite courteous. I wanted to speak with him a bit.” Whatever had alarmed her, she had it under control now and looked directly at him as she continued. “I do not know him as I do the rest of your bannermen. I know you trust him without question, my love, but if I am to trust him to keep you safe in battle, I would know more of him.”

He smiled slightly at that. “You know perfectly well that Howland’s part in our battle plan will have him nowhere near me.”

“I know perfectly well that your success and safety depend upon the entire plan going well. Therefore, I am trusting you to every lord or lady leading any part of it,” she countered.

“There are larger issues than my personal safety at stake, you know,” he said quietly.

“Not to me.” He felt her hand grip his more tightly. “I wish I were like Maege Mormont,” she suddenly said fiercely. “I wish I could ride at your side and wield an axe or a sword at anyone who threatened.” He would have laughed then if she had not looked so deadly serious. These were not words he would expect from his wife, who had never had any love of weaponry.

She must have seen something of his shock in his expression, for she laughed then, although it was tinged with bitterness. “I surprise you. Do not fear, my love. I have not discovered a thirst for battle. I despise war and its weapons as much as I ever have. More even.” She paused for a moment, “But perhaps if I knew more of swordplay than dancing, our sons might be alive.”

“No,” Ned said softly. “No, they would still be dead, but perhaps you would be dead with them.” He looked at her intently, willing her to understand him. “Cat, I would not have you in harm’s way, ever, if I could prevent it. I fear my own death far less than I fear any hurt to you.” She started to protest and he cut her off. “And I know you feel the same.” He swallowed. “I didn’t know what it was like for you, not truly, until we planned the attack on the Twins. Gods! Planning to use you as bait. Having you out there where any stray arrow could hit you, or gods forbid, that damned noose not work properly and you . . .” he couldn’t finish the sentence. He realized he was almost hyperventilating as the terror of all that could have gone wrong overwhelmed him again.

She was out of her chair flinging her arms around him in an instant. “I am here,” she breathed into his ear. “I am here and safe and with you.”

He tightened his own arms around her pulling her into his lap. “Yes, my love, you are, and I thank the gods for it.” He then gently loosened her own arms from his neck, pushing her face far enough from him that he could look her in the eyes. “You have the harder part, Cat, sending me into battle. Waiting. I know that now. I never want to feel that way again.”

“Yet you would have me feel exactly that way in the space of a few days.” Her eyes never left his, awaiting his answer.

“Yes,” he said without looking away. “Because I have to fight. I am the Lord of Winterfell and this is mine to do. Maege Mormont is . . .well, Maege is simply who she is. But you are my lady. I would not change any part of you, and I would have you safe. I need you to be safe, Cat. Selfish as that is, my lady, I still would have it.”

She continued looking at him a moment, and then placed her hands on his face, leaned in, and kissed him softly. “If that is truly what you need of me, my love, then you shall have it.” She smiled at him with tears in her eyes. “I will give you my word of honor that I will not steal anyone’s sword and ride after you, if you give me yours that you will do everything in your power to return to me safely.”

“I give you my word, my lady,” he promised her. He gave her a smile of his own. “Do you have any other solemn vows you require this evening, or shall we attempt to sleep some before the morning arrives?”

For a moment, she looked thoughtful, and she bit her bottom lip in a gesture so reminiscent of their younger daughter when faced with a puzzle or dilemma, that Ned’s heart clutched in his chest. Alone of all their children, Arya looked nothing like Catelyn, but that expression . .

It was quickly gone, and Catelyn let go of him and rose to stand. “I believe we’ve promised enough for one night, my lord. To bed, then.”

He stood to follow her, but then paused. Beyond the pang of longing for his daughter, that expression on Catelyn’s face had stirred something else. Arya bit her lip only when deep in thought, often with troubling thoughts. _What else was troubling Cat? What wasn’t she saying?_ Ned had a sudden very definite urge to have a conversation of his own with Howland Reed. “You go on to bed, my love. I will be back in a moment.”

“What? Where are you going now, my lord?”

He sighed. “I just want to bid the men goodnight. We break camp and march out early. I’d like them to see me tonight.” He realized as he spoke the words that indeed he should have done this already and felt somewhat guilty that, until that moment, he hadn’t given the men a thought since Catelyn had left his tent with Reed.

She frowned slightly and looked meaningfully at his leg, but she knew better than to argue with him. She knew how he was about the men who followed him. “Just don’t walk around too much, my lord. I’d like you to walk and ride comfortably tomorrow.”

“Again, my lady, you have my word.”

He left their tent, and walked through the camp, stopping to say a brief word to the various men he met, always moving in the direction of Howland’s tent. When he reached it, he was not surprised to see his friend sitting outside. Nor was he surprised by the look of amusement on this face.

He scowled. “Did you enjoy your conversation with my lady wife?”

Reed merely laughed at Ned’s scowl and responded, “It was enlightening, my lord, to be sure.”

“And what the devil do you mean by that?” The day had already been far longer than any Ned could remember living through and he was not in the mood for the crannogman’s indirect manner of speaking.

Apparently, Reed could see that because he quit smirking and said quite seriously, “Your lady wife is quite a remarkable woman, Lord Stark.”

“I know that,” Ned snapped.

“Do you?” Reed asked mildly. “I found her quite surprising in some ways, after all your efforts to keep the two of us apart.”

“I never . . .”

Now Reed laughed at him again. “Don’t bother denying it, Ned. We both know you have no talent for lying.” He looked at him shrewdly. “And yet you’ve managed to lie to that very perceptive woman for well over a decade. That has to have gotten harder every year. How, by all the gods, have you managed it?”

This was not the conversation Ned had come here to have, and yet he found himself answering. “I don’t,” he said simply. “I cannot lie to her, so I say nothing at all. I forbade Catelyn to speak of Jon’s mother or ask me any questions about her years ago.”

“You forbade her?”

“Yes.”

“And she obeyed you?”

“Yes,” Ned’s voice was tight and his face was grim.

“Looking at you now, I imagine you terrified her half to death.” Reed shook his head slowly. “Your wife has obeyed you in this without question throughout your entire marriage, and yet you come here tonight to ask if she’s questioning me about it?”

“No!” Ned roared. “I mean . . . gods, I don’t know what I mean.” He looked at the ground for a long moment and then raised his eyes to his long-time friend’s. “I did terrify her,” he said softly. “Her eyes were . . . gods, her eyes were so hurt and fearful and . . . For a long time after that, she actually cringed if I moved toward her too quickly. She tried not to, but I could see actual fear in her eyes when she looked at me, and I hated myself for it.” He didn’t know if he spoke to Reed or himself then, but he continued. “And she was so determined to be strong. To be a proper Lady of Winterfell. To do her duty. I wanted so much for it all to be more than just a duty for her. I wanted her to have joy. But the only times I saw her truly smile during all those long first months were the times I watched her with Robb unawares.” He smiled at Reed. “She is truly a wonderful mother. My children were blessed to be hers. But I made it impossible for Jon to ever share in that. I had hoped, but . . . .no. She forgave me. Somehow. With time, she found it in her heart to care for me, but she has never looked at Jon without seeing the woman I won’t speak of.”

“Your sister,” said Reed flatly.

Ned looked at him, almost in a state of panic. He had not admitted the truth out loud in years, and barely allowed himself to think it.

“Oh, I didn’t tell her, my lord. She never asked. And you should have known she wouldn’t.”

Ned closed his eyes briefly. “I am not proud of what I did to Catelyn all those years ago, but I had promised Lyanna, and I did not know what else to do. I am not proud of coming like this tonight, either. Because you’re right, Howland. I do know she would never ask. It’s just that now . .”

Howland Reed was possibly the one person who could read Ned Stark almost as well as his wife could, and in spite of Ned’s keeping his voice cool and level throughout that statement, he knew Reed could hear the desperation at the end.

“It’s just that now what?” Reed asked him quietly.

“What they did to her,” Ned whispered. “The Freys. The fear is back in her eyes, Howland. I didn’t put it there this time, but sometimes she looks at me and I see it, and I remember . . .Gods!! I swore to myself I would tell her the truth. All of it! When I was in that pit in King’s Landing, I swore it!” He shook his head. “But now I wonder, will it cause her even more pain? Can she forgive me the lie as she forgave me the bastard? I don’t know what to do! I don‘t know if I can lie to her any longer, but I do know that I can‘t lose her. Not again.”

Howland was looking at him with the most remarkable expression on his face. Ned wasn’t sure at all what it meant, but he was too full of his own concerns to puzzle over it long.

“She loves you,” Reed said firmly. “That’s basically what she came here to say.” At Ned’s shocked expression, he held up his hands. “Oh, not like that! Your very proper lady wife did not come here to declare her love and passion for you in so many words. We talked about the upcoming battle, various strategy points, a bit about your son, and about her fears for your safety. In all of that, though, what I heard was that she loves you.” He paused then. “And in all your bluster and guilt and tales of the past, what I hear is that you love her, too.”

“I do,” Ned said simply.

“Then the two of you have something rather rare in our world, Lord Stark. Trust it rather than fear it.”

Ned smiled ruefully at his friend. “I suppose that’s as close to advice as I’ll get from you.”

Reed only returned his smile and said nothing.

Ned waved a hand at him, and said, “I promised Catelyn I wouldn’t be long. Good night, my friend.”

As he turned to go, Reed asked him, “So what shall you do with your great secret, my lord?”

“I do not know,” Ned told him. “I honestly do not know,” he said again as he began to walk away. As his footsteps carried him toward his tent and his wife, he swore he heard Howland Reed laughing in the darkness behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to all of you lovely people who read this tale. I hope you continue to enjoy the story, and I hope all of you who celebrate Christmas had as lovely a Christmas as I did with my family.


	13. Of Promises and Betrayals

Catelyn Stark stretched as she stepped out of her tent and surveyed the men around her, some eating, some striking tents, some running here or there on various errands. Ned’s army. She stretched again and tried to ease the various aches throughout her body, particularly her lower back. The cold was no friend to the muscles which had been pierced by that arrow, and it was much colder now than it had been when she’d made this trip with another army well over a year ago. Robb’s army. Since leaving the Twins, her thoughts had turned repeatedly to that journey. The similarities were overwhelming. This morning, she felt a hundred years older than she had during that trip, marching with her son to liberate her father’s castle and free her husband from imprisonment in King’s Landing. Only, before they ever reached Riverrun that rider had come and. . .. _Stop it, Catelyn Tully Stark! Ned is alive and you are being ridiculous_!

Stepping further away from the shelter of the tent, she wrapped her thick cloak more tightly around her for warmth and looked at up at the leaden sky. At least it wasn’t raining, as it had during the trip north from Riverrun to the Twins with Edmure’s wedding party. _Stay safe, Edmure,_ she thought. _We are coming._ As if the thought of Edmure had conjured her, Roslin appeared, walking toward her with a cup of something in her hands, and a smile on her face.

“Here, my lady. Your lord husband sent you this.”

Catelyn took the mug, and her eyes widened with surprise as she felt the heat from it in her hands. “It’s warm,” she said, puzzled.

Roslin laughed. “A few of Lord Reed’s men are still with us, my lady, and they have a trick for burning some sort of moss and something else with almost no smoke. They burn it beneath stones and then use the hot stones to heat food or drink. I think it took half the night to heat, but it is wonderful, is it not?”

As Catelyn felt the almost tasteless tea warm her throat and belly, she nodded in agreement. “It is quite possibly the best drink I’ve ever had, Roslin.”

The first few days out of the Twins, the army had moved en masse, opting for speed over stealth, taking extra precautions not to be seen or heard only when they passed the way to Seagard. However, since they had passed south of Oldstones, they had moved much more slowly, sending out frequent scouts. A few riders heading from Riverrun to the Twins had been apprehended and questioned. Ned and the other lords did not believe any had escaped them. Now the main part of the army was encamped here, far enough from Riverrun not to be seen or heard, but too close for Ned to risk campfires. Several times each day, another small group would depart, making their way cautiously to their chosen position for the battle ahead. All depended on stealth now, and the camp was always quiet, conversations held in hushed tones, each man preparing for the fight ahead.

A day ago, Ned had come charging into their tent with a look of fierce triumph on his face and announced to her that one of Howland Reed’s men had made his way back to camp with the news that Marq Piper had reached his father, and that Lord Piper would aid Ned's forces. Now, most of Lord Reed’s men were gone, making their way south of the Red Fork. When the battle was started, they were to engage Emmon Frey who had the Kingslayer’s old army positioned there with the river lords. Reed’s force was small, and much depended on Lord Piper doing his part to win that segment of the battle.

The remainder of Reed’s men were to attack the boom the Lannisters had placed downstream of Riverrun across the Red Fork, blocking the river. Many of these were the same men who had been given the task of taking the gate at the Twins, and Catelyn felt quite confident in their abilities.

The largest part of their force, led by Lord Glover and Lady Mormont, would assault Ser Daven Lannister’s company at the front gates of Riverrun. These troops were taking the longest to position as they had to travel far enough upstream to ford the Tumblestone safely and to avoid detection until time for attack. Small groups were leaving frequently. Catelyn had bid farewell and good luck to Lady Maege two days ago, and Lord Glover himself was leaving this morning.

Finally, a smaller force made up of men from the other lords’ companies and the various Northmen who had found their way to the army in Greywater Watch would be led by Ned and Lord Umber, riding out of the Whispering Wood to attack Ryman Frey’s forces north of the Tumblestone. Catelyn knew perfectly well why Ned had chosen to attack Ryman Frey himself, and she feared he would take needless risks to kill the man for her sake. At least Ned’s company included Hallis Mollen and the man who had brought Ned out of Pentos, Donnell Boden. Catelyn had personally charged each of those men with seeing to Ned’s safety.

“My lady?” came Roslin’s voice, questioning, and Catelyn realized she had been so lost in her own thoughts, she hadn’t realized the girl was speaking to her.

“I’m sorry, child,” she said, reaching to squeeze the young woman’s hand. “Forgive an old woman’s distractions. I fear my mind is full of this battle.”

Roslin snorted. "You have reason to be distracted, my lady. But you are hardly an old woman.”

“I am certainly not a young one.”

Roslin smiled. “You do not see the way the men look at you.” She hesitated, and then looked at Catelyn from the corners of her eyes. “Lord Stark sees it, though. And then he looks at the men as if he really were the direwolf on his sigil.”

Catelyn kept her eyes on the mug in her hands and said nothing, although she felt the slight flush that came to her cheeks.

Roslin sighed. “After everything that has happened, my lady, do you think that Lord Edmure could ever look at me the way Lord Stark looks at you?” she asked hesitantly.

Catelyn looked up at the girl then. The slight rounding of her belly was hidden by her thick cloak, and her face looked heartbreakingly young and hopeful. _Gods be good, and let Edmure love her,_ she prayed silently. Aloud, she said, “Roslin, my husband was dead and now he is not. I have to believe that most things are possible.” She smiled at her. “Edmure is far more tenderhearted than I, child, and I have come to love you dearly. Have patience. I have learned that the best of love comes with time.”

Catelyn heard the slightly uneven footsteps behind her she had come to recognize as Ned’s, and she turned to greet her husband. “I thank you for the drink, my lord,” she said holding up her mug. “I’m the warmest I’ve been in two days at least.”

“I am glad of it,” he answered. “No, I’ve already had some,” he said, as she extended the mug toward him. “That’s all for you.” Turning toward Roslin, he said, “I thank you for bringing my lady wife her cup, Lady Tully.”

Roslin, always shy around Ned, dipped her head slightly, “It was my pleasure, my lord.”

“Are we still moving deeper into the Whispering Wood tomorrow, my lord?” Catelyn asked him.

His face became grave at once. _His lord’s face_ , she thought. “Yes,” he said. “Tomorrow, we move as far south as we dare, and we choose a safe position to have you and Lady Tully during the battle. We attack at dawn the following morning.”

Catelyn swallowed hard. It was what she wanted. They were going to free Riverrun. And yet . . .she couldn’t stop thinking about the last time. Passing through the gates to the joyous shouts from the castle after Robb’s victory, feeling nothing but the emptiness of Ned’s death. He was standing right in front of her, and still she felt that cold grief. What if they won Riverrun, but she lost Ned again? She felt suddenly faint, and her face must have shown it because Ned’s hands were suddenly on her arms, supporting her.

“My lady?” he said, concern in his voice. Then, “Cat?”

She looked at him and saw alarm in his eyes. She must look bad. He never used her nickname in front of other people. She reached up and touched his cheek. “I am fine, my lord. I haven’t eaten anything, and I fear I suddenly felt a bit faint, but I’m all right now.” She smiled brightly. “Nothing a bit of bread won’t cure.”

“I’ll get you something,” Roslin said quickly and bounded away.

“Cat,” Ned said slowly, once Roslin was gone, obviously not believing her hunger excuse.

“I fear for you, my love,” she said truthfully. “I cannot help it, Ned. I try, but . . .” She swallowed again. “It was just before Robb took Riverrun that we learned you had been killed. I know you are here, but I keep remembering, and I . . .”

“That explains Hal Mollen, then,” Ned said, thoughtfully.

“Hal? What of him?” Catelyn asked.

Ned chuckled softly. “I asked him to lead your guard during the battle. He looked damned uncomfortable and finally confessed that he’d promised you he’d guard me! I told him I’d speak to you.”

“Hal is going with you,” she said firmly. “He’s a Winterfell man, and I trust him to do everything in his power to keep you safe.”

“As I trust him to keep you safe,” he responded. His voice had gone from amusement to commanding in tone, but she was having none of it.

“No!” she exclaimed. “You told me you understood my part was harder. Back at the Twins, you told me. I promised I’d be good and send you off to kill or die, but you promised you’d do everything to come back to me safe! Well, taking Hal with you is part of keeping that promise. Leave me a guard. I don’t care whom, but it can’t be Hal.” Before he could respond, she added, “Or Donnell Boden, either.”

“Oh, I see,” Ned responded thoughtfully. “Recruited Donnell to my personal guard as well, have you?” She could hear the amusement creeping back into his voice and knew that she had won. “All right, my lady, we shall have it your way, but you are not to quibble at any other assignments I make to your guard. Is that understood?”

She nodded.

“And here’s Lady Tully with some food. Sit down, my lady, and eat.”

She looked at him watching her with that smile in his eyes that only she could see. He was concerned for her safety, concerned for her health, concerned for her feelings, concerned for her entirely too much with everything else he had on his mind. _What if he does die?_ It certainly could happen. Men died in battle all the time. _I cannot send him to his death not knowing what Robb did.  I have to give him the choice._

She accepted a dried venison strip and some bread from Roslin’s hand, but made no move to sit. “No,” she said, looking at her husband. “I will eat, my lord, but I need to speak with you. Will you walk with me?”

He looked at her, his grey eyes questioning, but said only, “Of course, my lady.”

“Please excuse us, Roslin,” she said, turning back to the girl. “I need to speak to my husband alone.”

“Of course, my lady. I will see you later, then.” Roslin blushed as she turned to go, no doubt imagining any number of girlish, romantic reasons Catelyn wanted Ned to herself. _If only that were the case_ , Catelyn thought.

“ Now, my lady, what troubles you?” Ned inquired, as Roslin walked away.

“Not here. Walk with me, please, Ned. I would have privacy before we speak.” She popped a large bite of bread into her mouth to effectively stop him from demanding any further answers from her until she was ready to speak and then handed him her mug in order to free one of her hands to take his arm. She nodded toward the trees, and without another word, the two of them walked away from the camp.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned could not imagine what his wife wished to say to him that required them to go so far from camp, but he walked beside her silently as she continued to stuff food in her mouth rather than say anything else. Well, he wanted her to eat, didn’t he? So, he simply followed her lead, walking deeper into the trees and waiting for her to stop.

When no sound could be heard behind them to indicate the camp even existed, she turned to him and reached for the mug he carried for her. After swallowing the last of her tea to wash down her hastily eaten breakfast and setting down the mug, she turned to him. “I must tell you something, my lord. Something I have kept from you.”

“Kept from me?” Ned suddenly felt alarmed. What harm had she suffered that she had not told him about?

As usual, she read his face as if his thoughts were written on it in ink. “There is nothing amiss with me, Ned. I am as well as I can be while contemplating the day after tomorrow.”

“My love,” he said, taking her hands in his, “I have much reason to come back safe. I would not leave you easily, Cat. Believe me.”

She nodded. “I know,” she said quietly, “but you cannot say with certainty that you will not be killed, and I cannot ask it of you.” She looked down then, and he wondered what she expected him to say. He had never promised her anything falsely, and she was correct in stating that he could be killed. _Ryman Frey will die first, though,_  he thought darkly.

Apparently, she didn’t expect him to say anything because after a moment, she looked up and continued. “Our sons are dead. Our daughters may be, too.”

“No, Cat!” he interrupted her. “Our girls are alive, and we shall find them. I promise you I will do everything in my power to . .”

“I know you will!” she broke in. “If you live through the next two days. And if they yet live.” Her lips trembled and her eyes watered, but she said it with only the tiniest break in her voice. “But those things may not happen, and Ned . . . .there’s Winterfell. You must have an heir. Bolton cannot be allowed to keep Winterfell!” The venom in her voice when she said Bolton’s name was chilling.

“Sansa is my heir,” he stated firmly. “And Arya after her.” He let go of her hands to hold her face and looked directly into her eyes. “I will never let Roose Bolton or his bastard have Winterfell! We will find our girls, Cat! And we may have other sons, my love. We may . .”

“I don’t know that I can!” she cried, and the anguish in her voice tore him in two. “It’s been more than four years since Rickon,” she continued quietly. “Perhaps, I can bear no more children.” She pulled away from him and turned her back to him, putting her face in her hands.

Was this what she feared to tell him? He walked to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “I don’t believe that,” he whispered into her hair. “And it doesn’t matter anyway. We will find our girls. I need no more sons or daughters.”

“You have another son.” Her voice was so quiet, he wasn’t certain he had heard it.

But she turned to face him then, stepping back a bit so that he could not quite touch her. “Jon Snow,” she said flatly. “All my sons are dead. But not all of yours.”

She looked at him now, waiting for him to respond. He shook his head. “No, Cat. Sansa is my heir.”

“Robb wanted this,” she said softly. “He wrote out a decree, legitimizing Jon Snow and making him his heir. Ask Lord Umber about it. He was there.”

“No,” Ned repeated. He felt the world spinning out of control. “Robb had no right . . .”

“Robb had every right,” she threw back at him. “He was the king.” After a moment, she added quietly, “And however I felt about it, he considered Jon his brother.”

Ned was shaking now. What did it cost her to say this to him? He shook his head again, and swallowed once. Keeping his voice soft, he said, “This simply cannot be, Cat.” _How could I make the boy who isn’t mine into my legitimate son? How could I do that to my girls?_

“Lord Reed has the paper,” she said simply. “Lord Glover and Lady Mormont carried it to Greywater Watch when Robb sent them there. I asked him why he hadn’t shown it to you.”

 _Gods, Howland! You should have told me! You, of all people, know why this cannot happen!_ Keeping his voice under icy control, he asked her, “And what did he say?”

“A lot of things,” she sighed and looked down. “Nothing, really. It doesn’t matter.” Then she raised her eyes to look directly at him. “I couldn’t keep it from you any longer.”

He returned her gaze. “Cat . . . You cannot want this,” he said. “I know you do not want this.”

“What I want matters little!” she exclaimed fiercely. “I want my sons alive and my daughters safe. I want Robb in Winterfell putting half a dozen babies into his Jeyne’s belly. Babes that I can sing to, and you can toss in the air as you did their father.” The tears were flowing freely from her eyes now. “I want to watch our grandchildren grow up before I die an old, old woman in my bed with your arms around me,” she sobbed. “I can’t have what I want, Ned! Winter is coming. I’ve heard you say it a million times. Well, my winter has come. All my sons are dead.”

He wanted desperately to go to her, to hold her. But he didn’t think she wanted that right now. He watched her standing there with the tears falling down the tracks of the scars on her face. She shook her head as if to clear it, and looked directly at him once more. Quietly, she said, “I have only you to think of now. All my sons are dead.”

He looked at this woman who had given him so much and said the only thing he could. “All my sons are dead, too.”

She looked at him then, not understanding. How could she understand? Then a new concern came into her eyes. “Oh, Ned. Have you heard from the Wall? Is Jon . . .? I am so sorry, my love.”

She crossed the small space between them and reached out to touch him, true sorrow and concern for him showing in those blue eyes of hers. _Gods, Cat! What have I done to you?_ He knew she didn’t truly care for Jon. He’d seen to that. And yet, she would mourn Jon for his sake. _For my sake! How much have you suffered for my sake, my love? Gods forgive me!_

He turned away from her then, striding three paces and slamming his fist hard against a tree. “I cannot do this any longer!” he cried out to no one in particular.

“Ned?” her voice held concern and a touch of fear. _Gods! I swore I’d never frighten her again!_

He kept his back to her until he felt more in control of himself. Then he turned and walked slowly back to his wife. He took her hands in his and looked into her face. “Jon is fine, as far as I know,” he said quietly.

She continued to look at him with a concerned, if somewhat bewildered expression. He held her hands tightly, and spoke. “Catelyn,” _Gods, I don’t even know how to start._ “Catelyn, my love . . .of all the truly important promises I have made in my life, I have managed to keep only two.” He swallowed, but did not take his grey eyes from her blue ones. “The first is the marriage vow I made to you in the sept at Riverrun.” Now confusion, disbelief, and even anger appeared on her face, and he hurried on before she could speak. “The second is a promise I made to my sister Lyanna as she lay dying.” He felt Catelyn go still before him, although her hands trembled in his. Or was it his hands which trembled? Her face had gone almost expressionless as she waited for him to finish speaking. “I promised I would do all in my power to protect her newborn son.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

 _Her newborn son?  What newborn son?_  Ned’s words slowly began to make sense to her, and Catelyn found it difficult to breathe. “Jon?” she asked. She could barely get the word out through the tightness in her throat. Ned was staring at her intently, and his grey eyes held a pleading look she had rarely seen there. His grip on her hands was so tight, she couldn’t feel the tips of her fingers. She couldn’t breathe. “Jon?” she croaked again. “Lyanna’s son?”

“Yes, my love, yes.” Ned’s voice broke, and his face seemed almost to crack into pieces as she looked at him. She actually saw a tear escape his eyes. She pulled her hands from his with some effort, and reached up to his cheek to wipe the tear with her finger, looking at the moisture on fingertip in wonder. She couldn’t speak any further. She couldn’t breathe.

“Cat?” he said, in that same ragged voice. “Say something. Please, my love.” He still looked at her with his pleading eyes.

She felt numb. Finally, she mustered the breath to whisper, “Why?” She took a great gulp of air and repeated it more loudly. “Why?”

“Robert,” he said. “Rhaegar.”

“What?” He wasn’t making sense. He just kept looking at her, and as she continued to gulp in air, the ability to feel came back with it, and she found herself shaking with rage. “You lied to me!” she felt like screaming, but she couldn’t forget there was a camp full of people not far away, so it came out more of a hiss between clenched teeth. “You’ve lied to me all this time! Gods, Ned! Did you ever care for me at all?” Now the tears filled her eyes again, and that made her angrier. She did not want to cry.

“Care for you? Cat, you are everything to me! You must know that.” He sounded so desperate, so unlike himself. But he had lied to her.

“Why?” she asked again.

“I . . .I want to tell you all of it.” He ran his hand through his hair. She had never seen him like this. “It is complicated. Will you please sit down?” He was shaking. “I need us to sit down.”

She didn’t know what else to do, so she spread her skirt and dropped to sit on the ground where she was. He sat beside her, reached out to touch her, but thought better of it and withdrew his hand. “Tell me,” she whispered hoarsely. “Tell me everything, Eddard Stark. Don’t you dare leave out one word.”

He nodded. “Rhaegar never kidnapped Lyanna,” he started. “She went with him because she wanted to.” He shook his head. “I loved my sister, but she was ever impulsive. She acted without thought of consequence to herself or anyone else.”

“A touch of the wolf’s blood,” Catelyn whispered.

Ned nodded. “So she went with him, and Brandon rode to King’s Landing in a rage, and you know what happened there. Everything else followed, and neither she nor Rhaegar Targaryen could stop it.”

“So Jon Snow is Rhaegar and Lyanna’s child.” Catelyn shook her head. “But, why, Ned? Why claim a Targaryen bastard as your own?”

“Not a Targaryen bastard,” he said quietly. “He married her, Cat. He married her, put a child in her belly, hid her away in that damned tower, and rode off to war believing he could put everything right. Perhaps he was as mad as Aerys after all.” Ned shook his head sadly.

Catelyn could barely wrap her mind around Ned’s tale. She was still reeling from the fact that the husband she had loved so much and so long had lied to her, and it required a great effort of mind to attend to anything else. “But Rhaegar was already married,” she protested.

“To Elia of Dorne, yes. He wasn’t the first Targaryen to believe himself entitled to two wives. Targaryens have long been known to make their own rules.” He sighed. “Rhaegar had half the Kingsguard at that tower, including Arthur Dayne. I knew when I saw them there what it meant. I knew, but I couldn’t stop it any more than Rhaegar could.”

“Did she die in childbirth?” Catelyn asked him quietly.

He shook his head. “It was a fever. Jon was a week or so old when I got there, and Lyanna had not been ill long. When she sickened, it took her quickly. Her strength was failing even as I fought to reach her.” His eyes got very far away then, and she knew he was back in Dorne, fighting against the Sword of the Morning, desperate to reach his sister’s side. She was quiet, and after a moment, he continued. “She knew Rhaegar was dead. She knew what had happened to Elia and her children. With her last breath, she asked me to protect her child. She begged me, Cat.” He looked at her again with those pleading eyes.

She hardened herself against that look. “Did she beg you to make her child a bastard and to lie to your wife?” she asked coldly. “Did she beg you to humiliate me and make me feel unwanted in my own home? Unwanted in my husband’s bed?”

“Cat, please. I never wanted to hurt you. I swear I didn’t.”

“But you did, Ned. You hurt me badly, and you know it.”

He bowed his head. “Yes. I did hurt you. And I knew it.” He paused. “And I hated myself for it.”

“Do you suppose I want that?“ she asked. “Is that supposed to make it all right?”

“Nothing can make it all right!” he exploded. “I couldn’t make it right then, and I could never figure out how to make it right later! Gods know I thought about it often enough. Every time I saw a shadow cross your face after we lay together. Every time you saw me with Jon and you looked like you wanted to die. Every time your smiles and laughter turned cold just because Jon came into a room. After so much time had passed, I didn’t know how I could make it right!” He paused. “And I was afraid of losing you. I was afraid of making you angry all over again,” he admitted.

“Making me angry?” She laughed bitterly. “Ned, I’ve been angry for over fifteen years!” He looked shocked at that, and she shook her head. “Oh, I’ve loved you. And I forgave you your bastard long ago. But I couldn’t forgive you for still loving his mother more than you loved me! And I couldn’t do a thing about it except pretend as best I could that Jon wasn’t there. And you never made that easy. Forever treating him as if he were one of ours.”

“He was Lyanna’s son, Cat! All I had left of her! How could I do otherwise?” He looked at her with regret in his eyes. “And Cat, I never dreamed you believed I loved another woman more. I knew you were curious about Jon’s mother, and my refusal to speak of her bothered you, but . . .” He shook his head. “I am sorry, my love. I never meant to hurt you in such a way. I couldn’t let you ask me about her because I found it too difficult to lie to you.”

She laughed again, hating the bitterness she heard in it. “I am so sorry I made things difficult for you, my lord.”

He looked stricken. “That isn’t what I meant! It’s only that you see me so well. Sometimes, I feel you read my very thoughts and feelings, my love, and I had to . . .”

“Yes!” she interrupted him. “I could see the love you held for the boy and his mother on your face every time the two of you were together, and not knowing he was your nephew, what was I supposed to believe?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head and looked down at his lap. “I don’t know.”

They were both silent then for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, she asked him, “Why the lie at the start? Why not just bring your nephew home to Winterfell? Surely, you know I would have welcomed him.”

He sighed. “You weren’t there, Cat. You didn’t see him.”

“I wasn’t where? Didn’t see whom?” She was angry and hurt and tired of him saying things that made no sense to her.

“Robert,” he said softly. “When they brought him the corpses of Rhaegar’s murdered children, he was pleased. He was pleased, Cat! He called them dragonspawn and was glad they were dead.” He looked at her with haunted eyes. “Little Rhaenys had been stabbed too many times to count, and Aegon,” he choked on the name. “That baby’s head was not even recognizable as human after being bashed into the wall by Gregor Clegane. And Robert was pleased.”

He sat silently for a moment, and then looked at Catelyn steadily as he said, “The Kingsguard were at the Tower of Joy to protect the heir to the throne. With Elia and her children murdered, and Rhaegar dead by Robert’s hand at the Trident, Lyanna’s child became Jon Targaryen, first of his name, King of the Seven Kingdoms.” He closed his eyes as if in pain, and said, “He could not remain so and live.”

“So you made him Jon Snow.”

He nodded. “You know what he looks like. Even as a newborn, he was Stark through and through. I could see nothing of Rhaegar when I looked at him.” It was his turn to give a bitter laugh. “I look at him and see purely Lyanna, but it is easy enough for everyone else to look and see me.” He looked at her apologetically. “And it was hardly unusual for a man away at war to father a bastard. It seemed the only thing I could do to ensure his safety.”

“You truly believe Robert would have killed him.” Catelyn looked at him. “Ned, he was your closest friend. He was like a brother to you.”

“You weren’t there, Cat,” he said again.

“You should have told me,” she said quietly.

“Should I have?” he asked her. He didn’t sound defensive or mocking. He sounded as if he truly wanted her to consider the question, and so she looked at him, waiting for him to explain.

“We barely knew each other, Catelyn, for all we had made a son together. I was committing treason, you know. Harboring a potential threat to Robert’s throne in our home. Should I have made you a party to treason?” He looked at her levelly. “I didn’t tell anyone, Cat. Not even Benjen, although I think he suspected. Once Ashara Dayne died, only Howland Reed and I knew the truth, and I never spoke it to a living person until now.”

Catelyn’s heart had almost stopped when Ned had said Ashara Dayne’s name. So the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms did come into the story after all, even if she was not Jon Snow’s mother. Catelyn felt small and petty for asking, but she could not help herself. “Ashara Dayne . . . did you . . .” she couldn’t bring herself to say “love her.”

“No, Cat. Never,” he answered her unfinished question. “She knew where Lyanna was through Ser Arthur. It was she who sent me word where I could find her. And I repaid her by killing her brother. I had Jon with me when I returned Dawn to her. She guessed who he was immediately.” He paused. “She was lovely, and I danced with her once, at that damned tournament in Harrenhall where Rhaegar met Lyanna, but I could barely speak to her, I was so shy. Brandon had no difficulties speaking to her, of course, but then he could charm all the beautiful girls.”

“You were jealous?” she asked.

“Over Ashara Dayne? No. Over you? Terribly.” He looked at her as if it almost caused him pain to do so. “You truly are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Cat, and you are mine only because Brandon died. It is a terrible thing to begrudge my dead brother any affection you ever gave him, and yet I do. Gods forgive me, I do. I want you to have belonged only and always to me.”

At that, she could no longer remain calm and quiet. “You blind, selfish man,” she said, rising from her place on the ground. “You sit there and tell me you want me to have belonged only and always to you. Yet you came home from Dorne and told me a lie that made damned sure I’d always believe you belonged to someone else. How dare you? How dare you?”

She couldn’t stay still any longer and began to walk aimlessly, back and forth. “I deserved better than that, Eddard Stark,” she flung at him as she paced. “I did. And Jon did, too. I won’t pretend I love the boy. I don’t. I never let myself even look at him more than I had to. But he deserved better. He’s a man grown now and deserves to know who he is. Robert Baratheon’s as dead as his parents are, so what’s to keep you from telling him the truth now? Or are you afraid of making him angry, too? Because I’ll tell you something, my lord, he’s been angry as long as I have, and not just at me! He’s angry at the man who made him a bastard!”

Suddenly, she couldn’t stand to be there with him any longer. She didn’t know what to say or do, only that she had to get away from him. She started to run back toward the camp, but he jumped up and caught her arm, moving surprisingly fast for a man with a bad leg.

“Let me go, Ned,” she said without turning around.

“I can’t,” he said. “Please, my love. Look at me.”

She breathed deeply and turned to face him. “You are hurting my arm,” she said coldly.

He let go of her as if she had burned his hand. “Please do not go,” he said. “I am sorry. Please forgive me.”

“For what? The bastard, or the lie, or the hurt to my arm? I’ve lost track.”

Again, he looked stricken. “For all of it! And I’ve fathered no bastards, Catelyn. I have never betrayed you in that way.”

She stood very still then and looked him in the eyes, speaking calmly and precisely. “You may never have fathered any bastards, my lord, but you created one nonetheless. Just ask Jon Snow. As for betrayal,” she completely let down her guard then, and did not try to hide any of her pain, confusion, or anger, “this is what it looks like.”

He simply looked at her, unable to respond. She stood there only a moment longer, and then turned and left him without looking back.

 

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Ned had no idea how long he remained standing alone in the woods after she left him. He felt empty. He had a battle to fight in less than two days. He had men to lead and a castle to free. Yet, he just stood there feeling empty. _Have I lost her?_ He wasn’t sure what to do next. He desperately wanted to go after her, and yet he felt he had no right. _This is what betrayal looks like._ She had been shattered. That was the only word he could put to her face. None of the scars from the Red Wedding had done to her face what he had done to it this day. _Gods forgive me. And please let my lady wife find it in her heart to forgive me as well._ He wasn’t at all sure that she could.

Slowly he walked back to camp. He carefully avoided his tent, instead going to speak to any number of his men and making sure all moved according to plan. He found quite a lot to do, and it seemed everyone needed a word with him. The day passed into evening without his returning to his tent. He did not see Catelyn once. He ate his evening meal with the men and took some food to bring to her. As he was walking toward their tent, he saw Roslin Tully leaving it.

“Lady Tully,” he called to her. “How fares my lady wife this evening?”

Roslin walked up to him and looked at him coldly. “What happened today, my lord? What did you say to her?” Roslin ordinarily barely looked at him, but now she stared right at him and awaited an answer.

“I . . . is she not well?” He started to go around the young woman and into his tent, but her voice stopped him.

“She is in bed now.” Ned’s concern must have looked genuine to Roslin because her expression softened a bit. “I saw her return to your tent, my lord, earlier today. When I never saw her come out, I went to see if she wanted company and I found her standing . . . .the way she did before sometimes. She just stood there and wouldn’t talk or move or even acknowledge me for the longest time. Finally, she let me help her undress and get her into bed.”

Ned’s heart fell. “Did she say anything to you?”

“No, my lord. She only cried. She’s never done that in front of me before except when she’s asleep.”

Ned’s heart broke completely. “I’ll see to her, Lady Roslin. I thank you for taking care of her.”

“Did something terrible happen, my lord?”

“Yes,” he answered. “But it happened a long time ago.” He left her standing there and went into his tent.

Catelyn lay on their cot, bundled under furs, with her auburn hair spread out on the pillow. She looked completely at peace, with her eyes closed in exhausted sleep. He sighed and sat down on the edge of their cot to wait.

After an hour or so, she began to move in her sleep and then to cry out. He was ready, and bent over her to kiss her cheek and hold her in his arms as he had done during all her previous nightmares. “Cat,” he murmured. “I am here, Cat. You are safe.” Slowly, she settled back into peaceful slumber in his arms, and he kept watch over her throughout the rest of the night.

 

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She woke to the feeling of his fingers playing with her hair. For just a moment, she was back in her bedroom at Winterfell, having awakened to that sensation there so many times. She kept her eyes closed and pretended to still sleep, just as she had in the early days of their marriage. In those days, she had been so unsure of him, so consumed by thoughts of Ashara Dayne or whomever his mystery love was, that she trusted almost nothing he did or said while she was awake. He was only being courteous or dutiful, she would tell herself. Even when he lay with her, she imagined he thought of someone else. But when she realized he played with her hair when he thought her sleeping, well that was hers alone. He had no reason for pretense while she slept. And Ashara Dayne had black hair, not red. He could hardly confuse the two. She would pretend to sleep and savor the knowledge that in those moments, her husband thought only of her.

Later, as they slowly acknowledged the feeling between them, she would open her eyes when she felt his fingers in her hair of a morning and pull him close to her, touching his skin and feeling his body respond to hers. Gods, she had loved those mornings. Now she kept her eyes closed again, although there was no Ashara Dayne and never had been. She kept them closed because she didn’t know what to say to him. Didn’t know quite what she felt.

She heard him sigh deeply and felt him rise from his seat on the cot. His fingers gently traced the edge of her face at the hairline, and then were gone. As she heard his slightly uneven gait moving away from her, suddenly nothing mattered except the loss of those fingers in her hair.

“Ned, wait,” she said, opening her eyes.

She saw him stop about halfway to the tent entrance. He stood still, but did not speak or turn around.

“Please come back,” she said as she sat up in bed, pulling a fur up around her against the cold.

He turned and looked at her, his expression unreadable, although his eyes looked very tired. “You haven’t slept, have you?” she said.

“No,” he said. Still he stood there, as if waiting for something.

“Please come back, my lord. I would speak with you.”

He walked slowly back, and when she patted the cot, he sat beside her. “You were here all night, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Opening her eyes to look at him, she said simply, “I love you, Ned.”

He looked at her and tilted his head to the side in disbelief, as if that were the last thing he’d expected to hear from her.

“I am angry at you for lying to me. I have never been as angry at you as I was yesterday, and I don’t imagine I’ll get completely over it for some time.”

He shivered, and Catelyn knew perfectly well he wasn’t cold. “My lady,” he started.

“But I will forgive you,” she interrupted.

He stared at her for a moment. “Why?” he blurted out.

“Because I choose to.” She took his hand in hers. “Forgiveness is a choice, you know. But it is not always an easy one. I cannot promise my forgiveness will be perfect, my love. The gods know it wasn’t before. I can’t imagine I have gotten any better at it with time.”

“I don’t understand, my lady. You have every right to . . .”

“Love you,” she interrupted. “You are my husband, and I have every right to love you. Do you still want me to be your wife?”

He gripped her hand more tightly. “There is nothing I want more, my lady.” She saw the truth of it in his grey eyes.

“Are there any more secrets, Ned?” Her voice faltered for the first time. “I don’t think I can do this again, so please, for the love you bear me, if there are any other lies or secrets between us, tell me now.”

“There are none, Cat. And there will be none.”

She nodded slowly. “I believe we move south today, my lord. I will be dressed momentarily so we can strike the tent.”

He made no move to rise. He simply leaned in and softly kissed her forehead. “I shall do everything in my power to be worthy of you, my love.”

She smiled and put her hand on his face. “Oh, you are, my love. If you weren’t, I wouldn’t trouble myself to forgive you.”

He chuckled softly and kissed her hand formally as he rose to go outside.  He looked back at her once, as if he still couldn't believe what she had said.   She smiled after him, thinking that while they were still somewhat uneasy, they had each chosen each other again. That was enough for the present. Now they had a castle to free. Riverrun was waiting.


	14. Return to Riverrun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is a REALLY long chapter. A LOT of stuff happens and I seriously wanted to end this one on a happy note. Kind of a Happy New Year's present to myself and anyone reading. So, hope it's not TOO long, and that you enjoy.

Roslin Frey Tully shivered as a particularly sharp gust of wind cut through the trees surrounding the group of ten men and two women on horseback. Her horse liked it no better than she did, and shied rather violently to one side. As she pulled on the reins in a somewhat panicked attempt to get the beast back under control, the rider beside her reached out a hand and grabbed her frightened horse’s bridle.

“Ho, now. Steady,” came Lady Stark’s calm, cool voice. “Steady, boy. That’s it.” Turning her face toward Roslin, she said, “Ease up on the rein, Roslin. You’ll hurt the poor thing’s mouth.”

As Roslin’s horse stilled, Lady Stark easily sidestepped her own mount right up next to it, so she could lay a hand over Roslin’s and help her relax her hold on the rein. “There you go, child. He was only frightened by the wind.”

In the relative darkness of the pre-dawn hour, the older woman appeared little more than a shadow beside her, but Roslin stared at her in awe. “You are a marvelous horsewoman, my lady! How do you come to ride so well?”

She couldn’t see Lady Stark’s facial expression, but she could hear the smile in her voice. “We rode quite frequently at Riverrun. The countryside here is marvelous for riding. Although in truth, I preferred swimming to riding until my father told me I’d gotten too old for stripping off my dress and diving into the Red Fork whenever I took a notion!”

Roslin tried and failed to imagine Lady Stark as a child splashing through the water in her smallclothes. “Truly, my lady?” she asked incredulously.

Lady Stark laughed. “Truly, child. Lysa, Edmure, and I rarely spent an entire day dry if the weather was hot. As to the riding, I actually got quite a lot more practiced at it once I came to Winterfell. I’m a fair hand at it, but I’m nothing compared to my lord husband, or even my daughter Arya. Apparently she takes after his sister Lyanna, who by all reports, was part horse herself.”

Lady Stark fell silent then, and Roslin wondered if speaking of her daughter had made her sad. The woman had been the very image of calm confidence since they had risen in the dark of night to ride with their guard to this little cove in the trees, calming Roslin’s fears with her presence. Yet Roslin sensed an underlying tension in her conversation, however light she kept her voice.

“Will the attack come soon, my lady?” she asked almost in a whisper.

“It is still a bit dark. I expect they will wait until the horizon shines just a little brighter.” Lady Stark paused as if considering something. “They need enough light to see when each force moves, but they want to strike the Freys and Lannisters before they are all truly up and moving for the day. And they must do it before Ryman’s men put Edmure up on that gibbet,” she said bitterly.

“My lady?” asked Roslin anxiously.

Lady Stark sighed deeply. “If my brother is standing on the trap of that gibbet with a noose around his neck when an attack comes, I cannot imagine Frey hesitating to drop him. Since his noose hasn’t been tied by the clever Wallen, we can’t allow that to happen, can we?”

“Oh no, my lady!” Roslin felt a new stab of fear at the thought of her lord husband being hanged before she ever had the chance to beg his forgiveness, a prospect which frightened her quite enough by itself. She shivered again even though the wind was still.

Lady Stark noticed. “Don’t be afraid, Roslin,” she said quietly. “Ned will not let that happen.”

Roslin knew then that Lady Stark was more anxious than she let on. She never called her husband Ned when speaking about him to her.

Lord Stark had ridden here with them and given the men assigned to guard them all kinds of strict instructions about riding the perimeter, keeping a constant watch, keeping at least four men within easy reach of the women at all times. He had instructed Lady Stark and herself to remain mounted at all times, in case the need arose to flee suddenly. His voice had been even sterner than usual, and Roslin was rather glad it had been too dark to see his face clearly, for she could imagine how icy his grey stare would feel as he gave those orders. She knew him to be a good man, but he could look so cold.

When he had left to join his men, Lady Stark had told him simply, “Stay safe, my lord. I will be waiting.” He hadn’t said anything. He had only pressed her hand to his lips and held it there a moment before turning his horse and riding off. Lady Stark had sat perfectly still on her horse and looked after him until he was swallowed up by the darkness. It seemed to Roslin an odd sort of farewell, but perhaps they had said their goodbyes in their tent earlier.

Roslin had found herself watching the Starks quite closely during the journey from the Twins. She knew they loved each other, and gods knew that was something she had seen little enough of growing up. She wondered at their formality with each other though, and secretly delighted in catching the small gestures and looks between the two of them which hinted at a much warmer relationship. She wondered if other married couples were like them. If perhaps, she and Lord Edmure would someday be like them. Edmure had seemed to her a thousand times warmer than Lord Stark, but that was before . . .

A long low blast interrupted her musings.

“It begins!” called one of the men with them.

“Maege Mormont,” said Lady Stark quietly, beside her. “Only Grey Wind isn’t here to answer her horn.”

 _Robb Stark’s wolf_ , thought Roslin. _Grey Wind was the name of Robb Stark’s direwolf._

Then an even louder horn, and much closer by, sounded through the trees. “The Greatjon,” said Lady Stark. "He and Ned are riding out now.” She reached out and clutched Roslin’s hand. Other horns were sounding now, and shouts rang out in the gradually lightening darkness. One shout came to them clearly just before the sounds all blended into a chaotic mix of metal clanging, arrows singing, horses and men screaming, and hoof beats like thunder. One deep, strong voice called out loudly a single word. “Winterfell!!!!” And Lady Stark gripped Roslin’s hand tighter. “Be safe, Ned,” Roslin heard her whisper.

“He will be,” Roslin told her firmly, turning to look at her. It had lightened enough that she could make out her face now, and it looked carved from stone, grey in the half-light of dawn. Her blue eyes were fixed on the trees ahead of them, staring desperately toward the direction of that shout.

“Ser,” Roslin called to the guard nearest them. “Is it possible to move so that we might see more?”

“I’m sorry, my lady,” the man replied. “Lord Stark says you’re to go no nearer than this. And if you get where you can see them, they can see you. I don’t think his lordship would look kindly on me if I allowed some Frey bowman to use you or his lady for target practice.”

Lady Stark seemed to shake herself. She withdrew her hand from Roslin’s and reined her horse in the direction of the man who had spoken, suddenly the imperturbable Lady of Winterfell again. “Lord Stark’s lady has already played target to a Frey bowman,” she said. “And I have no desire to repeat the experience. Lady Tully and I shall remain right here, but I want one of you to bring reports from the perimeter riders of all they can see.”

“Lord Stark said . . .”

“Lord Stark is not here,” she interrupted. “If you would like me to ride out there and ask his permission to have you bring me reports, I will do so. Otherwise, simply accept that I speak for my lord husband in his absence and do as I ask.”

“My lady,” the man started to protest.

Roslin watched with admiration as Lady Stark turned her horse back toward the battle and started to give it a kick.

“No, my lady!” the poor guard said hurriedly. “I mean, yes, my lady. We will bring you whatever word of the battle we can get.” He turned to one of the others. “Orren, ride toward the perimeter, and find what can be seen.”

The man called Orren grinned at Lady Stark before riding off. “As my lady commands,” he said.

The shouts and screams along with a myriad of other sounds continued from beyond the trees unabated. Roslin suddenly was quite unsure of what to do with herself. She turned to Lady Stark. “What happens now, my lady?” she asked, feeling very young and frightened in that moment.

Lady Stark sighed and looked at her. “Now, child, we wait.” Then she turned her blue eyes back toward the direction of the battle sounds once more with the air of a woman accustomed to waiting.

 

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“Winterfell!” Ned shouted as he galloped into the Frey camp with Hallis Mollen and Donnell Boden at either side of him like twin shadows. Northmen flowed into the camp like a river, sweeping away the men in their path. They were badly outnumbered, Ned knew, and success depended on striking quickly, devastating the Freys before they could mount an organized defense. There were some Frey men up and armed who had already engaged the attacking northmen, but far more were just scrambling out of their tents, some of them not even fully clothed, much less armored.

Suddenly, he saw Donnell turn to his left to meet the charge of a horsemen from that direction, and an armored man on foot appeared just on Ned’s left swinging a heavy mace at his horse. Ned pulled hard on the reins, and the big gelding veered out of range just as the blow fell. _Gods, that was close!_ Ned had no illusions about his ability to fight on foot. His damned leg had made him a virtual cripple for that type of sword fighting. He was only a passable soldier as long as he sat a horse. He turned the horse in a tight, quick circle, bringing his sword arm toward the man with the mace and felling him with a swift blow to the small space between the helmet and breastplate. Tugging hard to wrest the sword from the flesh of the man’s neck, he rode on, Hal close on his right side, and Donnell, having dispatched the horseman, galloping back up to his left.

He turned his head from side to side as he rode, seeking any sign of Edmure Tully’s bright auburn mane. He’d promised Cat he’d try to get her brother out of this alive, and he meant to keep that promise. He could see the gibbet Ryman Frey had erected standing in plain view of the walls of Riverrun, but it was mercifully empty. Looking toward the castle, he saw the direwolf of House Stark flying from its highest tower, above the Tully trout, and it filled his heart with pride and determination.

“Winterfell!” he shouted again and wheeled his horse to meet the charge of two mounted Frey men. While he knocked one of them off his horse easily, the other’s sword struck a glancing blow on his right side, getting beneath his armor. It was nothing serious, he knew, but the pain of it muddled his thoughts for an instant. He forced himself to focus before the man could strike a second blow, meeting the sword with his shield and bringing his own sword down hard on the man’s shoulder. He didn’t penetrate the man’s armor, but the force of the blow caused him to drop his sword, and Hal’s sword then separated the man’s head from his shoulders even as the man shouted curses at Ned.

The familiar sounds of battle had been joined by the smells of battle as well; the sweat of men and horses and the unmistakable scent of blood. Ned also smelled something like meat cooking and realized suddenly that a number of the tents were on fire, as well as some of the men. Looking back toward the castle, he could see that Brynden Tully had indeed joined the battle. Longbowmen on the walls were shooting flaming arrows into the camp.

Ned, Hal, and Donnell had several men on horse and foot around them now, and swords were flashing back and forth so quickly in the pale grey light, it was difficult to tell which weapon belonged to which man. As Ned drove his sword through the chest of a Frey man armed with an axe and wearing no armor, he felt someone suddenly pull hard at his back. His feet left his stirrups, and he fell from his horse, the wind knocked from him as his armored back hit the ground hard.

He struggled to breathe and regain his feet, as two men approached him with swords. Then Hal was between him and the men, having leapt off his own horse. He cut down the first man easily as Ned staggered to a standing position, but before Ned could brandish his own sword, the other man’s sword flashed downward taking Hal’s arm clean off at the shoulder.

“No!” Ned shouted and drove his own sword straight into the Frey man’s chest. As the man fell to the ground, Ned dropped to his knees beside Hal, grabbing the cloak of one of the fallen men and stuffing it into the gaping hole where Hal’s arm had been joined to his shoulder in an attempt to staunch the unstoppable flow of blood.

“Donnell!” he screamed, looking about him wildly. He saw that Donnell, still mounted, had killed or driven off the remaining men and now galloped back toward them. “Stay with him!” he commanded. “Keep pressure on the wound!”

Donnell looked grim. “I cannot leave you, my lord.”

Ned looked at Hal’s ghostly white face. “My lord,” the man gasped. “Donnell goes with you.”

“No!” Ned shouted again. “You will stay with him, Donnell. That is a command!”

Suddenly, Ned heard someone shouting above the fray. “I’ll kill him! I swear I will! Stop or I’ll kill him!”

He turned around to see a man clad only in unlaced breeches and a tunic standing in the doorway of a large tent and holding a knife to the neck of Edmure Tully. Behind the man, peering out of the tent with eyes widened in fear were two barely clothed camp followers. Ned had never known the man well and hadn’t seen him in years, but he knew precisely who he was. “Ryman Frey!” he shouted, as he walked slowly and deliberately toward him. “Unhand Lord Tully!”

Edmure was staring at Ned openmouthed, as if the sudden appearance of his goodbrother’s shade was more alarming than the knife at his throat. Ned’s visor was open, but Frey didn’t recognize him as Edmure had. He simply stood there, staring at him, and pressing the point of the knife into Edmure’s neck so that a bead of blood blossomed at its tip.

Ned stopped about five paces from the man and pulled off his helmet. “Do you know who I am?” he asked in a tone that sounded more like a wolf’s growl than a man’s voice.

Frey looked at him and blinked hard as if trying to focus. _Gods!_ Ned thought. _The man’s in his cups!_ Suddenly, the man’s eyes opened wider. Ned would have found the shock and disbelief on the man’s face comical had he not been in such a rage. _This piece of filth, this pathetic excuse for a man had dared to . . ._

“You’re dead!” the man suddenly shouted. “You’re dead!”

“I am not,” Ned said in a cold voice. “But you soon will be.”

“Lord . . . Lord Eddard?” Edmure rasped against the knife at his throat.

“Lord Edmure,” Ned replied, as if the two men were greeting each other at an inn. “Pardon me for not arriving sooner. I had business at the Twins.” The last sentence was spoken in tones of ice.

Ryman Frey paled at that, and Edmure shouted, “Kill him, Stark! They murdered your son! They murdered Cat! Kill him!” The last word was choked off as Frey gouged his neck a bit more with the knife.

Ned took another step forward, never taking his eyes off Ryman Frey. “Yes, Lord Tully,” he said in that same icy tone, looking not at Edmure, but at Frey, “They did murder my son. That is not, however, what this filthy Frey did to my wife.”

Ryman Frey’s hands began to shake now, as his bloodshot eyes stared at Ned. Edmure noticed and seized the opportunity to twist away from him. His hands were bound, but as he twisted away, he brought his knee up hard between Frey’s legs, and the man groaned and dropped the knife to the ground. Edmure dove to one side, and shouted, “Now, Stark! Kill him!”

Ned pushed the point of his sword against Ryman Frey’s chest, and something in the man seemed to snap. “Is that it, Stark? Are you going to murder me? You have no more honor than your son if you do!” His face reminded Ned of a rabid dog’s.

“Honor?” he said icily. “You dare speak to me of honor?”

“No one insults House Frey!” the man spit at him.

“He’s mad, Stark,” Edmure put in. “Kill him and be done with it. The battle still goes on. We can’t stay here.”

Ned ignored Edmure. He pressed the point of his sword harder into Ryman Frey’s chest. “How dare you lay hands on my wife? How dare you?”

The man’s face twisted into a nasty expression. “I laid more than hands on her. She’s a Tully and a Stark. She deserved worse! My grandfather told us she deserved worse!”

“Your grandfather is dead, Frey,” Ned said coldly. “His head and eight other Frey heads are mounted on the wall at the Twins for the treasonous murder of my son.” Frey went a ghostly shade of white.

“But you,” Ned continued, “won’t die for that.” The drunken idiot actually had the nerve to look relieved for a moment.

“You will die for what you did to Catelyn,” said Ned Stark, just before he thrust the sword through Ryman Frey’s chest.

Ryman Frey’s eyes opened wide with surprise as Ned pulled the sword out and allowed him to fall to the ground to die. Edmure stood staring at the blood spreading on the ground beneath the man’s body, and then looked up at Ned. “Catelyn?” he asked, his voice equal parts fear and hope.

Ned‘s vision swam a bit as he looked up from the dead Frey to Catelyn‘s brother. He wondered if he‘d lost more blood from that wound in his side than he‘d thought. “She’s alive,” he said as he reached behind Tully to unbind his hands.

Just then another war horn sounded, this time from inside the castle. “That’s Uncle Brynden’s!” exclaimed Edmure. “He’s opening the gates! We’ve got to get there and meet him.”

Ned looked around at what was left of the Frey camp. Fighting continued, but the day belonged to the northmen. He saw Donnell tightly binding Hal Mollen’s shoulder, wrapping material round and round his chest, but he also saw the crimson stain on the cloth continuing to spread in spite of it. He sighed heavily with grief. He looked back at his goodbrother and nodded. “We need to mount horses, for I fear I cannot walk the distance. And I would bring my injured man.” He put his hand on Edmure’s shoulder. “Let’s get you to your castle gate, Lord Tully.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn Stark had not moved from her horse. She had listened all morning to the terrible sounds coming from Riverrun and knew she was listening to men die. _Not Ned,_ she prayed. _Please, not Ned._ The men who guarded her and Roslin had told her the Frey camp seemed to fall into complete disarray when Ned and his men had attacked, and that the battle there went well. _Of course, men die in victories as well as defeat_ , she thought. _That is the nature of war_. Of the battles beneath the other walls of Riverrun, they could tell her little, not being in a position to see much of those. So she waited.

As the morning wore on, the sounds gradually diminished. There were still screams and other battle noises, but they were fewer, and separated by more spaces of relative silence. Finally, a man came riding up to her with a wide smile on his face. “It appears to be over, my lady! A victory!”

“Victory?” Roslin asked from behind her. “Truly, sir? It is over?”  The girl sounded breathless. She had done well, although she had been restless, sometimes riding in little circles or back and forth during the long waits for any little report. Youth, Catelyn supposed. She had been more restless at that age herself.

“Yes, Lady Tully,” the man assured her. “The Freys on our side of the river are thoroughly defeated. I cannot say for sure what happened south of the Red Fork with Lord Reed’s men because we cannot see that side of the castle, but Ser Brynden has ridden out to join our force at the castle gate, and they make no move to ride to the other side. That can only mean the fighting is done there as well.”

“Then we shall ride to Riverrun now,” said Catelyn.

“No, my lady,” the man responded immediately.

“No?” Catelyn questioned him, arching her brow. “Ser, that was not a request. We shall ride to Riverrun.”

The man was visibly distressed, but he shook his head again. “No, my lady. I am sorry, but Lord Stark was very clear on this point. We are not to move from this place until an escort is sent for us.”

Catelyn frowned. She needed to be down there. She needed to know that Ned was all right. She wanted to see Edmure and Brynden. She was on the verge of opening her mouth to argue when she felt Roslin’s hand on her arm.

“I am sure Lord Stark is safe,” the girl said softly. “And that he found my lord husband as well.”

“That’s what I intend to go find out,” Catelyn told her.

“My lady,” Roslin said, again in the softest of voices. “If the battle is just ended, all may not be secure. Our forces are rather spread out, after all. I am certain Lord Stark wishes to be certain of everything before he comes for us.” She lowered her voice still further. “He knows you are safe here,” she almost whispered.

Catelyn bit back the argument which came to her lips, for she knew the girl was right. Her desperate need to see her husband could not take precedence over his need to secure Riverrun and see to the men who fought for it. She would only be a distraction if she rode into the castle demanding her husband’s attention when it was needed elsewhere. She nodded at Roslin. “You are very wise, Lady Tully,” she told her with a smile, thinking that only a moment ago she had considered restlessness a folly of youth, and now she was the one itching to gallop her horse to Riverrun. Her brother was blessed more than he knew in his little bride. To her guard, she said simply, “We shall wait.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Roslin was not certain how long they waited, but she did know that her own apprehension and impatience paled beside Lady Stark’s. The older woman spoke little and sat still on her horse, but it was a different stillness than Roslin had come to know from her at the Twins. There, she had seemed empty--her stillness a byproduct of there being nothing left inside her. Now her stillness seemed a great effort of the will, as if rather than being empty, Lady Stark was now so full of emotion that if she let it escape her, she might not be able to contain it again.

Finally, one of their guards rode up from beyond the trees blocking the view toward Riverrun to tell them a small party of riders approached, bearing the Tully standard. Lady Stark did not wait to ask anything. She simply kicked her horse and rode in that direction, and so Roslin followed. As the party of six men came into view, she saw disappointment cloud Lady Stark’s face. Apparently, Lord Stark was not among the riders. Roslin could not truly recognize any of them at this distance, but she did not doubt that Lady Catelyn would know her husband. As the men drew closer, however, she heard a small cry of surprise and joy escape the woman’s throat, and then she was galloping to meet the riders, Roslin again trailing in her wake.

A tall white haired man with a deep, smoky laugh stopped and dismounted as they approached. “Little Cat!” he exclaimed, in a booming voice.

 _Little Cat?_ Roslin was shocked to see that Lady Stark had all but leapt off her own horse and was now throwing herself into the older man’s outstretched arms. He proceeded to spin her around joyfully, and when Roslin saw the expression on her face, suddenly it did not seem difficult to imagine her as a child playing in the rivers at all. This man must be her uncle, Brynden Tully, the Blackfish of Riverrun.

“Uncle!” Lady Stark exclaimed, confirming Roslin’s supposition, “it gladdens my heart to see you!”

“Ah, but so much more does it gladden mine to see you, Little Cat,” he replied, holding her at arm’s length and staring at her face. “We had believed you lost to us for so long, I had to ride out here to see you for myself, rather than take Stark’s word for it!”

“Ned!” cried Lady Stark. “Uncle, is he . . .”

“He is fine, niece. He sent us to fetch you,” the man interrupted her.

That struck Roslin as odd. From what she had seen of Lord and Lady Stark, she couldn’t imagine the man sending anyone after his wife if he were capable of coming himself.

Apparently, Lady Stark thought the same because she asked her uncle, “Why did my lord husband not come himself? What keeps him at Riverrun?” Roslin could hear the anxiety in her voice.

Ser Brynden looked carefully at his niece, and Roslin noted he had the same blue eyes as Lady Catelyn and Edmure, although his were half hidden under bushy white eyebrows. “Your lord is truly fine, Cat. He took some small wound, that is all.” Lady Stark drew in her breath. “It is nothing,” Ser Brynden said firmly. “He’ll likely have a few stitches in his side when we reach him, but it’s little more than a scratch. I swear to you he’s taken no permanent damage.” He surveyed Lady Stark even more closely. “It would appear he is a difficult person to kill,” he said slowly. “Rather like his lady wife.”

Roslin saw Lady Stark shake her head in response. Then she asked the question which had been on Roslin’s lips all this time. “What of Edmure, Uncle? How fares my brother?”

“Well, he’s a good bit skinnier than you’ll remember. Apparently those cursed Freys didn’t think to feed him much while they left him out on that gibbet all day every day,” he said bitterly. “But aside from that, he’s well enough. Thanks to your husband, apparently, who got him away from that bastard Ryman Frey who had him at knifepoint.”

Now Roslin gasped, and Ser Brynden looked up to see her on her horse as if noticing her for the first time.

“Uncle,” said Lady Stark. “May I present Lady Roslin Tully, Edmure’s wife and your goodniece.”

Now the blue eyes that regarded her turned very cold, and none of the warmth that she had heard in that smoky voice remained when he addressed her. “So you’re the little Frey tart who bedded my fool of a nephew as young Robb Stark and his men were murdered.”

Roslin felt as if she had been slapped. Tears stung her eyes, and she felt her cheeks flush with shame.

“Brynden Tully!” Lady Stark said in a voice full of barely controlled rage. “How dare you speak so to your Lord’s wife? You know nothing of Lady Tully and nothing of what occurred at that accursed wedding or after! You will apologize to my goodsister now!”

The man regarded Lady Stark with some surprise for a long moment. Then he turned back to Roslin. “Perhaps, I have been misinformed, my lady.” His voice was still cool, but polite. “If so, then I offer my deepest apologies for my behavior.”

It took Roslin a moment to find her voice, but she replied to him with every ounce of courtesy and dignity she had ever learned from watching Catelyn Stark. “Your apology is accepted, Ser Brynden. House Frey has committed terrible crimes against your family. Your anger is understandable. My part in those crimes was never of my own will, and I wish only to be a good wife to Lord Edmure and a good mother to his child.”

The Blackfish never took his eyes from her. “So, it’s true then? You are with child? And it’s Edmure’s?”

“Brynden!” snapped Lady Stark.

But Roslin did not raise her voice or even give notice to the insult. “Why, yes, Ser Brynden. I carry my lord husband’s child, and I am most anxious for him to know that his heir is safe.”

The Blackfish nodded to her, and then noting that all of her and Lady Catelyn’s guards had now joined them, he turned again to his niece. “It is time we head to Riverrun, my lady.” He gave her a leg up onto her horse, and then mounted himself, turning his horse to lead the group without another glance or word for Roslin.

Lady Stark rode to her at once. “Roslin,” she said, “he had no right to speak to you so. I am so sorry.”

“He had every right, my lady,” Roslin said softly. She looked up at Lady Stark with tears in her eyes. “Did I not take your brother into my bed even as my family was killing your son? Did I not know what was occurring? He has every right to hate me. I cannot understand why you do not.”

“Roslin, you are not to blame for what happened at your wedding,” Lady Stark said fiercely. “You had no power to change any of it. I know that, child.”

Roslin gave a small nod. “Perhaps, my lady.” She then looked into Lady Stark’s eyes, “But will Lord Edmure see it as you do or as your uncle does?” She could see in the older woman’s face that she did not truly know the answer to that question.

Finally, Lady Stark sighed. “I do not know what his initial reaction will be, Roslin. But I do know my brother. Whatever occurs on our arrival at Riverrun, be strong and be patient. It may take time, but he will see you for who you are. I know that.” She gave Roslin’s hand a squeeze. “Come, child, they won’t want to wait on us. I need to speak further with my uncle, so I shall ride up front with him. You needn’t accompany me if you’d rather not.”

Lady Stark turned her horse and trotted up past the entire column to fall in beside her uncle. Roslin took a place near the rear of the group. The battle was won. Soon she would be at her new home, reunited with her husband. All she could feel was a terrible sense of foreboding. Silently, the new Lady of Riverrun rode toward her fate.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Uncle, you have wronged Roslin terribly,” Catelyn hissed as she reined up beside her uncle.

“Have I?” he asked without looking toward her.

“Yes!” Catelyn said indignantly. “For the longest time, the girl was told nothing except that she was to marry the Lord of Riverrun, and she was giddy with excitement about it. By the time she knew the truth of the matter, nothing could be done, and she was under threat.”

Brynden made a noncommittal sound, and Catelyn reached out to grab his arm, forcing him to look at her. “You forget I’ve been at the Twins for some time now, Uncle. I know all about living under threat there. The girl is blameless.”

Her uncle looked at her face, and his expression seemed to soften. “Perhaps she is. I have never considered you overly sentimental, Cat, and yet you seem taken with her.”

“She saved my life. First, she cared for my injuries and afterward . . . .well, my captivity was not kind, Uncle. And Roslin was my only solace. She would have done the same for Edmure, except she was kept from him all the time he was held at the Twins.”

Her uncle continued to look at her, waiting to see if she had any more to say about the unkindness of her captivity. She did not. “Tell me of the battle,” she said instead. “And what sort of wound my lord husband took.” She remembered him saying that Ned had rescued Edmure from Ryman Frey and went cold again at the thought. “Who injured him?”

“The battle was like all battles,” he said. “Grim, bloody, and wasteful of men. Your husband took a sword cut to his side. Not deep, mind you, but he took it fairly early on and kept bleeding as he fought, so that he was fairly weakened by battle’s end. Nothing that will keep him down longer than a day. As to who injured him, I couldn’t say. Neither could he, likely. Some man with a sword.”

Brynden fell silent.

“What of the other lords and Lady Mormont? How grave were our losses?”

Brynden sighed. “It could have been much worse, Cat. We won fairly easily, truth be told. Ryman Frey’s camp was an unholy mess to begin with. Your Ned and that giant Umber cut through it like butter. Lord Reed’s men to the south had possibly an even easier time of it, as stupid Emmon 'Call Me Lord' Frey never could seem to grasp the Pipers were fighting against him, which made his defense rather a mess. Daven Lannister put up a brave defense before the gate, though. I’ll give the man that.”

“Lady Maege and Lord Glover?” Catelyn asked anxiously.

“Lady Mormont is fine. Bossing everyone in the place around, much to Edmure’s chagrin. Galbart Glover was wounded pretty badly, Cat.”

“Will he live?” she asked almost breathlessly.

“I think so. But he won’t be doing any fighting for awhile. He took a bad wound to the leg and another under the arm which bled a great amount.”

“What of Ned’s men? Most of them are actually Lady Mormont’s or Lord Glover’s, but we have a few from Winterfell.”

“I had hoped to wait to tell you,” Brynden said quietly.

“Tell me what?” Catelyn asked, her heart suddenly in her throat.

“Hallis Mollen wanted you to know he did his duty.”

Catelyn felt cold. “I asked Hal and another man to keep Ned safe,” she whispered.

“They did well for you, Cat.” He looked at her and smiled somewhat sadly. “Apparently your Lord Stark led the men into the Frey camp screaming “Winterfell” and making it plain to everyone that he was in charge. They may not have known who he is, but they knew he was the man to kill. Your two men fought on either side of him and the three of them did quite a bit of damage by all reports, but attackers kept coming and eventually Lord Stark was pulled from his horse.”

Catelyn shuddered. Ned would never give her such detailed accounts of his battles, and she now understood better why. Even knowing he had survived, she almost couldn’t bear to think of him in such danger. “What happened then?” she whispered.

“Two men went to finish him and Hallis Mollen got in their way,” he said simply.

“Is Hal dead?” she whispered.

Brynden nodded. “He lived long enough to know that we won and that Lord Stark survived. He wanted you to know it was an honor to serve the Starks.”

“Oh, Hal,” she whispered softly, thinking of the man who had never once flinched when asked to do anything by Robb or herself. One more good Winterfell man the Lannisters and Freys would have to answer for. She was silent the rest of the ride to Riverrun.

As they reached the castle, Catelyn took her leave of Brynden. “I am going to go with Roslin now, Uncle. She is understandably concerned about what welcome she will receive.” She gave him a dark look.

Her uncle snorted, but then told her, “She has reason to be, Cat. Edmure has had a very trying time of it in the Frey camp here and is not well disposed to anything or anyone Frey at the moment. Perhaps you should find the girl a room to rest and bring her to him when things are more settled--tomorrow even.”

Catelyn nodded with a frown and went to join Roslin who looked ready to drop, whether from exhaustion or apprehension, she wasn’t sure. The courtyard was full of people and activity. After leaving their horses at the stable, Catelyn led Roslin through the throng asking anyone she saw if they knew the whereabouts of Utherydes Wayn, the steward. As she was asking the fourth or fifth person, she heard a familiar voice hailing her.

“Lady Tully! It’s true!”

She turned to see Maester Vyman hurrying toward her. She greeted him with a smile. “It is Lady Stark, as you well know, Maester Vyman, but I happen to have Lady Tully with me.” She pressed Roslin forward in introduction. “Lady Roslin Tully, this is Maester Vyman, a most valuable member of your household, as you will learn quickly yourself. Maester Vyman, this is the new Lady Tully, Edmure’s wife and my very dear goodsister.”

If the maester had any qualms about accepting Roslin as the Lady of Riverrun, he hid them well, and was all courtesy and welcome toward her. Catelyn could see the pleased surprise on Roslin’s face and wanted to hug the man.

“Maester Vyman,” she told him, “Lady Tully is exhausted. The journey from the Twins and the anxiety over the battle has not been easy on a woman with child. I would like Utherydes to find a suitable room for her so she can rest, and to have food and drink brought to her.”

“My lady, that’s not . . .” Roslin started.

“Roslin, this is precisely what you need.” She pulled the young woman aside and spoke to her quietly. “Look around you, child. This place is a madhouse. It is not the time for you and Edmure to come together and speak of all that needs said. Go and rest. Eat and drink, if not for yourself, for the baby you carry. When things are calmer, I will come for you or send Edmure to you.”

To her vast relief, Roslin agreed. She hugged the girl and sent her with Maester Vyman, knowing she was in good hands. Before they left, she asked the maester if he knew where her husband was. Vyman smiled at her. “I have only recently let him get up after I sewed up his wound, my lady. He is a Stark. Must you truly ask where he has gone?”

She smiled at him and turned toward the godswood of Riverrun.

He was there, of course. As were Lady Maege, Lord Umber and several others. She felt a pang as she realized Lord Glover and Hal were both missing. She stood silently near the edge, not wishing to intrude. Ned looked so pale. He had lost a fair amount of blood, she realized. He knelt with his eyes closed, his sword in front of him, cleaned of course. Her need to touch him warred with her need to allow him privacy with his gods, and so she just stood and looked at him, thanking her own gods and his that he was there in front of her.

As if he felt her eyes on him, he opened his own and looked at her. Wordlessly, he rose and came to her, taking her in his arms, for once not mindful that there were others present. “Cat,” he whispered.

“I am here, my love,” she whispered back, putting her hands on his face. It felt colder than usual, likely from the blood loss.

“And I am glad of it,” he said tilting his head forward so that their foreheads touched. “Cat . . .” he hesitated. “Hal . . .”

“I know,” she said softly. “Brynden told me.” She saw that some of the others in the godswood were watching them now. “Walk with me, my love.”

He nodded and gave her his arm. She led him back into the castle to a small, almost hidden room off the long hall. “Sit,” she told him. “You should not be on your feet so soon after your injury.”

“I am fine,” he said, but he sat anyway. “Cat, I am the reason Hal Mollen is dead.”

She pulled a chair close to his and sat in front of him, taking his hand. “The Freys and the Lannisters are the reason Hal is dead,” she corrected him.

“I was pulled off my bloody horse! I couldn’t stand up! I couldn’t . . . .my damned leg got him killed!” he exploded.

“No,” she said calmly. "Some Frey man with a sword got him killed. And even if you want to blame the leg, well, the Lannisters are responsible for that, too.”

“I should have made him stay with you as I intended!”

“No,” she said again. “Ned, look at me. If Hal hadn’t been there, you would not be here. I mourn Hal, my love, but I do not regret his being there to defend you.”

“I should defend myself, Catelyn!”

“As I hear it, you were doing that.” She paused. “Ned, Hallis Mollen died defending his liege lord. He did what he was supposed to do. He did what he believed in doing. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same for Robert Baratheon.”

He had no answer for that. “That’s what I thought,” she told him. “You cannot imagine how fervently I prayed for Robert’s safety when you rode off with him for the Greyjoy rebellion. I knew that any peril of his would become your own.”

He nodded slowly, and then smiled at her just a little. “Only during the Greyjoy rebellion? You didn’t pray for Robert during our first war?”

She smiled more widely at him. “Oh, I did, though perhaps not quite with so much fervor.” She swallowed and tears filled her eyes. “I did not realize exactly how much I had to lose then,” she whispered. “And I only thought I knew during the Greyjoy war . . . Oh, Ned!” And then she was crying in his arms, tears of sadness for Hal mingled with tears of relief that her husband was truly safe with her once more.

They sat there in each other’s arms for a brief spell when she heard a discreet cough from the doorway. She looked up to see Utherydes Wayn standing there, looking somewhat uncomfortable. “Lord and Lady Stark,” he said with great courtesy. “Lord Edmure requests you attend him in his solar.”

Catelyn smiled at the man. “You always did know all my hiding places!”

“Most of them, Lady Catelyn, most of them,” the old man responded.

When Ned and Catelyn arrived in Edmure’s solar, they found not only Edmure, but Lady Mormont, Lord Reed, Lord Umber, Lord Piper, and Ser Brynden waiting for them.

“Cat!” Edmure exclaimed as she came in, and she left her husband’s side to quickly embrace her brother. He looked at her. “Are you truly well, Cat? You cannot imagine what I thought when I saw the specter of your husband striding toward me and old Ryman Frey, only to discover he was no shade at all when he ran the bugger through with his sword! Then he told me you lived . . .” Edmure shook his head and seemed unable to say any more.

“I know,” she told him. “Much has happened to all of us. I have brought your wife, Edmure.”

A shadow fell over his eyes. “I heard,” he said shortly. “Uncle Brynden told me.” Looking up at the others, he said more loudly, “But we have much to discuss. Everyone please take a seat.”

Catelyn moved to sit beside Ned and waited for Edmure to continue. “You all know Lord Piper, here. He fought bravely for Riverrun today and has received my pardon for the time he knelt to the Lannisters during his son’s captivity.” He frowned. “The other river lords who turned on us are making overtures as well, but I hardly wish to welcome them back into my councils at once. They need to prove their loyalty.”

“Wise move,” said Umber, with a dark look at Lord Piper who made no response.

“While he was with the Lannister camp, Lord Piper was privy to information we did not have. The most immediately concerning bit of news is that Jaime Lannister has just arrived at Darry with a company of nigh on a thousand men.”

A general rumbling broke out at that. “Are they to come here?” Lady Maege asked. “Were they to help in the siege?”

“Indeed,” said Lord Piper. “I fear the Lannisters felt Riverrun was not falling quickly enough and did not trust the competence of their friends the Freys.”

“So do we await the Kingslayer here? Or do we ride out to meet him?” Ser Brynden asked.

“Well, that is the question, isn’t it?” Edmure said.

Ned had been quiet beside her, but Catelyn knew he was listening intently and thinking about every word. Now he spoke. “In a battle such as we fought this morning, it is certain that many of our opponents fled. The enemy was out in the field, several fields in truth, rather than confined behind castle walls as at the Twins.” He looked at the gathered lords and ladies. “Word of our victory here will reach the Kingslayer at Darry before we ever could. There will be no surprising him.”

“He’s right,” Lord Reed said. “Stealth won the day for us here. That will not be an option for us when we face Ser Jaime’s force.”

“We will have more strength, though,” said Lord Umber. “We lost relatively few men and we have the strength of Riverrun and the Pipers added to our number."

“We’d have Jason Mallister, too, if only we could free Seagard,” Edmure lamented. “He has bent the knee to the Lannisters, but only to save his son, and I have seen no Mallister banners among the Lannister forces. I believe him more prisoner than turncoat.”

“I agree with you,” Ned said quietly. “In fact, I had thought to suggest sending a force to Seagard as our next move. But that is not an option now. We must make sure Riverrun is protected from this new threat, and we can’t spare the men to liberate the Mallisters just yet.”

“So what do you suggest, my lord?” asked Lady Mormont.

Catelyn realized everyone in the room, even her prickly and opinionated uncle was looking to her husband to see what he had to say. Ned sighed. “First, make sure every piece of siege equipment Daven Lannister has built is destroyed immediately. If Jaime does come here, we shall not give him a head start. And I think it is time to send a few ravens.”

“Ravens, my lord?” asked Lord Piper.

“Yes, Lord Piper. It is time to tell the rest of the Seven Kingdoms that the North is not as finished as they may believe. That we have taken the Twins and Riverrun and are allied with the Tullys against the Lannisters’ aggression in the Riverlands.”

“Do you mean to give your name, my lord?” asked Lady Mormont.

As Ned pondered that question, Brynden Tully spoke up. “No,” he said. “Simply sign the letters as the lords of the north. Leave them wondering who that might be.”

“Why?” asked Ned simply.

“After the Battle of the Blackwater, people all over the Seven Kingdoms claimed Renly Baratheon led the victorious troops against Stannis.”

“Renly Baratheon did no such thing. I saw the man die right in front of me,” Catelyn said. She felt Ned’s shocked eyes on her, and she reached to give his hand a squeeze in promise of an explanation later. Just one more thing from their time apart they had not yet gotten to discuss.

“Of course, he didn’t,” said the Blackfish. “But enough people believed it that the tale spread. And the Lannisters were happy to have people believe they were the beneficiaries of supernatural intervention by Renly from beyond the grave.” He looked at Ned. “More and more people have seen you, my lord. No doubt, some report of your involvement here will be included in the tales told. Why not let confusion reign among our enemies?”

“Perhaps that would be useful for a time,” Ned said thoughtfully. “As for the Kingslayer, though, who was taken alive in our battle that we might make use of? I know we have Daven Lannister.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the Greatjon. “We’ve fat Genna Lannister and her stick of a Frey husband as well.”

“Ah, yes, the Frey Lord of Riverrun!” Edmure said with laugh. “May he rot.”

“We’ve got the Westerling woman and her children still, as well,” said Brynden.

“Jeyne?” asked Catelyn. “You’re holding Robb’s wife?”

“Widow,” corrected Brynden. “And I believe there is more of Tywin Lannister in that marriage than any of us suspected, Little Cat.”

Catelyn bristled slightly at the use of her childhood name in this particular company, but merely asked, “What do you mean by that? Jeyne was devoted to Robb!”

“Yes, my lady, I believe the young queen’s feelings were genuine. I do not feel quite so confident in those of her mother, however. Tywin Lannister signed pardons for all the Westerlings before Robb was cold, Cat, and granted Castamere to Lady Westerling’s brother Rolph Spicer.”

Catelyn’s eyes widened. “Tywin Lannister has never been one to suffer betrayal, or to repay treason with generosity.”

“Exactly,” her uncle said.

“The Westerlings are not in the dungeons, Cat,” said Edmure. They are in comfortable rooms and treated with courtesy, for Robb’s sake. You may see Jeyne if you like.”

Catelyn nodded. Grey Wind had never liked the Westerlings, she remembered, and it had bothered her. _Oh, Robb. Had they set you up from the start?_

Lost in reflection, she hadn’t realized Ned was speaking again. He was saying something about sending an envoy to Jaime Lannister. “Let him know that any attack on Riverrun makes the lives of his cousin, aunt, and uncle forfeit.”

Lord Piper snorted. “I’ll tell you right now he doesn’t give a fig about Emmon Frey, but he may pause for the sake of the other two.”

Brynden nodded. “A pause is all we need. We can turn back a force of a thousand men easily from Riverrun with time to prepare.”

Edmure nodded grimly. “And then we can see about putting the rest of my lands to right.”

“Speaking of putting lands to right,” said Lord Reed, “I do not believe Lord Stark has heard the news from the north.”

“What news from the north?” Ned asked sharply.

“It would appear Lord Stannis has left the Wall, my lord,” said Lady Mormont. “He has rescued Deepwood Motte from the Ironmen and freed Robett Glover’s wife. Lord Umber’s uncle Mors has joined him. The news about his seat gladdened Galbart immensely.”

“However, my other whoreson of an uncle is with Bolton,” said the Greatjon darkly. “Along with what’s left of the Cerwyn, Hornwood, Tallhart, Ryswell, and Dustin men.” He spat.

“It is good that Deepwood Motte is liberated,” Ned said. He looked at Lord Umber and sighed. “No doubt your imprisonment in the Twins had some impact on Hothar’s decision, Jon. And the other houses are essentially leaderless at this point. Bolton is simply stepping into the void. He shall not stay there.”

Edmure looked uncomfortable as he spoke next. “They say he has your daughter Arya. He plans to marry her to his bastard at Winterfell.”

“He has the daughter of my steward whom he is passing as Arya,” Ned said grimly. “Arya fled the Lannisters on the day of my arrest in King’s Landing, and they have not had her since.”

“You are sure the girl is not your daughter?” asked the Blackfish, looking at Catelyn.

Catelyn nodded. “Hallis Mollen saw her,” she said quietly “He knows Arya and and Jeyne Poole by sight. He was confident the girl was Jeyne.” _Poor Jeyne_ , she thought. A rescue might be well be mounted for the daughter of Eddard Stark, but the daughter of Vayon Poole would have to wait.

“I fear Winterfell must wait, my lord,” Edmure said to his goodbrother, in an echo of Catelyn’s thoughts. “Too much risk still surrounds Riverrun for an undertaking so large and far away.”

“I agree,” Ned said sadly. “Is there anything else of import that must be discussed now?” He sounded very tired.

“No,” said Edmure.

“There was a singer,” said Brynden.

“A singer?” Ned asked incredulously.

Brynden actually laughed. “Yes, a singer. He told me it was of gravest importance that he speak with Lord Stark as soon as possible. He was encamped with the Freys. Tom something or other. I told him to come back on the morrow.”

Ned sighed. “Perhaps on the morrow, I’ll be more in the mood for a song.”

As everyone left the solar, Catelyn hung back and Ned waited with her without questioning.

“I would speak with you Edmure,” she said once everyone else had left.

Edmure sighed. “If it’s about the Frey girl . . .” he started.

“It’s about your wife. Her name is Roslin Tully,” she said precisely.

“Cat! I cannot look at her! Do you know how it shames me to know where I was while your son was killed?” He looked at the scar on her neck which showed rather plainly now that she was indoors and wore no cloak. “What I was doing while some bastard Frey cut your throat?”

“You were bedding your wife, Edmure. There is hardly any shame in that. You had no idea what occurred after you were carried from the room.”

“She knew!” He sounded almost like a petulant child. “She knew and she didn’t say anything! And after they dragged me out to show me . . .oh gods, Cat, they showed me the bodies in the hall. I saw your hair. Two men were tossed on top of you . . .”

“It wasn’t me, Edmure,” she said quietly. “They killed some poor serving girl with red hair. The bodies were tossed on top of her so that you couldn’t see anything but the hair.”

“Well, she stood there in that hall full of the dead crying and pleading, and I almost believed her, but then she never came to me once, Cat!”

“You self-centered little boy, Edmure!” Catelyn exclaimed in disbelief. “Do you honestly think she had a choice? They forbade her to see you. They beat her the only time she tried. Do you think she ever had a choice about any of it?”

She looked at her brother who stood staring at her open mouthed. Ned remained silent behind her.

“I . . . I don’t know,” Edmure finally stammered.

Catelyn shook her head and felt the fury leave her. “No,” she said sadly. “You honestly don’t know. You don’t know what it is to be a girl.” She sighed. “You only ever spent time with Lysa and me. And Father loved us. He treated us kindly and allowed us to think and speak and run all over the countryside as we wished. Many girls are never given even that. Certainly not by Walder Frey. A girl’s only value is in the marriage she can make. What can she bring to your house? What can she offer another house?” She shook her sadly. “Even Father, who loved us, gave Lysa and me no choice in the end.”

“That’s different,” Edmure started.

“No, it isn’t,” Catelyn said quietly. “I would have done nothing differently if given a choice,” she looked at Ned as she said that, “but Lysa . . .Lysa begged Father. Pleaded with him. You were little more than a child, Edmure, but you have to remember her tears. Lysa was coerced into marriage and she had no choice but to obey. And her father loved her.”

“Father didn’t kill anyone,” Edmure said sullenly.

 _I am not so sure_ , Catelyn thought, thinking of her father’s last days and Lysa’s secret love. But that was not a tale for Edmure.

“Just give her a chance, Edmure. She wants to be a good wife. She has already proven herself a true goodsister to me, and she carries your child.”

Edmure’s face softened at that. “I’ll think about it, Cat. And I promise I’ll not have her mistreated here. She does carry my child.”

Catelyn smiled and kissed her brother’s cheek. Then she left the room on her husband’s arm.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

As Ned Stark led his wife down the hallway, she suddenly looked up at him. “Do we have a room, Ned?”

“Oh, indeed,” he smiled at her. “I saw to that, my lady. I also asked to have food brought there. I fear I am not up to dining in hall this night.”

“Oh, good. I feel the same.” She leaned into him a little, and he smiled.

She realized where he was taking her before they reached the door, and she began laughing. “At least no one ripped my dress today.”

“Jory had never seen anything so beautiful, my love. He couldn’t help himself.”

She smiled, but it was tinged with sadness at the thought of Jory Cassel, now dead in King’s Landing. “We were all so young,” she said.

“We were,” he replied as they entered the same bedchamber they had been carried into all those nights ago. A fire had been laid against the chill in the air, and a plate of fruit and cold meat and bread was laid on the table, along with a flagon of wine.

“Sit down, my love, and get those boots off. I’ll get a stool to prop your leg,” she told him.

“My leg is fine, Cat,” he answered in amusement, but he sat down and pulled off his boots and then poured them each a glass of wine. She returned in a moment with a stool and he dutifully propped his leg up while they ate.

They spoke little as they had their meal, but it was a companionable silence rather than an uncomfortable one. Finally, once they were finished, he sighed deeply and leaned back into his chair. He closed his eyes briefly and then looked directly into her eyes. “I killed Ryman Frey today, my lady.”

“I heard. Did he really have Edmure at knifepoint?”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “That is not why I killed him.”

“I know,” she said softly.

“Are there any others here, Cat?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Do you wish to know every one?” she whispered.

“I wish to kill every one,” he answered levelly.

“The bastard,” she said after a moment. “Walder Rivers. I heard he was here. No one else.”

“He was killed in the battle today. Not by me, but he is dead.” He felt cheated somehow, that the man had not died by his hand. _It doesn’t matter_ , he told himself. _What_ _matters is that he is dead._ “No one else?”

She shook her head. “They are the only two who came to Riverrun.”

Now the silence was uncomfortable. He got up from his chair and knelt in front of her, taking her hands. “Cat, I do not wish to cause you distress. I simply cannot allow anyone who hurt you so to live. Can you understand that?”

She nodded. “I want them dead,” she whispered. “I only wish you did not have to kill them.”

He nodded then, and stood up, pulling her to her feet with him. “I thought staying in this room might bring you comfort. They brought me here for Maester Vyman to sew my wound, and I thought about how we made Robb in this room. It brought me comfort rather than grief. I’ll mourn our sons until I die, Cat, but I am still glad we made them.”

She nodded again, but now the tears in her eyes held joy as well as sadness. “I am, too,” she said. She hesitated briefly. “My moonblood ended a few days ago,” she said, looking down at the floor.

“I know.” When she looked up at him in surprise, he had to laugh at her. “We have been sharing a small tent, my lady.”

She laughed as well then, and he bent to kiss her. She tasted of the wine, and when she wrapped her arms around him and responded to his kiss, he felt as if he were drunk on her. He pulled away. “Are you certain, my love? Do you want this?” _Oh gods, please want this_.

She nodded once again. “I . . .I don’t know if anything will come of it, my lord,” she said hesitantly.

“Come of it?” he asked, confused by her words. Then her meaning hit him and he almost became angry with her. “Gods, Catelyn! You are not a broodmare! I don’t want your womb, I want you. I want my wife.” He turned away from her shaking and then turned back and took her hands. “I want you so much, I can think of little else . . .but I want you to want me as well. I would not have you lie with me for duty’s sake.”

She looked around the room then, and he saw her thoughts plainly on her face. “We are not the same people we were then. You were a dutiful daughter and I was a second son trying to be the Lord of Winterfell. We always did what we were supposed to do. That isn’t enough now. We have had a lifetime since then, and I will not have you give yourself to me only out of a sense of duty.”

She said nothing, but flung her arms around him again and kissed him until they were both breathless. “Did that feel dutiful to you?” she asked as they finally broke apart, gasping for breath. He smiled at her.

She returned the smile and then turned her back to him, and he realized she was presenting him with the laces of her dress. He started to undo them, and then felt her tremble. He couldn’t tell if it was from desire or fear, and his hands hesitated. “No,” he said, stepping back.

“No?” she asked, turning to face him. “You don’t want to . . .”

“Oh, I very much want to,” he told her, as he pulled his shirt and tunic over his head. “But I think it’s only fair if I undress as well, my love.” The smile that lit her face and the gratitude in her eyes told him he had made the right move. He undid his breeches and removed them along with his smallclothes until he stood naked before her in the dimming sunlight and the soft firelight.

He felt rather self-conscious as she stared at him, for all she had seen his body thousands of times. He watched her eyes move over his chest and arms, down his belly to his already stiff cock, and on down his legs. “I fear I do not look as I did the last time you beheld me naked in this room, my lady.”

She reached out her hands to touch him. “You are beautiful to me, Ned,” she said softly. She began running her fingers through his hair and then down his jaw line. She brought her hands lower still and traced the numerous scars on his chest and arms. When she reached the stitches in his right side, she touched them gingerly. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” He could barely breathe with her fingers running over his skin like that and didn’t trust himself to say more.

Then she dropped to her knees and began running her fingers along the scars on his legs. He put his hands into her hair, the sight of her bright auburn tresses so near his cock driving him to distraction. Then, having finished her inventory of his wounds, she smiled up at him. “You are beautiful to me, Ned, and I would never have you hurt.” Rising to her feet, she said, “But now I fear I am being unfair to you.”

Again she turned her back to him presenting him with the laces of her dress, and this time he did not hesitate. She stepped out of the dress as it fell from her and kept her back to him as she removed her shift and smallclothes. The perfect line of her shoulders and back shone pale in the dim light, the whiteness of her skin marred only by the red purple triangular scar in the small of her back just to the left of her spine. Taking a page from her book, he reached forward to touch it, and she jumped when his fingers made contact. “It’s only me, Cat. Turn around and look. It’s only me.”

She turned around to face him then, and he looked at his wife. “Oh gods, Cat. You are the most beautiful woman in all the world.” He could barely speak as he looked at her. Her breasts were not quite so high as they had been on that long ago night in this room, but they were full and round. Beneath them, her belly remained ever so slightly rounded after their children with its pink and silver streaks testifying to the babies she’d carried. The triangle of hair at the junction of her thighs was as bright as that on her head, and her legs were as long and shapely as they had been the day he wed her. _Yes_ , he thought. _You are even more beautiful now._

“I am old,” she said. “Old and scarred.”

He laughed. “I am older than you by more than a year. And if you wish to compare scars, I fear I shall defeat you, my lady. Yet you called me beautiful. I believe my eyesight is much better than yours.”

She smiled, but he noted she still trembled. The room was a bit chilly, but he didn’t think that was it. “May I touch you, my love?” he asked softly.

She nodded and he reached out to hold her, barely caressing her back at first as he again kissed her lips. As he pressed her closer to him, he felt her tense, but she did not pull away. He stopped and looked at her. She had her eyes shut tight. “Open your eyes, Cat. There is only me.”

She opened her eyes and he began to kiss her neck. She made a sound that definitely wasn’t fear and he placed a hand gently on her breast, caressing it as he kissed her. He wanted her so badly now, it was a physical pain, but he made himself go slowly and gently. He would not frighten or hurt her. He pulled his mouth from her lips and placed it on her nipple, gently teasing it with his lips and tongue. She whimpered, but again he did not think it was a sound of fear. He looked up toward her face to find her looking at him. He raised his eyebrow in silent question and she nodded. He then put his arm beneath her hips and lifted her off the floor. Neither his leg nor his side bothered him one bit as he carried his wife to the bed and laid her down.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn sighed as Ned laid her on the bed and then lay down beside her. This was her husband, and she loved and wanted him. He moved above her kissing her face and her neck. He moved lower to kiss her breasts and she closed her eyes tightly, as if she could keep out unwanted memories by doing so. She could feel his lips and tongue, so gentle on her flesh, not at all like . . .she shut her eyes tighter and felt herself tense.

Ned must have felt it, too, for she felt him rise up from her and then she heard his voice just above her face. “Cat. Open your eyes, Cat.” She did as he asked, and saw his face above hers, his grey eyes filled with love and concern. “Stay with me, my love,” he said. “There is only me. Only you and me. Keep your eyes open, Cat.” Then he kissed her.

She kept her eyes on him as he moved downward to her breasts again, noting idly that the top of his head had more grey than she’d remembered. They’d been apart more than a year and those months had not been kind to either of them. The gentle kisses on her nipples were becoming more insistent now, and she felt him move his hands down her sides, over her belly and around her hips. The sensation made coherent thought difficult, but she concentrated on keeping her eyes open, keeping her eyes on her husband. As he moved over her body, he kept murmuring her name. She liked the sound of it on his tongue, just as she liked the feel of his tongue on her breasts and then around her navel.

Then his hand was between her legs as he continued to explore the flesh all around her belly and thighs with his mouth, and she felt herself become slick and wet, and her hips began to move beneath his hand. He looked up at her then and smiled to see her looking back at him. “You are so beautiful, Cat,” he whispered. “Stay right here with me, my love.” Then he bent to put his lips and tongue at her sex, and she knew nothing but desire. She heard herself crying out as she moved beneath his mouth, her hips held tight in his hands. Then her eyes did close as she reached her climax and felt her body shudder uncontrollably with pleasure. As her mind slowly returned to her, she felt his arms go around her, holding her tight as he whispered, “Cat” into her ear while she panted and her body became still.

She became aware as he held her that he was very still, and she could feel his hard cock against her side. Yet he made no move to take her. She looked at him, and whispered, “My love?” His eyes were full of desire for her, but he hesitated, fearful of hurting her. _Oh gods, Ned._ “Please, Ned,” she said, turning toward him so that his cock pressed against her. He groaned, and she pulled him tighter against her. “I want you, my love,” she whispered.

At that, he held himself back no more. He raised himself above her and she parted her legs for him. She was still wet from her own pleasure, and he slid into her easily. “Gods, Cat” he whispered hoarsely as he entered her, and he held himself still for a heartbeat. Then he began to move, slowly at first, still afraid of hurting her, just as he had been all those years ago. But she grabbed his hips and pulled him into her, and he began to move faster, losing all control and thrusting into her deeply. When he found his release and his seed spilled into her, his cry was her name.

He collapsed onto her, exhausted, and she held him tight lest he roll away from her. After his breathing slowed, he did roll to his back, but pulled her with him, so that her head rested on his chest and he held her tightly against him. They didn’t speak for a long time, and she just enjoyed the sensation of him playing with her hair. He pulled a long section over her shoulder and ran his fingers through it. She felt a slight chill and snuggled tightly against him.

“This room is not as warm as my rooms at Winterfell,” she said. “I am glad of it.”

“My lady?” he said, puzzled.

“I shall be less likely to melt you pressed against you as I am.”

He laughed at that. “My lady, I assure you I have no intention of letting you go this night, whether I melt or burst into flames.” He pulled her even closer.

She lay on his chest and felt sleep reaching for her. No wonder, she thought, after the day they’d had. She smiled at his fingers still fiddling with her hair, although his movements were slower now. She thought about what he had done for her this night, and her heart almost burst. Tears came to her eyes, and she put her face into his chest. “I love you, Ned.”

She felt his chest vibrate beneath her as he made that noise she loved, one she only ever heard in their bed--half way between a low pitched chuckle and a wolf’s territorial growl. “And I am glad of it, my love,” he told her.

She settled onto his chest, and as she was falling asleep to the sound of his heart, just in that space between wakefulness and dreams, she heard his voice. “I love you, my lady.”

Her eyes opened. It was not something she thought to hear him say. He was very still, even the fingers still tangled in her hair had stopped moving, and his breathing was slow and even. She lifted her head up to see his face. His eyes were closed in slumber.

Had she heard it? Had he said it, or had she only dreamed it? It came to her that it didn’t really matter. Words were wind. Every touch he had given her tonight was a declaration of love. She didn’t need words. She had Ned. She lay her head back down on his chest and allowed herself to be lulled to sleep by the slow, steady beating of a heart she knew belonged to her.


	15. The Short Distance Between Joy and Sorrow

Ned Stark awoke to pale, early morning sunlight streaming in the windows of the bedchamber at Riverrun. He felt a slight chill and noted that he had thrown the covers off the right half of his body as he slept, leaving his skin exposed to the cold air which never seemed to bother him. The shiver which ran through his body then had nothing to do with the cold air on his right, but the exquisite warmth on the left side of him, where he could feel his sleeping wife’s naked body still curled tightly against him beneath the coverings she had pulled up to her chin. She lay on her side with her head and left hand still resting on his chest, her face half obscured by her auburn hair which fell over both of them like a red waterfall. Absently, he began to run his fingers through that hair and gently kissed the top of her head, and he felt his cock begin to stiffen at the memory of the previous night. He had an almost uncontrollable desire to turn her on her back and bed her again right then, wanting to feel her body beneath his and to feel his cock inside her.

She murmured and shifted slightly in her sleep, and the feeling of her skin sliding along his did nothing to help ease his dilemma. Back in Winterfell, a hundred years ago, he would have simply kissed her awake, knowing that after smiling sleepily and teasing him about the appetites of wolves, she would wind her arms around him and draw her into him. _Gods! Can it ever be so easy between us again?_ He desperately tried to turn his mind elsewhere, but it was difficult while his cock throbbed as her soft breath tickled his skin each time she exhaled. It seemed that having her had only made him want her more.

For the first time since he’d gotten her back, she had not awakened him once last night with nightmares. The idea that he’d given her an entire night of peaceful slumber filled him with joy, but the thought of her nightmares also reminded him she was still broken. He was not foolish enough to believe that the images of what those bastards had done to her could be erased from her memory any more than they could from his. He could barely stand imagining it, and she had lived through it for gods’ sake! He hadn’t imagined her body going rigid at his touch, her eyes shut tight and her face frozen in an expression somewhere between fear and resignation. That memory was real enough, and while he knew the rest of last night was real as well, it was enough to keep him from waking her with his need. He wouldn’t have her wake with that expression on her face.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud rapping at the door of their chamber. Catelyn startled awake with a surprised cry, and he encircled her in his arms with a whispered, “You’re safe, Cat,” before calling out, “Who is there?”

“Ser Robin Ryger, Lord Stark,” came the voice of Riverrun’s captain of the guard. “May I enter? Lord Tully requires your presence in his solar.”

“Lord Tully be damned,” Ned muttered under his breath as he and Catelyn both sat up in bed. The man’s knock had given her a brief fright, but she seemed well enough now. “No, you may not enter,” he said with somewhat less courtesy than he probably should have. “My lady wife and I are not prepared to receive visitors. You may tell Lord Tully that I will attend him in a bit.”

“Yes, my lord,” came from the other side of the door. After a slight hesitation, the man added, “Lord Tully is most anxious to speak with you, my lord.”

“And I shall be there, Ser Robin.” _When I bloody well get there,_ he added silently. “You may go now.”

“Yes, my lord.”

As the man’s footsteps retreated down the corridor, Catelyn raised her eyebrows at him. “Lord Tully be damned? Not a very kind thing to say about my brother, my lord.” The corners of her mouth twitched with laughter.

“He caused you to be awakened from your sleep, my lady. I cannot excuse that,” he told her gravely, although he knew she could hear the laughter in his voice as well. “I like watching you sleep,” he added softly. He looked at her now, sitting so close to him. He, of course, had sat up without the covers, leaving himself bare to the waist in the early morning air, but she had pulled the covers up with her, shivering against the chill. He wanted to pull those covers from her now to reveal her breasts, knowing her nipples would be firm in the cold air. He wanted to put his mouth on . . .

“My lord?” she said softly, reaching out to touch his cheek.

He jerked away as if her fingers were fire, and tried to control his thoughts. Shaking his head, he told her, “I suppose I had better dress and go see what your brother wants.”

She looked directly into his eyes and put her hand back to his cheek. Without a word, she then traced his jaw line down to his neck and then continued down his chest and stomach until her hand reached what was barely concealed beneath the covers. She arched her brow at him. “Are you certain you wish to get dressed, my lord?”

He swallowed hard. “Catelyn . . .I . . .”

She wrapped her hand around his length, causing him to gasp, and then leaned in to kiss him, softly at first but then with increasing urgency. When she pulled back to look at him again, her eyes glowed with desire, and he could see no hint of anything else in their blue depths. “Edmure can wait,” she whispered.

“Cat,” he breathed into her hair, and he laid her back down, pushing away all the covers that remained between them. His last coherent thought as he took her into his arms was that Edmure could wait a bloody long time.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn Stark put a hand to her hair as she walked down the corridor toward the light, airy chambers she had once shared with Lysa. It had been thoughtful of Utherydes to put Roslin there. The rooms were large and comfortable and received some of the best light in the castle. The steward had told her he informed Roslin that the rooms had once been hers. She hoped that might comfort the girl as well, as Roslin did seem genuinely fond of her.

Again Catelyn tugged at her hair. One braid seemed to insist on coming away from her scalp, and she sighed. She had actually styled her hair that morning, a nod to her brother as he worked to establish himself as lord here. She would be a proper lady at any audiences he required her to attend. It was a simple, practical style of the north, as she was the Lady of Winterfell rather than Riverrun, but still more complex than the single braid she’d worn for so long. She’d scarcely remembered how to do it, and the old injury to her hands made any task requiring deft fingers more difficult than it had once been. Roslin could have done it with her eyes closed. But Roslin was the Lady of Riverrun and not to be summoned to do Catelyn’s hair. Perhaps she should teach Ned, she thought with amusement. The gods knew the man looked for any excuse to play with her hair. That thought made her laugh out loud as she walked. Laughter felt good.

Thoughts of Ned inevitably led to thoughts of his bedding her last night and again this morning. She had been more terrified than she’d ever want him to know. Terrified that she couldn’t do it, that she wouldn’t want him the way she always had, that he wouldn’t want her after what had been done to her . . .None of those things had been true, thank the gods. Her demons had come for her, all right, but her husband had chased them away every time. Tears came to her eyes as she remembered the care he’d taken with her. She prayed he would never lose patience with her because she feared he would still need a lot of it. Especially after this morning.

Bedding him this morning had been bliss. There was no one in her arms or her mind except her husband, and she’d actually dared to hope that perhaps she really had put the demons behind her. She had lain in bed afterward, watching him dress, laughing as he grumbled about Edmure summoning him away, wrapping herself in the extra fur he brought to the bed to take the place of his warmth. Once he had kissed her and left for Edmure’s solar, however, the bed had seemed cold and empty in spite of the fur. She had risen to wash and dress herself and felt the stickiness left between her thighs from Ned’s seed. Only suddenly it wasn’t Ned’s. Suddenly she was back at the Twins and she had to get it off her, get them off her. She only became aware of her surroundings again some time later, when she found herself standing at the washbasin, scrubbing her legs so roughly, they were red and raw. She had sunk to the floor and cried then. How could something so right between her husband and herself be transformed into that nightmare? And how, by all the gods, could she stop it from happening again?

Refusing to allow herself to wallow in self-pity, she had gotten dressed, attempted to do her hair, and sought out Utherydes Wayn to direct her to Lady Tully’s rooms. She hadn’t seen the girl since their arrival yesterday, and she was concerned about her. And perhaps Roslin’s troubles would keep her mind off her own. So she found herself blinking her tears away, putting on a pleasant face, and knocking on the door of her old bedchamber. “Roslin? It’s me, Catelyn Stark.”

“Oh, come in!” came Roslin’s voice.

As soon as she opened the door and entered the room, the girl threw her arms around her. “My lady! I am so glad to see you!” she exclaimed with a wide smile.

Taken aback just a bit, Catelyn patted the girl’s back gently. “I am glad to see you as well, Roslin.” She paused. “You know, child, as long as we are goodsisters, and both of us ladies of great houses, you really should learn to call me by my name.”

Roslin drew back a bit, and looked at her thoughtfully. “I shall try, Lady Catelyn.”

“Well, that’s a start, I suppose,” Catelyn laughed.

Then Roslin, who was studying her closely cried out in some dismay, “My lady, your hair isn’t done up evenly! Who did it for you?”

Now Catelyn laughed even harder. “I’m afraid I am the guilty party. I am rather out of practice.”

“Sit down, my lady, and let me fix it,” the young woman insisted, pulling out the chair in front of the dressing table.

“You are not my chambermaid, Roslin,” Catelyn chided her.

“No. I am your goodsister. Now sit down, please.”

“All right, sister. Call me by my name, and I’ll let you do my hair,” Catelyn challenged her.

Roslin giggled. “Sit down . . Catelyn.” She covered her mouth with her hands and giggled harder. “I’m sorry, my la . . .I mean, Catelyn. It just feels so strange to call you that!”

Catelyn sank into the chair and smiled. “Well it is my name. Just wait. I’ll have you calling me Cat by the time we finish my hair.” Roslin looked scandalized, and Catelyn laughed again. “My sister, Lysa, and I used to laugh together in these rooms. We did each other’s hair, as well.”

Roslin smiled, pulling pins out of Catelyn’s hair and brushing it out until it shone like burnished copper. “I imagine that was fun. These rooms are beautiful. Such a wonderful place to grow up.”

“It was,” Catelyn said. She turned and placed her hands lightly on Roslin’s ever growing belly. “Your children will love it.”

“I hope so,” Roslin said. “Lord Edmure came to see me last night,” she added quietly.

“Did he?”

She nodded. “He came to see if my rooms were comfortable enough. He said I could have my pick of rooms to be my own chambers once everyone has left.” She hesitated. “And he did say he is glad of the baby.”

The girl was quiet then as she twisted and braided her hair, so Catelyn asked her, “What else did my brother say?”

She looked down. “He said he wasn’t quite sure what to do with me, my lady. He told me he believes that I didn’t want to deceive him and that I was used against my will, but he isn’t sure what he feels about me right now. He doesn’t trust me. He didn’t . . . . . stay with me,” she finished quietly.

Catelyn patted the girl’s hand. “Roslin, I cannot imagine a worse start to a marriage than what the two of you had. But you are both good, honorable people. Honestly, what Edmure told you sounds pretty hopeful to me.” She smiled up at her. “Be patient. Give it time. I believe it will be all right.” Silently, she admonished herself to listen to her own words.

Roslin smiled back at her bravely. “If you say so, my la . . .Catelyn.”

“Now, as soon as you finish with my hair, we shall go see what on earth is keeping our husbands huddled up in Edmure’s solar so long.”

Roslin looked scandalized. “But they’re having a meeting, my lady! We couldn’t intrude.”

“It’s Cat. And yes, we can. They need to eat, don’t they? It’s time for the midday meal, and I never really ate breakfast. I doubt Ned did either, although Edmure most certainly did. Your husband relishes breakfast,“ she assured the girl with a smile. “Let’s take them something to eat. If they want us to leave, they’ll say so.”

The younger woman still hesitated.

“You don’t really want to sit in your rooms without knowing what’s going on, do you?”

“No. I really don’t . . . .Cat.” Roslin then dissolved into giggles before turning her attention back to Catelyn’s hair.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark’s stomach growled loudly as Maester Vyman read back the last letter they had dictated to him. This one was for Tytos Blackwood at Raventree Hall informing him that House Tully was securely in control of Riverrun and allied with the lords of the north. It thanked Lord Blackwood for his unwavering loyalty and stated that Lord Tully had no complaint about his conflict with Lord Bracken, as Bracken had declared for the Lannisters. If, however, Lord Bracken were to renew his fealty to House Tully, then Lord Edmure requested Lord Blackwood to accept a cessation of hostilities with Bracken in order to defend all the Riverlands against the larger outside threat. The previous letter had been to Jonos Bracken at Stone Hedge demanding that he cease hostilities with the Blackwoods immediately and present himself to Riverrun to renew his fealty. If he failed in this, House Tully would have no choice but to call on all the river lords and their allies from the north to aid Lord Blackwood in defeating Lord Bracken.

“Hungry, Stark?” asked the Blackfish with a grin. It was only Edmure, Ser Brynden, himself, and Maester Vyman in the solar today. Ned was grateful for that. Had all the lords been there, every word in every letter would have been debated even longer.

“Truthfully, I am,” he replied.

“Well, you should have come down to the hall for breakfast this morning,” Edmure told him. “It was an excellent meal. We were all wondering what kept you and Cat.”

Ser Brynden snorted loudly. “Oh, I don’t think anyone was actually wondering, nephew.”

Before Ned could decide if he needed to reply to that, there was a knock at the door.

“What is it?” Edmure called, somewhat irritably.

“Food, my dear brother,” came Catelyn’s voice as she pushed open the door allowing Utherydes Wayn to enter with a large well-laden tray. Behind him came Roslin and then Catelyn herself, each lady carrying flagons of ale and water.

“We didn’t call for any food,” Edmure insisted.

“No, but if you insist on working through midday, you must eat,” Catelyn stated emphatically.

“Well, your husband is no doubt grateful, Cat,” proclaimed the Blackfish. “By the sound of his stomach, he’s starving. In fact, only just now, we were speculating on what you and Stark were up to that caused you both to miss breakfast this morning.” The man grinned at Catelyn wickedly, and Ned was amused to see her cheeks flush to match her hair.

He caught his wife’s eye and smiled at her. Her blush deepened, but she smiled back at him, and then looked at her uncle. Lifting her head as she spoke, she said, “Why, Uncle, no wonder you have never married if you truly find that a matter of speculation.” Edmure coughed as if he had choked on something, but Catelyn merely went on to ask them what they preferred to drink.

“This is a delightful surprise, my ladies,” Ned said as soon as he could trust himself to speak without laughing. “You will stay and eat with us, will you not?”

“If we do not intrude,” said Roslin quickly, looking at Edmure.

“Of course you don’t intrude,” declared Ser Brynden. “We are only writing letters. And we’re nearly finished, I hope. Maester Vyman will quite run out of ravens if we give him many more to send.”

“Nearly finished indeed,” said Ned as he reached for a plate of food. He frowned as he continued. “But I am not entirely sure about the letter for Bolton. Naturally, we tell him we do not accept him as Warden of the North nor his bastard as Lord of Winterfell, but do we tell him we know little Jeyne Poole is an imposter?”

He had addressed his question primarily to Catelyn, and he noted Roslin looking at him in surprise and Edmure looking in irritation. _These two have a lot to learn about marriage_ , he thought, and genuinely hoped they could. Riverrun needed a strong lord, and as he had learned well, a strong lord needed an equally strong lady by his side.

“I fear that exposing her could put her in greater danger than she is already in,” said Catelyn.

Ned nodded. “That is my fear as well. If the Boltons continue to believe they have everyone convinced Ramsay is wedding our daughter, they may feel they can gain support for his claim to Winterfell despite any opposition. If the other lords begin to doubt her identity, they may abandon the Boltons for us more quickly, but then Jeyne’s life will hold little value.”

“We can’t do that to her, Ned,” Catelyn said quietly.

Ned shook his head. “No, my love, we can’t. As much as it galls me, we may have to accept Bolton’s presence at Winterfell for the time being.”

“Is this a private conversation, or can anyone join in?” asked the Lord of Riverrun, with some irritation.

Ned noticed Catelyn’s mouth twitch at the corners in spite of the seriousness of the conversation.

Ned looked at Edmure, “What do you say on the subject, my lord?”

Edmure sighed. “From a perfectly strategic standpoint, calling the girl out as a fake, even giving her actual name to lend credence to your claim, makes sense if it causes those northern houses with Bolton to abandon him more quickly in favor of us.” He looked at Catelyn then. “But I have to agree with both of you. I could not condone putting that poor girl in an even worse position regardless of the strategic benefit. She is an innocent with no choice in the matter, and none to aid her save us. Until we can actually go to her aid, we shouldn’t increase her peril.”

“My lord, you are as kind as you are wise,” said Roslin almost breathlessly, looking at her husband with admiration.

Edmure looked startled, but then his expression softened and he actually smiled at his little wife.

“Kind, perhaps,” snorted the Blackfish. “But I do not know that this kindness is wisdom. Oh, I don’t say you are wrong ,” he added quickly as Ned, Edmure, and Catelyn all started to protest. “I only say that many of our enemies and probably some of our allies as well would make a different choice here. May the gods smile on your nobility of character.”

Edmure looked at Catelyn and rolled his eyes, and Catelyn laughed. “We know perfectly well you agree with us, Uncle. You only pretend to be quite so black a fish.” Looking back to Ned, she asked him, “Have you drafted letters to the other northern lords as well?”

Ned nodded. “Basically, we have confirmed that a northern alliance captured the Twins and put to the sword Walder Frey and those responsible for the Red Wedding and the murder of the King in the North.” Ned found it easier to use the title when he spoke of those events rather than to call Robb by name. _My son. They murdered my son_. Catelyn noticed his pause, and naturally enough understood the reason for it. She squeezed his hand briefly beneath the table, and he continued. “We have proclaimed the innocence of Olyvar Frey in those events as well as his loyalty to the cause of the North and the Riverlands, and asked all of our lords to confirm him as Lord of the Crossing.”

“We ask that in all our letters to the river lords as well,” put in Edmure.

“Finally, we condemn Bolton as having participated in the Red Wedding in order to usurp the Starks’ place in the North and the Lannisters for orchestrating all of it to protect Jaime and Cersei’s bastard on the Iron Throne,” Ned finished.

Catelyn was silent for a moment. “That’s quite a lot. You stop short of declaring for Stannis?”

Leave it to his wife to see right to the heart of a matter. “I wish to communicate with the man first. He does have the rightful claim. There is no question of it. But there have been some strange tales . . .”

“Renly’s death? I have not yet had a chance to tell you, my lord, but I . . .”

“Edmure has told me this morning how Robb sent you to treat with Renly, and what happened there.” Ned shook his head slowly. “If anyone but you spoke of deadly shadows, Cat . . .”

“I know what it sounds like, Ned, but I also know what I saw,” she said levelly, looking him in the eyes.

He nodded. “There is more, as well. Apparently, in his devotion to this new god of his, he has condoned the burning of septs. He burned the sept at Dragonstone. There are rumors of a red priestess . . .”

“She isn’t a rumor. I met her,” Catelyn interrupted.

Ned nodded. “Apparently there are rumors of her encouraging the burning of godswoods and sacrificing people to flames as well. I do not know the truth of it, but if Stannis is controlled by this woman, I worry we could be putting someone madder than Aerys on the throne.” He bowed his head slightly and added quietly, “Such things do not sound like the Stannis Baratheon I have known. He may be hard and inflexible to the point of cruelty at times, perhaps, but not this.”

Catelyn looked at him directly again. “It was his shadow in the tent with Renly that day, my lord. I do not know if it was his doing or the red woman’s, but I know what I saw.”

Ned sighed deeply. Edmure’s story of Bitterbridge had sounded fantastic, but with Cat sitting right in front of him backing it up, it suddenly seemed more plausible. “So, we shall write to Stannis, thank him for the liberation of Deepwood Motte, confirm our commitment to removing the Lannister bastard from the throne and ask to treat with him. No more can we say to him now.”

“Well, you are not naming a new King in the North. That ought to placate the man somewhat,” said Ser Brynden.

“Stannis Baratheon is not a man easily placated,” Ned said. “If he believes himself in the right about something, he will not waver.”

“Have we decided whose seals these letters shall bear?” Catelyn asked.

“I shall seal all of them,” Edmure stated. “Riverrun is the seat of the Lord Paramount of the Trident, and everyone should know it is once again secure in rightful hands.”

Ned nodded. “Lords Umber, Reed, and Glover, as well as Lady Mormont have asked to affix their seals to the letters for the northern lords and Stannis as well.”

“Not yours, my lord?” she asked him.

Ned pursed his lips. He hated this sneaking and skulking. He, Brynden, and Edmure had gone round and round all morning debating again whether he should proclaim his name and his rights as Lord of Winterfell. Much had been said on either side of the argument, but one factor had finally decided it for him.

“No, my lady. Not mine. Not yet.” He looked at her. “We must find our girls, Catelyn. I would not have them used as weapons against me. Once we know where they are and who has them, we can decide better what to do.”

She nodded, and he saw her take the sharp, short breath she always took when she wished to prevent herself from crying. “We will find them, my love,” he said softly, ignoring everyone else in the room. “I will not rest until we do.”

She nodded again and there was silence in the room for a moment. Then Edmure spoke. “We must decide whom we shall send to speak with Jaime Lannister at Darry.”

“I will go,” said the Blackfish. “Lord Umber should come with me. Seeing him alive and free from the Twins will lend credence to the truth of what I say.”

“Perhaps Lord Piper as well, with Marq,” put in Ned. “Show Lannister that loyalty bought with blackmail is no loyalty at all.”

Edmure nodded. “We’ll put together formal terms and send you all out with a company of men tomorrow, Uncle. Apparently, there are also several people seeking audience today?”

“Yes, my lord,” the Blackfish replied. “The Lords Vance wishing to bend the knee to you lead the list.” He turned toward Ned with some amusement. “And your singer came back this morning, Lord Stark. I told him you would see him in the hall before dinner this evening.”

For the life of him, Ned could not imagine what any singer wanted with him. He paid musicians little attention as a rule, knowing hardly any songs himself, and caring about dancing only for the smile it put on Catelyn’s face and the excuse it gave him to hold her in public. “I shall be pleased to receive him,” he told Ser Brynden, with a shrug of his shoulders indicating his general puzzlement.

The Blackfish laughed that deep, smoky laugh of his, and then Edmure stood, indicating that the meeting was adjourned. To Ned’s surprise, he actually walked to Roslin and offered his arm. Roslin, too, looked surprised, but then smiled at Edmure and took his arm to go out with him. Maester Vyman gathered up the many bits of parchment he had scattered about and went off to write out the many formal letters so that everyone could seal them that day and he could send them on their way.

Ned offered Catelyn his arm, nodded to Ser Brynden, and began to escort his wife out of the solar when the older man’s deep voice stopped him.

“Stark,” he said. Ned turned around to find the Blackfish grinning at him. “I suggest you and my niece make it to dinner this evening or people may start doubting you’re as frosty as you lead them to believe.”

Catelyn tugged on his arm and he simply left the room without replying, as Ser Brynden’s laughter echoed behind them. He looked at his wife and saw her cheeks had colored again. “Are you all right, my lady?” he asked. “I do not think your uncle means any real discourtesy.”

“My uncle is a rogue,” she replied. “And yes, I am quite well, my lord. And sorely tempted to skip dinner just to spite him.”

He chuckled at that. “I could easily be persuaded, my lady, were I not intensely curious as to why a singer is so determined to have an audience with me, of all people.”

She laughed. “I confess to being rather curious about that myself, my love. So I suppose we must go to the hall after all.” She sighed heavily, and then looked at him with a spark of mischief in her blue eyes. “We could always leave before dinner is finished and see how my uncle likes that.”

He actually laughed out loud at her now. “You are in a rare mood, my love. I have not seen you laugh so wickedly since . . .” He stopped. In truth, he had not seen her such a mood since before Bran’s fall, and that seemed a lifetime ago.

She understood. “I have had scant reason to enjoy games or jests. And I still am frightened, Ned, of so many things.” Her grip on his arm had tightened. They were in a fairly deserted corridor now, so he stopped walking and turned her so he could hold both her arms and look at her face. “But sitting in my old rooms with Roslin today, I found myself laughing,” she continued. “Laughing at nothing at all or at some silliness of titles and names. It reminded me of Lysa and myself and days when laughter was most of what we knew.”

He caressed her arms lightly with his hands and waited silently for her to continue speaking. “I realized I need to laugh,” she said. “And since last night,” she paused and that lovely color came once more to her cheeks, “I realize I still have so much more than most women will ever know.” The last part came out as barely a whisper. She leaned against him, and he encircled her with his arms. “I want to make you smile and laugh, my love. I’d almost forgotten what a joy it is to do that,” she finished.

He said nothing, but gave her his smile, and the light in the blue eyes gave him all the joy he could ask for in that one moment. _It is enough,_ he thought. _Winter is coming and_ _hardship with it. But we will make each moment of joy be enough_.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn had put on a slightly more formal gown to go down to the hall, and she surveyed herself in the looking glass. She had been careful not to disturb Roslin’s handiwork so her hair still looked quite pretty. As long as she didn’t look too long at her face, she found her reflection reasonably acceptable. She had never been a terribly vain woman, but the red scars running down both cheeks always made her flinch when she saw them, partly because of their appearance, but mostly because of the memories they conjured. She turned away from the glass as Ned walked up to her and immediately began touching her hair.

“Don’t” she said, smacking his hand lightly. “Roslin put a lot of effort into that.”

“I like it down.”

“You can pull down every last braid later. I promise.”

He held out his arm to her. “Shall we, my lady?”

She smiled, took his arm, and allowed him to escort her into the corridor. They had made it less than halfway to the hall when Utherydes Wayn appeared before them. Catelyn thought the old man looked paler than usual.

“Lord Tully needs you to come to his chambers, my lady. Right now.” Turning to Ned, he said, “You had better come, too, Lord Stark.”

Catelyn’s heart sped up. Something was wrong. She let go of Ned’s arm and almost ran through the corridors to Edmure’s chambers with Ned following right behind her. When they reached Edmure’s rooms, the doorway was open. Edmure was seated on his bed, his face ashen.

“Edmure, what is it?” Catelyn exclaimed, going to him. “What has happened? Is Roslin . . .”

“I am fine, my lady.” Catelyn turned to see Roslin was in the room as well, coming from a table with a drink for Edmure. “Here, my lord,” she said softly, pressing the cup into Edmure’s hands.

Edmure’s hands shook as he held it, and he looked up at Catelyn. “Oh, Cat,” he said, with his voice shaking. His hands now shook so badly that Roslin took back the cup.

“What? What is it, Edmure?” Catelyn was starting to panic now.

“There was a raven from the Eyrie,” he said, almost in a whisper. “I don’t know when it came. The Freys apparently intercepted it during the siege.” His eyes turned toward a letter lying on the table where Roslin was setting down his cup, and he put his face in his hands.

Roslin picked up the letter and handed it to Catelyn, saying, “It was found in Ryman’s tent by one of our men. No one told ever told Lord Edmure about it. I am sorry, my lady.”

Catelyn’s hands were shaking as she took the letter. She felt Ned come behind her and place his hands on her shoulders as she read. Her hand flew to her mouth as she saw the words there. “Oh no! Oh, Ned, Lysa is . . Lysa is dead.” She turned then and put her face on his chest, and he held on to her.

“Murdered,” said Edmure, darkly. “Murdered by some singer, according to Baelish.”

“Baelish?” Ned asked, startled. “What the devil does Baelish have to do with Lysa Arryn or the Eyrie?”

Catelyn raised her head from Ned’s chest and shook it helplessly. “I . . .I don’t know, but apparently he had married her. He calls her his wife in the letter and refers to himself as Lord Protector of the Vale. I knew nothing of any of this. Oh, Lysa!” She couldn’t stop the tears then, and put her face back against her husband’s chest.

Ned held her tightly, but his voice sounded cold and deadly when he spoke. “There is more to this than this letter tells. I am certain of it.”

Catelyn raised her face to look at him, puzzled by the venom in his voice. He wiped her cheeks with his fingers, and said to her softly, “Now is not the time to discuss it, Cat. Now is time only for your grief for your sister. But believe me when I say that Petyr Baelish is an evil man. If he married Lysa, he undoubtedly had motives unknown to her. And for her to die by violence after marrying him . . .” he let the sentence trail off, and Catelyn shivered.

“But Petyr was always devoted to Lysa when we were children,” Edmure protested. “He wasn’t as crazy about her as he was Cat, of course, but Lysa was in love with him, and he was never mean to her. I can’t imagine him ever hurting her.”

Catelyn sighed. “That’s the trouble, Edmure. You can never imagine anyone hurting anybody. I’d have thought you’d have reason to get over that by now.”

Edmure just looked at her and shook his head. Catelyn swallowed her tears and looked back to Ned. “I fear you are right, my lord. I was wrong to trust Petyr in King’s Landing. Things have since come to my knowledge which make me wonder if I ever knew him at all. I am sorry.”

“None of this is your fault, Cat,” Ned said quietly. “You are certainly not to blame for whatever happened to Lysa.”

Catelyn shook her head, feeling she was missing something important. Then Edmure’s last statement came back to her more clearly. “Lysa was in love with Petyr? What makes you say that, Edmure? You were just a boy then. What do you know about it?”

Edmure gave a hollow laugh. “More than you do, apparently. You were all caught up in your betrothal to Brandon Stark, don’t you remember? You didn’t even notice how Petyr followed you around like a puppy. And he didn‘t notice Lysa following after him. I guess I noticed because none of you paid me any mind anymore, so I sort of tagged along behind all of you, just hoping be included somewhere.”

Catelyn allowed her memory to take her back to those days and felt she was seeing some things for the first time. “And after that ridiculous duel . . .” she said quietly.

“You were angry and Lysa was suddenly happy,” said Edmure. “Until Father sent Petyr away. Then she was miserable.”

The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place, and Catelyn put her face in her hands. “Oh, Lysa,” she whispered. “Oh gods, Lysa, I never knew.” Ned and Edmure both looked at her questioningly, but she just sat down on the bed beside Edmure and cried softly for her lost sister, realizing she’d been lost far longer than Catelyn had known. Edmure put his arm around her then, and they both sat there mourning their sister together.

After a time, Ned spoke quietly. “Cat, Edmure, I must go to the hall now. I can see these people who seek audience. The two of you can remain . .”

“No,” Catelyn and Edmure said in unison. Then they actually both laughed through their tears and Catelyn smiled at her brother, looking at those eyes that were a reflection of her own, at that face that reminded her so achingly of Robb’s.

Edmure squeezed her hands and then stood to face Ned. “I am the Lord of Riverrun,” he said quietly. “My grief does not change that. I will go down to the hall.” Extending his arm to Roslin, he said to her, “My lady? Will you come with me?”

“Of course, my lord,” she responded, and as Catelyn watched her brother escort his wife out toward the hall, she could not recall ever having been more proud of him.

“You do not have to come with me, my lady, if you would prefer more time to grieve,” Ned said to her.

“And will my grieving make Lysa live again?” she asked him as she stood up. “I would come with you, my lord.”

He looked at her with his grey eyes full of sadness and concern. “I am sorry for your grief, Cat.”

“Grief has been my constant companion since a rider came to me with word of your death, my love. I am grown used to his company.”

He started to say something, but she stopped him with a finger to his lips. “I‘m all right, Ned. I do not say that to make you worry for me, truly. I simply mean that I have been living with grief for so long now, I am quite practiced at it. You needn’t worry that I shall stop living. I know how to keep going.” She gave him a little smile. “And having you with me again does make it easier.”

He regarded her silently for a moment, and then offered his arm. “My lady?” he said. She took his arm and they followed Edmure and Roslin to the hall.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The hall at Riverrun was already full of people, and dinner wasn’t to be served for another couple of hours. Ned Stark fidgeted slightly in his seat as yet another hedge knight from some obscure town in the Riverlands came forward to pledge his service to Edmure, repenting of having spent several moons laying siege to his lordship’s castle. Ned would rather be back in his chambers consoling his lady over the death of her sister. Catelyn sat immediately to his left, still as a stone, quietly watching the proceedings, speaking courteously when spoken to, but seeming not completely present. He thought longingly of the spark in her eyes and her teasing laughter earlier in the day. How could they ever hope to have enough moments of joy when new sorrows seemed so determined to find them?

Ned sat to Edmure’s left at the high table. Catelyn’s brother had seated Roslin at his right, a decision Ned approved of. To Roslin’s right sat Ser Brynden Tully. Surprisingly enough, the Blackfish was saying little as the various men came forward, allowing his nephew to find his own way in dealing with his vassals. Ned had to admit that Edmure was doing a remarkably good job of it, too. Hoster Tully had once remarked to Ned that he’d have felt more secure about the future of Riverrun had Catelyn been born male. The old man had been half in his cups at the time, and Ned had merely responded that he was grateful Catelyn had been born precisely as she was, causing Hoster to roar with laughter before forgetting the conversation altogether. Ned couldn’t help but think Hoster Tully would be very proud of his son tonight.

Finally, there was only one man left to come forward. As the man, who had a rather sharp nose and thin brown hair, approached the high table, Edmure’s face underwent a remarkable transformation. “You!” he bellowed, looking like more like an angry boy than the Lord of Riverrun. “What are you doing here?”

“Begging your pardon, milord, I’m here to see the Lord Stark, seeing as he’s not dead anymore, that is,” the man replied.

“Get out of here,” Edmure told him. “You are not welcome in my hall!”

Ned could not imagine why this particular little man was provoking such a reaction in his goodbrother, but he had no intention of letting Edmure throw the man out before he discovered his purpose in coming. “Lord Tully, I should like to hear what the man has to say,” he said respectfully but firmly.

“He has nothing of value to say,” sulked Edmure.

“Aw now, that ain’t true, milord. I’ve got a lot to say to Lord Stark. And don’t you worry none, milord, I’m not here to sing.” The remarkably cheeky little man then grinned toward Roslin and then back at Edmure. “Besides, milord, if it’s true you’ve got a little trout growing in her ladyship there, I’ve no cause to ever sing that ballad of the floppy fish again. I only sung it that once, you know.”

At that, Edmure’s face became so red, it was almost purple, and Ned felt the situation deteriorating rapidly. “Ser Robin,” called Ned, as he saw Riverrun‘s captain of the guard standing nearby. “Please escort this gentleman to . . .” He hesitated, unsure of an appropriate place.

“The anteroom of the south tower,” Catelyn finished for him.

Ser Robin nodded, and Ned looked back at this man who caused Edmure such distress. “I’ll be there to speak with you in a moment,” he said.

The little man nodded and followed Ser Robin without complaint.

“I don’t want him in the south tower. I want him gone,” Edmure protested as he watched the two men leave the hall.”

Ned sighed. “He will be gone, as soon as I have heard what he has to say. But I need to know his purpose in coming here.”

Ser Brynden had apparently been making an effort not to laugh for some time and now gave up that effort entirely. “I’d like to hear the man’s song!” he proclaimed. “What’s it about, Edmure?”

Edmure glared at him while Roslin sat silently between the two Tully men looking as if she’d prefer to be somewhere else. Ned decided it was past time to go speak to this man, and he rose from his seat and looked at Catelyn. “My lady?” She rose as well and took his arm. Turning back to Edmure, he said formally, “May we have your leave to go, my lord?”

Edmure hesitated and then waved in the direction of the doorway. “Go on,” he said. “For your sake, I hope he has something worthwhile to say for once!”

Catelyn led Ned down the corridor to the room where Robin Ryger waited with the singer. The man was seated, but jumped to his feet when they entered. “Milord, milady,” he said politely enough, bowing quickly to each of them.

“What is your name, may I ask?” said Ned.

“I’m Tom of Sevenstreams, milord, but folks call me Tom Sevenstrings or just Tom o’ Sevens. I’m a singer of songs.”

“So I gather,” Ned said drily. “Why don’t we sit down and you tell us why you have sought me out.”

When they had all been seated, Tom of Sevenstreams looked pointedly at Robin Ryger. When Ned made no move to ask Ser Robin to leave, Tom shrugged and began speaking. “I’m not just a singer, milord. I’m with the Lightning Lord.”

“The Lightning Lord?” Ned asked.

“Beric Dondarrion?” Catelyn asked at almost the same time. “Does he truly still live?”

“Well,” said Tom, scratching his chin. “That’s an interesting question, as it were. And he asked the same one about the two of you when I sent him word you were here.”

“Sent him word? I thought you said you were with him,” Ned said.

“I am with him, in that I’m his man, see. But he’s had me here to spy on those Freys for some time now.” He turned toward Catelyn. “He doesn’t much like Freys, see. Not since that Red Wedding. Lord Beric thinks what was done there is an awful crime. Worse even than the usual crimes done by the lions and wolves on all the people.”

“I wouldn’t disagree with him,” Catelyn said quietly.

“No, I reckon you wouldn’t. Your son, the young wolf, he’s really dead? And staying dead?”

Catelyn looked shocked at the question, but she answered him, “Yes. Our son Robb is dead.”

Tom shook his head. “Well, I’m sorry to hear it. We never found him by the river. We came on a lot of dead folks by the river after that wedding, buried ‘em as decent as we could. Thought we found you, milady, but Lord Beric looked real close at that woman and said, no it couldn’t be you. You were supposed to be beautiful like your daughter, he said, and he could remember her looks well enough to see that woman was nothing like her. She just had red hair, and that was all. So he just had us bury her with the rest.”

Catelyn looked disturbed by the conversation, so Ned called the man’s attention back to himself. “Tom, why are you here? What do you or Lord Dondarrion want from us?”

“Oh,” said Tom, as if just remembering why he had come. “He wants to meet you. He wants to see if you are truly back from the dead.” Tom grinned at him. “Your head looks like it’s on there pretty good to me, milord.”

Ned ignored that. “Well, you can give him assurances we are both quite alive. If he would like to come to Riverrun himself . . .”

“Oh no, milord. He won’t come here. Not the red priest, either.”

“Red priest? Thoros of Myr, do you mean? Is he with Lord Dondarrion?”

“Well, if he weren’t, there wouldn’t be no Lord Dondarrion, now would there,” said Tom cryptically. “But you’ll have to come to them, milord. I can take you.”

“I’m sorry, Tom, but that’s just not possible right now,” Ned started to say.

“He can tell you about your daughters.” Ned heard Catelyn’s sharp gasp. “The little one looks a lot like you, milord. Got your eyes, she has.”

Ned was out of his chair and gripping Tom of Sevenstream by his shirt. “Do you have my daughters?” he demanded.

“No, milord!” he shouted. “Honest, I don’t. We don’t. We had the one, a fierce little scrawny thing with grey eyes like yours, but we lost her.”

“Lost her?” Catelyn repeated, desolately. “Do you mean . . .”

“Aw, she ain’t dead, milady," Tom said quickly as Ned released his hold on him. "Not as far as I know. We was taking her to you, milady, I swear we was. Back before that wedding. We were on our way to Riverrun and she run off. Before we could fetch her back, the Hound took her.”

“The Hound? You mean Sandor Clegane?” Ned demanded.

“Yeah, that’s him. But she got away from him, too, it seems. Story is he took her to the Twins, but got there while all the killing was going on, so he took her and left. Heard they killed two men and a boy at an inn, but the Hound got a mortal wound there as well. Last we heard of the girl is she was looking for a ship at Saltpans.”

Catelyn had gone still and silent as the man told his tale. “How do you know these things?” Ned asked quietly. “How do you know what happened with her after she left you?”

“Because of Gendry, mostly,” he shrugged. “He’s a boy that came to us same time she did. He felt kind of responsible for her. Kept asking after her and searching for her after she disappeared. Lord Beric said it was a noble thing to do and let him keep at it. He couldn’t find her though. If she found a ship that would take her off, she could be anywhere.”

Ned felt dizzy. Arya had survived and come at least as far from King’s Landing as the Twins. He had no way of knowing where she was now, but he knew she did not die in King’s Landing. That was something. He held tightly to that knowledge and offered a quick, silent prayer for her continued safety. He touched Catelyn’s hand beside him, but she didn’t move.

“My lady?” he said with some concern, taking her hand in his.

Slowly she turned toward him, the scars on her face standing out more vividly than usual against the ghostly pallor of her skin. “She was there,” she whispered slowly. “She was there. Arya was right there at the Twins, but they killed Robb and everyone else and kept her away from me. Now she’s gone again.” She turned away and was silent again.

Ned turned back to Tom of Sevenstreams. “Thank you for telling us this, Tom,” he said quietly. “But I see no reason for us to seek out Lord Dondarrion if you’ve told us all there is to tell about Arya.”

“Oh!” said Tom. “He didn’t mean to tell you about that one. Said I could do that. Show of good faith and all. He said he can tell you about the other one. The one who looks like her.” He nodded toward Catelyn who looked up at him then with haunted eyes.

“Sansa?” she whispered.

Tom nodded. “He says someone came to him, milady. Someone who knows where she is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you who continue to read the story, I continue to be grateful for your interest in it. All of your comments are appreciated. :)


	16. Leavetaking

Catelyn Stark stared out the window into the darkness. She had given up on sleep long ago and now stood motionless in the bedchamber at Riverrun while her mind traveled backward in time and northward toward the Twins. Arya had been trying to reach her. She recalled every rainsoaked, miserable league of that trek from Riverrun to the Twins, and how she had longed to travel faster. Now she wanted to go back in time and move much more slowly. She wanted her daughter to reach her in time. _In time for what? In time to die with Robb?_  She put her face in her hands and felt her fingers curl inward, her nails pressing into her flesh around her eyes, just at the tops of her red scars. _Arya,_ she thought desperately.

The door to the bedchamber opened slowly. After a few seconds, she heard a whispered, “Cat?” Then he must have seen her standing there because his voice came again, louder and with fear in it, “Cat!” She heard him rushing toward her, and then he was pulling her hands from her face, rubbing his own calloused hands over her cheeks, and then crushing her to him. He didn’t speak for a moment, but she heard his rapid breath and felt his chest heaving against her as he held her tight.

“I am fine, Ned,” she said in an empty, hollow voice that didn’t sound like her at all. “I didn’t break the skin. I wasn’t going to . . . .” She stopped, unsure what to say next. They had never specifically discussed the scars on her face, but she knew he knew all about them. Someone would have told him what she did that day. She raised her face to look at him. Even in the dark, she could see the fear in his grey eyes. “I am not mad,” she said softly.

“No, my love,” he whispered into her hair as he held her tighter against him. “You are not mad, and I do not think it.” He swallowed. “You are only hurt beyond all that is bearable, and I would take that hurt from you if I could.”

She nodded. “I know you would.” With immense effort, she tried to pull herself from the past and be with her husband now. She pulled back enough to look up at him. He was exhausted. She didn’t know the time, but imagined it must be very late. “You have everything ready for the morrow?” she asked.

He nodded. “I had hoped you would sleep,” he said.

She shook her head. “A forlorn hope, I fear, my lord.” She pulled him toward a chair and gestured for him to sit. “But if you have finished with preparations, let’s get you undressed for bed. We can at least lie awake til morning intead of standing awake.”

He nodded tiredly. “I suppose, my lady.” She knelt to remove his boots. “I can do that, Cat.”

“I know. But I want to.” She pulled off his boots and then moved to help him remove the rest of his clothing. There was none of the passion or fear of the previous night’s undressing. She only wanted to take care of him, to be close to him, and to let him anchor her to the present. She needed to talk to him about what she felt, but she didn’t want to be pulled back there again.

She sat on the edge of the bed in her nightshift as he moved quietly around the room, putting his things away. “It shouldn’t make it any worse, I suppose, but it does,” she said softly.

“What makes it worse, my love?” he asked, coming to sit beside her.

“That she came so close.” Catelyn closed her eyes. “She must have known I was there, Ned. Can you imagine what that felt like to her? After all that had happened to her, all the long way she’d come . . .to think that she would be with me again. Be safe again.” Her breath caught then. “And then to see what was happening. She had to know, Ned. She must have been terrified. She had to know that Robb and I . . .” She felt her hands curling up again, but she kept them in her lap. “I couldn’t reach her either! I couldn’t get to Robb or Arya! I couldn’t keep them safe! My babies!!” The last word came out somewhere between a scream and a sob, and then she was shaking in Ned’s arms.

He didn’t say anything, but simply held her as she shook. Finally, her tears seemed to run dry and her sobs slowed to occasional gasping breaths. She looked up at him and asked in a very quiet voice, “Do you truly think she could still be alive?”

“I do,” he said firmly. “And yes, that’s partly because I want to believe it, that I need to believe it. But, Cat, she was a nine year old girl, who somehow got from King’s Landing all the way here. She escaped both Lord Beric’s men and Joffrey’s dog. If our girl could accomplish all that at nine, imagine how formidable she must be at one and ten.” He smiled as he said it and wiped the tears from her face, but she could see the fear and pain on his face as well.

Catelyn tried to smile back at him. “She always was a fierce little wolf,” she said. “But, Ned, however can she defend herself out there . . .wherever she is?”

“Probably better than you think.” He gently pushed her back to lie on the bed, and then he lay down beside her, pulling the covers over them and pulling her into his arms. “I have a small confession to make, my lady.”

“A confession?”

“Arya was very unhappy in King’s Landing, my love. She hated the court, and she was miserable over the loss of her wolf pup.”

“I know those things, Ned. And they weren’t truly your doing,” Catelyn told him.

“I may disagree with you there, but that is not my confession.” He paused. “I found one thing that did make her happy. She had smuggled a lovely little sword, small and light like herself, into her things from home.”

“A sword? Wherever did she get such a thing?”

“In truth, I don’t know all of it, but Mikken made it.”

“Mikken? Gave a sword to our daughter?”

“I don’t know that he gave it to her, Cat, only that it was his work. She confessed as much, but said little else when I found her with it.”

“What did you do with it?” she asked him.

He sighed deeply. “I let her keep it. And I found her a fencing master, a man to teach her fencing in the water dancer style---suited to the small and quick.”

He looked at her as if awaiting her censure, but she simply looked up at him and nodded. “Good.” She felt his arms tighten around her.

After a moment, she asked, “We will not return to Riverrun after we meet with Lord Dondarrion?”

“No.” He sighed. “Edmure is still not happy about it. At the least, he wants you to stay here and . .”

She sat straight up and looked down at him, but before she could voice a protest, he quickly said, “You are coming with me, Cat. I told Edmure that you will not stay. Wherever this Lightning Lord’s information leads us, that is where we shall go. Together.”

She settled back down into his arms. “You have men?”

He nodded. “Donnell, of course. The six left from Winterfell. Howland Reed insists on coming as well, with a few of his men.”

“Reed? Why?”

Ned sighed. “I am honestly not sure, although I think it may have something to do with Lyanna. He loved her a great deal, I think, and was not able to help me rescue her. Perhaps he thinks rescuing my daughter will help make up for that.”

“Were there any men who didn’t love Lyanna Stark?”

Ned actually laughed at that. “Plenty! She could be rather hard to take when she chose to be, and any man who counted ‘biddable’ among his desirable characteristics in the fairer sex hated her instantly.” He shook his head. “But you mistake me. Howland isn’t Rhaegar or Robert. He respected and admired Lyanna, but his affection was not romantic.”

“Well, he is a good man. I shall welcome having him along.”

“The others offered as well, you know. We could have taken the entire northern contingent, but that would be a poor battle plan indeed. And your brother might have objected.”

“So they all stay here? Who will command them?”

“Lady Maege has command of her troops. Lord Umber will take Galbart’s during his convalescence. I have instructed them to serve Edmure however he has need of them until they hear from me again, or the north has more urgent need of them.”

“Edmure is little tested as a battle commander, my lord. He had some small successes in our earlier war, but . . .”

“Cat,” Ned interrupted. “Maege and the Greatjon are both tested battle commanders. They will not allow your brother to make any glaring mistakes. And the Blackfish will be here as well.” He paused. “Although he also wanted to come with us on the morrow.”

“Uncle Brynden? But he has to go treat with the Kingslayer!”

“I told him as much. I have no doubt he is the best man for that job. He didn’t like it, but he finally agreed. He’s really quite fond of you, Cat. I wouldn’t have minded bringing him along myself, just to help keep you safe.”

She snorted. “The safety of Riverrun and all the people here is a bit more important than mine.”

He smiled at her. “Not to me,” he said, echoing her own words to him from before they’d left the Twins.

They lay silent for awhile, each knowing the other was still awake. Finally, she whispered to him, “Ned? Is it terrible that I cannot think of Sansa?”

“My love?” he asked, obviously not understanding her question.

She looked out into the darkness of their room as she spoke then. “I cannot think of her. I cannot allow myself to. I cannot hope and be disappointed. Arya was so close to me, Ned, and I never knew it. What if Sansa comes so close, and I can’t reach her either? I cannot bear that.” She sat up again in the bed and looked down at him. “So I cannot even think of my daughter as we leave to do this thing. Does that make me terrible?”

He reached up and gently brushed his fingers down the scars on her cheeks. “No, my love. You are not terrible. You are fierce and brave and strong.” He picked up her hands and kissed each of her palms where the dagger had cut her so long ago. “And I thank the gods that you are the mother of all of my children.”

She lay back down then, and the two of them held each other as they waited for the dawn.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

It was cold in Riverrun’s hall in spite of the fires when Ned entered it just before dawn. Few people were about yet, but Edmure was there in his seat, already deep in conversation with his uncle as a girl laid food down before them. Catelyn’s brother may not always have been the most serious-minded man, but no one could say he lacked energy, and he certainly seemed to have thrown himself into the managing of Riverrun and indeed an entire military effort in the Riverlands with gusto.

Brynden Tully looked up as he approached. “Stark,” he greeted him. “Are you still determined to ride off to gods know where with our little Cat today?”

Ned sighed. “Your little Cat is my lady wife,” he replied evenly. “She has long been a woman grown, and the mother of five children. She chooses to ride with me to seek our daughter, and I would not deny her.”

The Blackfish grunted. “No, I don’t imagine you would. I’ll admit you’ve been an exemplary husband to her in most respects, Stark. And she is certainly more than fond of you for whatever reason. Just keep her safe.”

“Believe me, Ser Tully, I intend to do just that,” Ned answered him, wondering at the slight chill in his manner. _An exemplary husband in most respects?_ Like Edmure, Ser Brynden was worried about Catelyn leaving the safety of Riverrun, but he had seemed generally supportive of her going when Ned had spoken to him last night, and while the man was always gruff, he and Ned generally got on quite well.

“There has been a raven, Lord Stark,” Edmure said with a definite chill in his voice. “I am glad you have come alone. I would prefer not to discuss the letter in Catelyn’s presence.”

Ned’s eyebrows rose at that. He looked from one Tully man to the other. “Well, you had better discuss it quickly then, as she is coming right behind me. But I keep no secrets from my lady wife.”

Ser Brynden’s eyes darkened noticeably at that, and Edmure actually coughed. “The raven is from Lord Frey at the Twins, my lord, passing on a letter he received from the Wall.”

Now, Ned understood. He didn’t know if they had known of Jon’s ascension to Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch before, but they assuredly did now. The Bastard of Winterfell, whose mother’s name was never spoken. _Damn! I keep no secrets from my lady wife. How hollow that must sound to them!_ Ned’s insistence on raising Jon at Winterfell had meant everyone knew of him, and undoubtedly Catelyn had not hidden her resentment from her family, particularly in the early years of their marriage. He could hardly fault the Tully men for their loyalty to Catelyn, but he did not need them angry at him today of all days.

He doggedly ignored the hostility coming from the two pairs of blue eyes gazing at him, and said mildly, “Yes, we allowed Perwyn Frey to take the black as I told you. Lord Olyvar and Lady Mormont sent a raven to the Wall to alert the Lord Commander of his arrival. Winter is coming. It will arrive at the Wall sooner than anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms, and their journey north will likely be perilous. We wished to have someone looking out for Perwyn and his escort.”

“The Lord Commander,” repeated Edmure. “Your bastard, you mean. Jon Snow.” Edmure’s voice had risen to a pitch easily heard throughout the hall, and he said the last just as Catelyn walked in, arm in arm with Roslin Tully.

She stopped short when she heard her brother’s words. Then she dropped Roslin’s arm and walked to stand beside Ned in front of the high table. She stood stiffly, and there was no warmth in her voice as she asked Edmure, “What about Jon Snow?”

Edmure looked down at his plate, and Ned replied, “A raven has come from the Wall, my lady.”

“Oh.” She turned to her brother again, still all formality. “The boy has been made Lord Commander, apparently. My lord husband and I knew nothing about it until Lady Mormont informed him as they marched to the Twins. Is there news of Ser Perwyn?”

Her chin was held high as she spoke, and her air of courtesy never wavered. Ned allowed himself to see the sympathy in the eyes of her brother and uncle, and even in Roslin’s who had now come to stand at her other side. _Gods, how she hates to be pitied! he thought. And I have done this to her for years_.

“I have not yet heard the contents of the letter, my lady. But it is far too soon for Perwyn and his escort to have reached the Wall. They were leaving after us, and the distance is great.”

“And winter is coming,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, struck by how easily the Stark words came from her now. In the past, she had shivered every time she heard him say them.

“Well, Perwyn Frey is mentioned, but you’re right, Lord Stark, he isn’t there yet,” said Edmure, seeming now to want to diffuse any tension in the room, likely for Catelyn‘s sake. “Come sit down and eat, and the two of you can read it.” He then smiled at Roslin, acknowledging her for the first time. “Come and sit by me, my lady, and have your breakfast as well.”

Roslin blushed and ducked her head, but Ned could see that she had a smile on her face as well, and when she briefly brushed her hand over Edmure’s shoulder as she sat down beside him, Ned found himself wondering where Edmure had gone when they had finally finished speaking late last night.

Ned took a seat beside Ser Brynden who handed him the letter, and he held it where Catelyn, who had taken the seat next to him could read it as well. His heart lurched to see the handwriting which he recognized well. Jon’s penmanship had always been neater than Robb’s untidy scrawl. As with everything else in his life, the boy had always seemed to seek quiet perfection, as if to counteract the stain of bastardy. Ned sighed, and read the words.

_Lord Frey,_

_I am pleased to call you by that title, my lord, in gratitude for your part in the justice dispensed upon those who most cruelly murdered Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North. Lady Mormont’s letter makes it clear that your assistance in their taking of the Twins was essential, and that you played no part in the Red Wedding. The Night’s Watch takes no part in conflicts within the realm, of course, but as Lord Robb‘s brother, I confess I am glad he and his lady mother have received justice._

_We shall gladly accept Ser Perwyn’s service. I fear we are vastly undermanned and facing increasing threats from beyond the Wall. The Night’s Watch has recently accepted the oaths of a number of the free folk, but our numbers remain inadequate, as evils that have long been sleeping now stir. None of the claimants to the Iron Throne have responded to our pleas for help save Stannis Baratheon. I realize you have concerns of your own, but the Night’s Watch would gladly accept any men you could send north. Winter is coming, and our peril increases. With Winterfell fallen, we shall not have the support of the Starks as in years past. We seek men and supplies from all the Seven Kingdoms, for we defend the realm._

_I do not know if word has reached you yet, but Lord Stannis has driven the Greyjoys from Deepwood Motte. This news should gladden Lord Glover._

_Yours,_

_Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch_

Ned put the letter down and was silent. Catelyn remained stiff beside him, but she did touch his hand beneath the table.

“What does he mean by free folk, Stark?” asked Brynden Tully, still notably chilly in his manner toward him.

“That is how the wildlings beyond the wall call themselves,” Ned said.

“He’s bringing them through and arming them?” cried Edmure in disbelief. “The bloody Wall was built to keep wildlings out! Is he a halfwit, this bastard of yours?”

“There are worse things than wildlings beyond the wall,” Catelyn said softly.

Ned remembered her telling him that before, and he had chided her for listening too closely to Old Nan’s stories. “There are rumors that the Others again roam beyond the wall,” he said. “I confess I gave them no credence, but I begin to believe there are many things in this world beyond what I know.”

“Well, I know that no one’s going to want to send men to your bastard if he’s thrown in his lot with a bunch of wildlings,” Edmure said definitively.

Catelyn stiffened again at the word bastard, just as she had done a thousand times through the years. Knowing the truth had not protected her from the sting of it.

“In truth, you have no men to send, Lord Tully,” Ned told him evenly. “Every man is needed here. And I fear Jon is right about the Starks. The Night’s Watch has depended upon Winterfell for support for over a thousand years, but I have no help to give.” _Winterfell fallen_. The words left him colder than any winter wind. He looked directly at Edmure and Brynden. “This is simply one more calamity beyond our help for now. Would that things were different, but they aren’t. Catelyn and I must go with this Tom and find our daughter. You must protect Riverrun and drive the Lannisters out of the Riverlands. Only then can we turn our attention to all that must be done in the north.”

“Winter is coming,” said the Blackfish. “Your bastard uses the Stark words in his letter.”

“He states a fact,” said Catelyn simply. “As cold as it grows here, there is likely snow covering the ground at Winterfell already. I can’t imagine what it is like at the Wall.”

“Conditions at the Wall should not concern you, Little Cat,” her uncle told her. “I was surprised this letter made no mention of you, though, Stark. I’d think the boy would be glad to know you live.”

“He doesn’t know,” said Ned. “It is hardly news for a raven. Firstly, we had decided not to send any ravens telling of my identity, and a raven destined for the Wall could easily end up elsewhere. Secondly, the news that Catelyn and I live will undoubtedly leave him with many questions. A raven can hardly answer those. I sent another letter with Perwyn. He will be able to speak with Jon.”

Ser Brynden looked at Catelyn and then at Ned before nodding and turning back to his breakfast. Edmure then leaned toward Roslin, telling her something Ned couldn’t hear. He looked out over the hall to see that several others had drifted in during their conversation, and more were coming now in a fairly steady stream, as Riverrun woke to a day of departures.

Ned finished his own breakfast rather quickly and stood to go outside with Howland Reed who had come down and eaten as well. He left Catelyn in the hall with young Lady Tully, who seemed quite distressed at the prospect of her departure. Brynden Tully had left his seat to join the Lords Umber and Piper at their table, no doubt to discuss their own departure. Young Marq Piper sat with them, and he had smiled at Ned as he passed them on his way out. He looked far better than he had at the Twins. Being reunited with his father had been good for him.

They found Tom in the courtyard by the stables, tacking up his horse. “Good day, milords,” he said as they arrived. “You can ride with as many men as you want, Lord Stark, but once we get to Lord Dondarrion, I can only take you and your lady. I told you that.” He shook his head at all the commotion in the courtyard.

“And I agreed to it,” Ned said. “Most of these men aren’t going with us, Tom. There will be twenty in our party, not including you or Lady Catelyn.”

The singer shook his head. “I’m not going to murder you, milord. Don’t know why you need so many.”

“I don’t need them to ride with you to see your lord, Tom. But I may need them to go wherever I must go after that.”

“You plan on going after her, then? Once Lord Beric tells you where she is?”

“Of course,” Ned said simply. “If your children had been taken from you and scattered about, would you not go after them?”

The singer grinned then. “To tell the truth, milord, my children are pretty scattered about. But that’s for the best, I think, as their mothers are scattered about as well.” The man began humming then, and walked over to a fire to warm his hands.

“You trust his man, my lord?” Howland Reed asked him.

Ned sighed. “Not at all, my friend. But what choice do I have?”

In less than an hour, they were all loaded up and prepared to go. Tom had shaken his head at the horses laden with supplies, but Ned told him simply, “Winter is coming. I know not where we travel or in what conditions. I do not wish to be caught lacking.”

“Well, I’m just taking you east down the River Road, milord. It’s not many days, and you won’t need much of that.” He hesitated, as if unsure how much to say. “We will have to leave the road finally, and we’ll have to leave your men camped by the Red Fork. I can’t have them following us after that, but I give my word, it won’t be far, and we’ll get you back to them in a day or less.”

“Fair enough,” Ned told him, wondering if he could leave Catelyn camped with the men as well, but doubting that she’d stand for it. Whatever this man had in store for them, they were going to face it together.

He had already said his farewells to Maege Mormont and the Greatjon, and he and Catelyn had both gone to Galbart Glover’s room to to wish him good health and tell him goodbye. Saying goodbye to Lady Maege had proven more difficult than he expected. He did not like farewells and generally did not make a fuss about them, but the Lady of Bear Island had been a true friend to him indeed since his return from the dead. As he struggled to find the words to express his gratitude to her, she had clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Well, my lord, it’s time for you to go. Once you’ve found the Lady Sansa and Lady Arya, and we’ve sorted out all these Lannisters and Boltons and anyone else who needs sorted, I expect to be feasted at Winterfell for at least a fortnight.”

He laughed. “It shall be done, my lady.”

Then she had looked at Catelyn who was being embraced tightly by the Greatjon. “Take care of her, my lord.”

“Indeed I shall, my lady,” and he had taken her hand and kissed it in farewell.

It amused him greatly when he overheard her say to Catelyn only a moment later, “You will take care of him, won’t you my lady?” Catelyn had hugged her tightly and assured the She-Bear that Ned was safe in her hands. Yes, Ned thought. He would miss Lady Mormont.

Catelyn had cried only a little at parting with her brother and uncle, although poor Roslin had cried and clung to Cat like a child. Edmure had pulled her away gently and put his arm around her protectively, a positive sign for their future, Ned thought. All three Tullys had admonished him to take care of Cat, and he duly promised each of them he would.

“If you’re taking the River Road east, you’ll be traveling roughly in the same direction we are,” the Blackfish had said to him as he finally mounted up after putting Catelyn on her horse. "If you go all the way to the crossroads, perhaps I’ll buy you a drink at the inn there once we’ve both completed our tasks.” He grinned at both of them. “And they do have beds there. Doubtless, you two will be missing those.” Without another word, he turned and walked back toward the stables, where his own horse was being tacked up.

“Rogue!” Catelyn called after him. He didn’t turn, but Ned saw his shoulders shake with laughter.

Catelyn turned toward him then. “I am ready, my lord,” she said in a soft, clear voice. Her blue eyes shone with unshed tears, but she looked at him steadily.

He reached over and took her hand briefly. “Then let us depart, my lady.”

They rode out then from Riverrun, and Ned wondered when and if he would see it again. He saw that his wife did not look back, and he knew that she wondered the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to give a shout out to a reference I've used throughout the writing of this story, and have been especially grateful for as I get into the next few chapters where I have to realistically get several people where I want them to be when I want them to be there. Ser Mountain Goat has created a beautiful speculative map of the world of A Song of Ice and Fire, the link to which is here. http://www.sermountaingoat.co.uk/map/versions/speculative_map.jpg . I have used this map repeatedly to judge how long it would take characters to reach certain locales by ships or horses, and to see if I can get characters from here to there at least close to the times they would be in certain places in the books. It's a godsend for obsessive people like me. It's also quite a lovely map well worth looking at just for fun.  
> The next few chapters here will include appearances from several new (or familiar, if you've read them all) characters from Mr. Martin's wonderful books. I hope you enjoy!


	17. Bannerless Brothers and Bastard Girls

While it remained cold, they were blessed with relatively fair weather as they traveled east along the River Road, and Catelyn did not find the journey too unpleasant. Spending most of the day on horseback and sleeping on the hard ground at night left her sore and stiff at first, but by the fifth day, her body seemed to have become accustomed to such treatment. With the exception of the old crossbow injury to her back, which continued to ache intermittently in the chilly air, she suffered no real discomfort. She disliked sleeping cold, but at least she had Ned to share his warmth with her beneath their furs, and she felt worse for the rest of the men.

Ned insisted on taking his turn at watch with the other men each night, and while he had originally insisted she go on sleeping, it had quickly become clear that she could do no such thing. Wrapped tightly in cloak and furs, she would sit by him as he watched, and they spoke quietly of things they had not had the chance to discuss before.

“I did not know you sent Perwyn with a letter to Jon,” she had said quietly that first night out of Riverrun, once he had conceded defeat and let her stay by him.

She heard him sigh and then pause before speaking, and she knew he was weighing his words carefully. “It may suit our purpose to have others hear of my resurrection as rumor or ghost tale. I would not have one of my own blood hear it so. I would have him know the truth of it.”

“Ah,” she said. “The truth of it.” She hated the bitterness in her voice as she emphasized the word truth, but she couldn’t help it.

“Catelyn . . .” he started.

“Will the boy read that his father lives, or his uncle?” she interrupted him.

“Do not do this, Cat,” he said quietly, not looking at her.

“Do what? Ask you what you said in the letter you didn’t tell me you sent? Ask you what other secrets you are keeping from me?” She knew she was being unfair, but she was exhausted, cold, and still reeling from all the farewells earlier in the day, and she just couldn’t stop herself.

She had kept her voice low, but Ned still took her by the arm, pulled her to her feet, and led her away from the other men. “I am keeping no secrets, my lady. I didn’t mention writing to Jon because I never mention Jon to you if it can be helped. It is a habit years in the making and not easily broken.” There was an edge to his voice, but Catelyn could not tell if he were angry with her or with himself. Likely both. He dropped her arm and looked at her a moment, although this far from the campfire, they could barely see each other. He sighed again. “I would have told you had you asked.”

“And I never ask about Jon,” she replied, although with less venom in her voice than before. “Another habit years in the making.” They stood there silently for a moment, not touching. Catelyn shivered. “I am cold, my lord. Let us return to the fire.”

“May I hold you?” he asked almost formally. “I would like to tell you what I put in the letter, my lady. I would prefer not to discuss it any closer to the men, but neither would I have you freeze.”

Without a word and with only a slight hesitation, she leaned into him, and he wrapped his arms around her, bringing the edges of his cloak forward to encircle her in an extra layer of warmth. She pushed her face against his neck and chest to warm her nose and cheeks, and then she laughed softly. “It is rather difficult to stay angry with you in this position, my lord.”

“Well, I had hoped for that as well,” he said, pulling her into him more tightly. After another moment of silence, he continued. “You spoke truly when you told me Jon deserves to know the truth, and I mean to tell him. But it is not a truth meant to be read in a letter. He deserves to have me look at him when he learns it. For now, he should know we are both alive, and that is essentially all I put in the letter. I feared he would not believe it from Perwyn, but he will recognize my hand. I asked Perwyn to tell him the details of our escapes.”

“I don’t even know all the details of your escape,” she said softly. “There is so much we haven’t said yet, my lord. Sometimes I feel that all those moons we spent apart will forever lie between us. That we can’t truly know each other as we did before.”

“There is already more truth between us now than since the day I first rode away from you at Riverrun, Cat,” he replied. “We will fill in the empty places over time. We cannot go back to where we were before, my love. We can only go forward. But I am yours as long as you will have me.”

She smiled against his chest. “Oh, I’ll have you, Lord Stark. We both may have reason to regret it at times, but I’ll have you.”

“I have many regrets, my lady. Wedding you has never been one of them.”

She had meant to tease him, to turn their conversation away from the anger and sorrow she had brought to it, but he had spoken simply and solemnly. She pulled back from him enough to place her gloved hands on the sides of his face, and looked up toward the eyes she couldn’t truly see in the dark. “I did regret our marriage,” she said softly, “when first I came to Winterfell and found Jon there.” She felt the tension run through him at her words. “But by the time you put Sansa inside me, I knew I loved you, my lord. And from that time, whatever else has happened to us, I have never regretted being your wife.”

He stood very still a moment, and then raised his hands to touch her own face. “I am glad of it, my lady,” he said in a voice filled with emotion.

She heard in his voice and felt in his touch all the words he did not say, and she tip-toed to kiss him softly. “Let’s go back to the fire now, my lord. Only one of us is impervious to cold.”

With the tension between them eased once more, they had walked back to the fire. There they suffered with good grace the speculative looks from the other men on watch about their absence, and finally settled back down to sleep close together when Ned’s watch ended.

Thinking back on that conversation now, as she rode beside her husband, Catelyn wondered if Jon Snow’s name would always bring tension between them. It was different now, of course. Better, in some ways. But like the crossbow wound in her back or the injury to Ned‘s leg, she wondered if this hurt was too severe to ever heal completely without pain.

“We’ll be stopping here, milord.” Tom’s voice interrupted her thoughts. The singer had pulled his horse alongside Ned’s. “The Red Fork’s not far that way,” he said, pointing through the trees. “Your men can make a decent camp there, and I’ll take you and your lady on to see the Lightning Lord.”

Ned looked at her and she nodded. She was ready to do this.

“How far to Lord Dondarrion’s camp?” Ned inquired.

“Well, I shouldn’t be telling you exactly, milord,” said Tom. “But it’s early enough we can get there easy. By the time you talk to him though, like as not it’ll be too late to ride back, so you may want to tell your men not to expect you back til the morrow. I don’t want ‘em to get to worrying and ride off looking for you. If they came too close, the Brotherhood would have no choice but to capture or kill them.”

“My lord, I do not like this at all,” said Lord Reed, who had ridden up to join the conversation. “If these are honest men, why do they hide like outlaws? How can we be certain you and Lady Stark are not riding into a trap to be kidnapped for ransom? The man told you plain as day they had planned to ransom your daughter.”

“Yes,” Ned said thoughtfully. “Yes, he did. Not a very bright thing to do if he intended to do the same with Catelyn and myself, wouldn’t you say?”

“Or a very clever thing, perhaps. You came here, did you not?” Reed challenged.

“Point taken. As for your assertion that they hide like outlaws, Lord Reed, they do so because they are outlaws. You are called the Brotherhood without Banners, are you not, Tom?” Ned asked the singer. Catelyn knew her husband had quizzed virtually every man, woman, and child in Riverrun about Lord Beric and his band the night before their departure.

“Some call us that, sure, milord,” the man responded.

“And you hold no allegiance to any king or overlord. You raid where you will, hang those you find guilty of crimes under your own authority, and claim to champion the smallfolk. Is that correct?"

Tom shifted on his horse. “More or less, milord, except the no king part. We are the king’s men.”

“What king?” Ned asked him.

“King Robert Baratheon,” Tom said boldly. “Lord Beric and his men were sent out from King’s Landing in King Robert’s name to stop Gregor Clegane from burning and raiding the holdfasts. Only they rode out to find a trap, milord. A lion’s trap, meant to catch the Hand of the King.” Tom stared at Ned as if awaiting his reaction. When Ned said nothing, he went on. “But then the King was killed and the Hand, too, so Lord Beric and what was left of his men just went on trying to protect the smallfolk as best as they could and kept after the Mountain, too. Lord Beric picked up new men where he found them. That’s how he got me, and he told us we owed no allegiance except to the dead king and his Hand, so we were on our own.” He paused again, and looked hard at Ned. “Only now the Hand’s not dead, is he Lord Stark?”

“So does Lord Dondarrion plan to renew his fealty to me then? Or to kill me for sending him into a trap?” Ned asked levelly.

“He plans to tell you about your daughter, milord. You can trust that or not, but it’s all I can say. And you will come back here tomorrow.”

Ned looked at Catelyn again, and she nodded. “We have no choice, my lord,” she said.

Her husband nodded back.

“I still like this not,” Lord Reed said.

“None of us like it, Howland,” snapped Ned, “but my lady is correct. We have no choice.” Turning to Tom of Sevenstreams, he said, “Lead us to this campsite by the Red Fork, Tom, and then my lady and I will ride with you.”

About two hours later, they reached the bank of the Red Fork. The river ran deep and straight here and did not look easy to ford. Ned put Lord Reed in charge of the men, and he and Catelyn continued on downstream with Tom before the men had even started setting up camp. After riding about another half hour, they came to a place where the river seemed to shallow and its current slowed.

“This is where we cross, milord,” Tom said. He looked at Catelyn, “I’m afraid we’re going to get wet, milady, but it’s an easy ford. Your horse won’t have any trouble. I can walk and lead your mount if you like. It’s not above my waist.”

Catelyn was surprised by the offer. “That won’t be necessary, Tom. I ride well enough to cross the ford. But I thank you.”

Ned surveyed the water. “Let me cross it first, Cat. If it’s easy enough, you can do it with your feet out of the stirrups and your legs pulled up. I’d prefer you no wetter than necessary.” He smiled at her. “I know you’re a trout, my love, but it’s rather chilly for swimming.”

She laughed at him, but Tom looked distressed. “Milord, she’s like to fall off that horse if she don’t hold on with her legs, and then she’ll be wet all over.”

Ned looked at the man with some amusement. “Only if there are any tricky currents. That’s why I’m going first. If you’d paid any attention at all, Tom, you’d have noticed already she’s three times the horseman you are.”

Ned splashed his mount across easily, and Catelyn noted the water was even shallower than Tom had indicated. Nevertheless, she pulled her feet out of the stirrups and bent her knees to raise her legs as high as she could. She got her balance and then guided her mount slowly across the ford without getting a bit wet. Tom shook his head and grinned before crossing behind her.

After they had ridden perhaps a little more than another hour, Catelyn was startled to see another man on horse appear out of the trees ahead of them. She was even more startled when she recognized him. “Harwin?” she cried, spurring her horse forward.

“My lady!” cried the man. “It is you!” He turned to Ned who had ridden up behind her. “Lord Eddard,” he said in tones of disbelief. “They told us the Lannisters took your head.”

“They seem to have missed,” Ned told him. “It is good to see you, Harwin. Tom had not told me any of my Winterfell men still remained with Lord Dondarrion.”

Tom shrugged. “Begging you pardon, milord, but he ain’t your man anymore. He’s one of us.” Turning to Harwin, he asked him, “Did you bring the hoods?”

Harwin seemed to hesitate. “No hoods,” he said then.

Tom cursed. “They gotta wear the hoods, Harwin. They can’t tell anyone where we took ‘em if they don’t know.”

“My lord,” said Harwin quickly to Ned. “Do you give me your word that you will not reveal the location of the place we bring you to anyone, nor ever come here again without invitation?”

“You have my word of honor and that of my lady wife,” Ned said formally.

“Now come on, Harwin,” Tom said. “You know that don’t mean a thing.”

At that, Harwin wheeled his mount around at the singer. “Shut up, Tom!” he told him. “You’re right about me being Lord Beric’s man now, but I was a man of Winterfell once, and my father was Master of Horse there. This man is Lord Eddard Stark and his word of honor is all the guarantee any man needs. He and Lady Catelyn will ride freely to meet Lord Beric, and I’ll not hear another word from you about it.”

“Let it be on your head then,” said Tom, shrugging.

“My lord, my lady,” said Harwin nodding to them. “Follow me, please.”

As they rode on through the trees, Catelyn noted the sun was sinking very low in the sky. She couldn’t help feeling uneasy in spite of Harwin’s vigorous support of Ned’s honor. She thought about some of the stranger tales of Lord Beric and shuddered. What sort of man were she and Ned riding to meet?

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark moved his horse close to his wife’s as Harwin’s mount slowed and then stopped in front of them. He watched closely as Harwin dismounted and he could hear Tom of Sevenstreams doing the same behind him. Ned kept his hand on his sword hilt and waited.

“We have to walk from here, my lord,” Harwin told him. “Tom will take the horses.”

“Take them where?” Ned asked without dismounting.

“I’ll put them up with ours, milord,” Tom replied. “I’m not a bloody horse thief. Well, not tonight anyway.”

Looking at the sky, Ned saw it was nearly night. The sun had fallen below the treeline, and the woods around them were lit only by a pale glow. He nodded and climbed slowly from his horse. The bad leg never wanted to move quickly after a long day on horseback, and he winced slightly as it hit the ground.

Harwin noticed. “That’s the leg you injured in King’s Landing, isn’t it, my lord? When the Kingslayer’s men killed Jory.”

Ned nodded as he moved to help Catelyn dismount. “It never healed properly, but it does well enough.”

“You can walk? It isn’t far.”

Ned felt a flash of irritation. He wasn’t a cripple, for the gods’ sake! “I can walk,” he said shortly. Catelyn, now standing standing beside him, squeezed his hand, and he attempted to suppress the anger. “Lead on, Harwin.”

As they stepped through a narrow opening in a thick grove of trees, the entrance of a small cave became visible. Once Harwin led them inside, Ned could see that a tunnel extended off to the left. From somewhere in that tunnel came a faint glow of firelight that was not visible at all from the cave’s entrance. “This way,” Harwin said, and he started down the tunnel.

Catelyn gripped his arm tightly as they walked, and Ned could feel her apprehension. The tunnel twisted, this time to the right, and he could see the source of the glow. Several torches were set into the wall there. Harwin took one of these and continued to lead them through the tunnel, which appeared to continue for some way. After several more twists and turns, they stepped into the entrance of what appeared to be a much larger chamber, and were met by a man Ned thought looked vaguely familiar.

“Lord Stark,” said the man. “It truly is you. I hadn’t quite believed it.”

Ned searched the man’s face and recognition slowly dawned on him. The man he remembered was large and fat with a shaved head, and this one tall and thin with a mop of grey hair falling over his narrow face, loose folds of skin hanging from his chin. “Thoros,” he breathed. “Thoros of Myr.”

“Indeed, Lord Stark. It is good of you to recognize me without my flaming sword. And this would be your lady wife?” he said, turning to Catelyn.

“Yes,” Ned said simply, still stunned by the priest’s appearance.

“Neither of you look to have died,” the priest said thoughtfully, “although that is quite a gash across the lady’s neck.”

Catelyn’s hand went to her throat. Both of them had loosened their cloaks in the closeness of the tunnels, but now he saw her pull hers tight around her again as the priest stepped toward her and reached a hand toward her neck. Ned stepped in front of her and glared at Thoros without speaking.

Thoros smiled briefly and dropped his hand. “It could have been fatal, I think, had she been allowed to bleed out, but she wasn’t. No, neither of you has been brought back.”

Ned had no idea what the man was talking about, but he was tired of being led around in the dark with no answers or explanations. “We have come to see Lord Dondarrion. We have traveled a long way and are very weary. Please take us to your lord now, sir, for we would speak to him.”

“And I would speak with you, my lord,” came a hollow voice from somewhere in the chamber beyond.

Thoros moved aside and Ned could see clearly into the large chamber. A fire burned in the center, and its walls were stone and earth with weirwood roots snaking in and out of them in white tangles. Several people were within; some standing and some sitting on the large roots, on rocks, or on the earthen floor. Ned couldn’t tell who had spoken. Catelyn moved from behind him to once again take his arm, her blue eyes large as she peered around the chamber.

“This is an old place,” she whispered.

“Indeed, Lady Stark,” came that hollow voice again. Now Ned saw a scarecrow of a man rise from his place by the wall and walk slowly toward him. He looked like something out of a nightmare, wearing a black rag of a cloak over a breastplate so dented and deformed by blows that Ned wondered if the man could even remove it. He had red-gold hair, uncombed and hanging limply into his face, but the scalp above his left ear was bald, and the skull there was sharply caved in as Ned had only ever seen in corpses after battles. He was missing an eye, and his skin was a sickly grayish white, save a black ring around his neck. Ned felt Catelyn’s hand trembling on his arm.

As this ghastly apparition approached them, Thoros said quietly, “We seek protection here because the night is dark.”

“And full of terrors,” said everyone else in the chamber save Ned, Catelyn, and Beric Dondarrion.

For this man was Beric Dondarrion, Ned realized. As he drew closer, Ned could make out the stars on what remained of his cloak and recognize the ruined features of that gallant knight who’d set out from King’s Landing on this specter’s face.

“Lord Dondarrion,” he said softly. “You wished to speak with me.”

“They said you had died, murdered by the Lannisters.” He turned to look at Catelyn. “And your lady wife and son then murdered by the Freys.” He was quiet a moment. “Then you lived again. I wished to see.” He fell silent again.

After what seemed an eternity, Catelyn spoke, her voice hesitant. “My Lord Dondarrion, may we please sit? I feel . . .”

“You feel . . .” said Dondarrion quietly. “Leave us!” he said in a louder voice to the chamber at large. Ned saw the others, including Harwin, exit the chamber by a number of different tunnels, but Thoros remained.

“Please, be seated, my lord and lady. I forget my courtesies. I forget . . .many things.” Dondarrion moved to sit on a thick root protruding from the wall, and Ned pulled Catelyn down to sit beside him on a large smooth boulder facing the man. He feared she truly might faint, for her face was pale and the knuckles of her hand white where she gripped his arm. He laid his other hand over hers and squeezed gently. Thoros stood at Dondarrion’s shoulder.

“You feel,” Dondarrion repeated. He stared at Catelyn’s face and then down to where Ned’s hand held hers. “I do not. I have forgotten how to feel, it seems. I have forgotten many things, but I remember you sending us out to do the king’s justice, Lord Stark.”

“I did,” Ned said quietly. “Clegane was an evil man who needed to be stopped. I did not know it was a trap. I am sorry for what happened to you and your men, my lord, but I would send men out again, to stand against such butchery.”

Beric Dondarrion nodded. “Yes, but who are the butchers, my lord? I fear it has become difficult to tell. The lions raped and murdered throughout the land. The wolves came to fight the lions. Your son brought them here. But then the wolves fell upon the people as well, raping, burning, and stealing. All the high lords played their game of thrones and the people died. Children are left orphans whether a lion or a wolf kills their parents. There is no difference.”

“My son was no rapist or murderer,” Ned said fiercely.

“I did not say he was,” Dondarrion replied. “I said only that he brought the wolves. And now he is dead of murder himself.” Again the man looked at Catelyn with that single eye of his. His unblinking gaze upon her made Ned uncomfortable. “Now the Freys must pay for that crime, my lady,” he said in his dead man’s voice. “We came upon the Green Fork, just days after that wedding. We had been pursuing the Lannisters’ Hound who had taken something from us. Did Tom tell you?”

Catelyn nodded. “Arya,” she said in smallest of whispers.

“Yes, that was her name,” said Dondarrion. “Arya.” He stopped speaking again and looked off as if he were somewhere else.

“My lord?” Thoros said softly.

“She wasn’t there,” Dondarrion continued as if he had not paused. “Nor was your son. We found the Green Fork swollen with bodies. The rains had caused it to flood, and it tossed its corpses onto its banks.” He stared at Catelyn again. “I thought you were there, my lady. There was a woman. Her throat was cut, and she had long, red hair. I looked at her closely, though, and I could not see your daughter’s face. Not . . .Arya. The other one.”

“Sansa,” Catelyn whispered.

“Strange,” said Dondarrion. “I have forgotten so much. I cannot recall the face of my betrothed, nor even her name at times. But I knew then that woman could not be you. I had hoped . . . .”

His voice trailed off and he stopped speaking again.

“What did you hope, my lord?” Ned could hear the slight tremor in his wife’s voice as she asked the question, but she did not look away from Beric Dondarrion.

“It does not matter,” he said. “We have tried to give you justice as we have done for others, and Freys have dangled from our ropes just like wolves and lions. It is only that I am weary. Every day, it is harder to remember, and now I am not sure I can remember how to feel.”

“You died,” Catelyn said suddenly. “Didn’t you?”

“More than once,” Dondarrion answered softly, looking to Thoros.

Ned looked at Thoros as well, unable to believe what he was hearing, yet having seen the truth of it written on Dondarrion’s body. “How is such a thing possible?” he said, shaking his head.

“In truth, I do not know, my lord,” Thoros replied. “I know it is the power of R’hllor, the Lord of Light. Why he chooses to use me to give this gift, I do not know. I only know he is not yet finished with Lord Beric.”

“Gift,” repeated Dondarrion. “It’s an odd sort of gift, my friend. I’m left with nothing of who I was. I remember little but the need to do the king’s justice.” He paused then, as if he were trying to recall something. “The little girl asked you for it, though, didn’t she?”

“The little girl?” Thoros asked. Then his face registered comprehension, and he looked at Ned. “Your daughter, Lord Stark. Much like your lady wife, she could see the truth of what had happened to Lord Beric, and I told her I had brought him back him six times. She asked me then if I could bring back a man without a head. Not six times, but just the once.”

Ned felt as if he had taken a blow to the chest. _Oh gods, Arya!_ Catelyn had been right. How much their little girl had suffered. How would she ever heal even if they could find her? Catelyn’s grip on his arm tightened again, but she made no sound, simply continuing to stare at Dondarrion.

Ned’s head swam a bit, as if he’d drunk too much wine, and he felt he could not continue this line of conversation without losing his mind. “Sansa,” he said suddenly. “Tom told us you know where she is.”

Dondarrion nodded slowly. “A woman was brought to us. A young woman with a strange tale. I did not know what to do with it until Tom sent word that you lived. I have forgotten much, but I do remember justice is not only killing. I swore on my honor as a knight to one daughter that I would return her safe to her mother’s arms. I failed her. Perhaps I can lead you to the other daughter as payment for that failure.”

“Shall I go get her, my lord?” Thoros asked.

“No. I am weary,” Dondarrion replied to the priest. “Take Lord and Lady Stark to her. I have seen them now, and I know.” He looked again at Ned’s and Catelyn’s joined hands. “They remember. They have not truly died nor been brought back.” Looking up at their faces again, he said, “I am glad for you. Go and seek your daughter.” Then he simply closed his eye and remained seated as he was on the weirwood root.

“Come,” Thoros said quietly, and Ned and Catelyn rose to follow him.

“Is he asleep?” Catelyn asked, looking back toward Dondarrion.

“He does not sleep, my lady. Nor does he eat.” Thoros sighed. “He has no relief from his weariness. I fear there shall be no return from his next death, and I also fear that mayhaps he wants that now.”

Then all three were silent as they passed into a tunnel leading away from the chamber. After a moment, Ned whispered to his wife, “I would desire death myself, if I were he. I cannot imagine such an existence. I confess, my lady, the thought of it terrifies me.”

She did not look at him as she replied. “It terrifies me as well, my lord,” she said quietly, “because I can imagine it all too easily.”

He shivered, thinking of all Roslin and Olyvar had told him about how cold and hard she had made herself to survive her ordeal at the Twins; thinking of how quiet and far away or deep inside herself she could still go at times. He stopped walking then and pulled her to him, heedless of Thoros walking in front of them.

“You live, my love,” he said softly, but fiercely. “You and I live, and Lord Dondarrion’s fate shall not touch us.”

She trembled in his arms then. “You cannot let me go,” she whispered. “Promise me, Ned.”

 _Promise me, Ned,_ echoed through his mind, conjuring memories of all his failures. He could not fail Cat.

“I will not let you go, my love. I promise you.”

She nodded and looked up at him then. Thoros had walked ahead a bit, but now waited there for them. “I am well, my love,” she said bravely. “I was frightened, but I will be fine. Let’s go see what this woman has to say of our daughter.”

He smiled at her, releasing her from his embrace and again extending her his arm. As she took it, he called to the priest. “Lead on, Thoros!”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn walked beside her husband through the tunnels, trying hard not to think about the man they had just left. The encounter with Beric Dondarrion had shaken her badly. She had looked into that eye of his and seen a man whose life had shrunken to a single purpose. Love and joy and hope were gone for him. He lived only to pursue his harsh brand of justice. She could not help thinking she had not been so different at the Twins. She had lived for one purpose then--only she had named it vengeance.

She focused on the hem of Thoros of Myr’s tattered robe as he led them along. _I am here with Ned. We are going to find Sansa. I am not in that place. I cannot be taken back_ _there. Ned will not let me go._ She held tightly to her husband’s arm and repeated those thoughts over and over as they walked. The further they got from Dondarrion, the easier her breath came. By the time Thoros turned from the tunnel to lead them into a small room-like chamber on the left, her fear had subsided.

This room was far homier than the large chamber with its monstrous weirwood roots everywhere. A small table with four chairs was placed against the wall opposite the door, and two small cot type beds were snugged against the walls to the sides. On one of the beds, sat a woman with inky black hair, cut short around her head. She had her back to them, but she turned as Thoros strode through the door and stepped aside to allow Catelyn and Ned to enter.

When she saw Catelyn, she stood. “My lady, it is you.”

Catelyn looked at the face with its dark blue eyes and recognition came to her. “Mya?”

Ned was staring at the girl, and when he heard Catelyn speak her name, he looked startled. “Mya,” he repeated. “Mya Stone? From the Vale?”

Catelyn and Mya both stared at him, surprised that he knew her name. He glanced briefly at Catelyn before turning again to the dark haired girl and saying, “I knew you as a babe. I used to visit you with your father.”

“My father?” she said, clearly stunned.

Catelyn looked again at the black hair and blue eyes and suddenly wondered why she hadn’t seen it before. “Robert,” she breathed.

Ned nodded.

“I never knew my father, my lord, and my mother never spoke of him,” Mya said somewhat coldly. “If he truly came to see me, he certainly left nothing behind.”

“No,” Ned said sadly. “I fear he did not. If you wish to know of him, lass, I will gladly tell you, but first I would know what has brought you from the Vale to this place.”

The young woman sighed. “I was sent to Saltpans, my lord, to get a package from a ship for Lord Baelish.”

“Baelish?” Ned said sharply.

“The Lord Protector of the Vale,” Mya clarified. “Ordinarily, his packages from the east come to his keep on the Fingers and are brought through the Vale, but when the Lords Declarant brought their men to the Gates of the Moon and stopped allowing anything up to the Eyrie, Lord Baelish feared they might stop his men riding through the Vale as well. He sent a raven to the Fingers to have his shipment sent to Saltpans."

“The Lords Declarant?” asked Ned, who obviously did not understand the meaning of the term any more than Catelyn did.

“Six lords of the Vale who feel Lord Baelish has no right to be ruling in Sweetrobin’s place. Well, really they’re five lords plus Lady Waynwood.”

“Sweetrobin?” Ned asked, still confused.

“Robert Arryn,” Catelyn and Mya said at the same time.

Ned shook his head. “Perhaps we should sit down.” The three of them sat around the small table, and as they did so, Catelyn noticed that Thoros had disappeared, likely going back to tend to Lord Dondarrion.

“Now, Mya,” Ned said as they were seated. “Who leads these Lords Declarant?”

“Bronze Yohn Royce,” Mya answered.

Catelyn nodded. “I can’t see Bronze Yohn standing by while the Vale is usurped from the Arryns by Petyr.”

“Nor can I,” said Ned. “But are you telling me, Mya, that while besieged in the Eyrie, Littlefinger sent a lone woman to get through the men encamped at the Gates of the Moon and travel alone through the mountains on the High Road just to pick up something from a ship in Saltpans?”

Mya looked down. “He knew I could get through, my lord,” she said quietly. “Because of Mychel,” she added almost in a whisper.

“Mychel Redfort,” Catelyn remembered, and Mya nodded. “Is his father one of the Lords Declarant?”

Again, Mya nodded, saying nothing else.

“ Is Mychel with him then, at the Gates of the Moon?”

Now the girl blushed as she nodded. “Some of his men know I go to see him,” she said quietly. “They let me through.”

Catelyn recalled the girl speaking of her love and how they were to be wed, but her demeanor now made Catelyn think she had been correct in believing that marriage would never come to pass. “And Mychel allowed you to travel on down the High Road then?” she asked softly.

Now the girl looked up, and her blue eyes flashed with anger. “I am not Mychel Redfort’s to command,” she said angrily. “He can order his little bride, Ysilla Royce, about if he pleases, but I come and go as I choose.” Catelyn heard echoes of Robert Baratheon in her stormy words.

Ned apparently did as well, for he said, “No, Mya, I have no doubt you are not one to be commanded.” He paused. “So you used your connection to Mychel to get into the camp and then managed to sneak out of it on the far side.” He frowned. “I still can’t believe you then traveled to Saltpans on your own. The dangers along the High Road are well known. A woman alone . . .” Ned let the thought trail off.

“I wasn’t alone,” Mya said. “Not once I got to the place Lord Baelish told me about.” She sighed. “Many of the clansmen left the Vale with the Lannister dwarf you brought to the Eyrie, Lady Stark. I don’t know how he convinced them to help him, but when they returned, they had far better weapons and armor than before. Lord Baelish met some of them when they were at King’s Landing. He said even a Stone Crow could develop a taste for gold if given just enough of it. He started paying those men there, and he pays them still now that they’ve returned to their mountains.”

“Are you telling me that Petyr Baelish is paying the clansmen to do his bidding?” Ned asked in disbelief.

Mya shrugged. “Some of them, anyway. He likes the High Road being dangerous to travelers. Just as long as it isn’t dangerous for him and his.”

“And are you his, Mya?” Ned asked levelly.

They young woman shrugged again. “I’m as much his as anybody’s in that I’ll do as he asks only if I choose to do it. He told me where to go, and four Stone Crows met me there. They traveled with me all the way to Saltpans.”

“And where are they now?” Ned asked.

“They left when I told them I wasn’t returning right away. I couldn’t get up to the Eyrie anyway if the Lords were still camped out, and I know how to summon the Stone Crows when I do go back. And once I got his lordship’s package off that ship, I knew I was right. I just didn‘t know what to do about it.”

Catelyn felt her heart speed up just a bit. Could the girl’s story finally be coming around to her daughter? “Right about what, Mya?”

“Right about the girl. Lord Baelish’s daughter.”

“Daughter? Petyr doesn’t have a daughter!” Catelyn exclaimed.

“Oh, yes he does, my lady. And except for the dark hair, she looks a lot like you.”

Catelyn’s heart stopped. She couldn’t breathe. _What was this girl saying? What did it mean?_ She turned to look at Ned and saw that his face had frozen with his jaw clenched and his grey eyes hard. “How old is Lord Baelish’s daughter, Mya?” he asked, in a voice as frozen as his eyes.

“She says four and ten, and she’s tall enough to be, but she seems younger to me. Even though she’s always the perfect lady.”

_Oh, gods! Sansa. Could it be?_ Catelyn swallowed hard. “How often have you seen her, Mya? How long has she been there?”

“I only see her if I go up past Sky when I bring the food and supplies on the mules, my lady. She hasn’t come down from the Eyrie once since she first came with Lord Baelish and Lady Arryn. Although Lady Arryn was Lady Baelish by then. I was there when they first came and I led them up on the mules, just like I did you, my lady. The girl had a hood on her cloak and I couldn’t see her hair. If I had, I might not have noticed her face, but I did notice. I knew she looked like someone. I thought it was maybe that she just looked somewhat like Lady Arryn, but then we got to the saddle pass above Snow. Do you remember it, my lady?”

“Remember it? I shall never forget it,” Catelyn said, shuddering even now to think of that narrow path dropping off into nothing on both sides while the wind whipped at her cloak.

“It frightened her, too,” Mya said. "She stopped right as she started across, and called out to me that she couldn’t do it. I turned and looked at her face, and I remembered you. She looked exactly like you then.”

“Sansa.” This time Catelyn said it out loud. She turned to her husband. “Could it be, Ned?”

“The wretched man is certainly clever enough to have gotten her out of King’s Landing,” Ned said, and Catelyn could hear the tension in his voice. “But how could she go unrecognized in the Eyrie?”

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but no one looks twice at a bastard girl,” Mya said with a hint of bitterness. “And at first look, all you see of Alayne Stone is a lot of dark brown hair.”

“Dark hair,” said Catelyn. “You said that before. But Sansa’s hair is exactly the same color as mine.”

Mya nodded. “I guessed as much when I picked up the package in Saltpans.” She stood then and went to retrieve something from beside her cot. “There were several other things, but this is what I noticed right away. Ten jars of the stuff, from Tyrosh.” She set a darkly colored smooth stone jar on the table.

Catelyn picked it up, removed the lid, and looked inside. She then tipped the jar up and let a small drop of thick dark liquid fall onto the table’s surface.

“What is that?” Ned asked her.

“It’s a color wash,” she told him, staring at the small dark stain the drop had made on the table. “Tyroshi women use such to darken their hair.”

“So Littlefinger has our daughter,” Ned said flatly. Then he stood and banged his hand on the table, spilling the jar of hair dye. “Gods damn the man!” He shouted. “He has my daughter!”

Mya had righted the jar, but enough of the thick liquid had spilled that a dark brown puddle kept growing slowly upon the the table’s surface. Catelyn continued to stare at it, unable to say anything.

“If he hurts her . . .” Ned growled beside her. Catelyn shook her head. Once she would never have believed Petyr could hurt a child of hers. But now, she simply did not know.

“Why?” she finally whispered. “Why would Petyr take Sansa?”

“Why?” Ned repeated angrily. “Because nothing will ever be enough for Petyr Baelish! The Lannisters gave him Harrenhall, he’s taken the Vale through your fool of a sister, and now he can stake a claim to Winterfell as well!!”

Catelyn pulled her gaze away from the brown dye and looked up to see her husband’s eyes staring into hers. They were the grey of storm clouds and full of barely contained rage. Only last night, during his watch, he had told her it was Petyr who had betrayed him to the Lannisters, and that it was Petyr who had urged the boy Joffrey to take his head. She had confided her belief that he lied about Tyrion Lannister and that she now suspected he had taken Lysa into his bed all those years ago at Riverrun. This man had her daughter.

“Ned . . .” she said, choking on his name, unable to put the sick feeling in her stomach into words.

He saw it on her face, though, and nodded grimly. “I have thought of it,” he said quietly. His eyes held as much fear as anger as he forced his next words through clenched teeth. “She looks like you.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark paced like a caged animal in the small chamber he and Catelyn had been given for the night. He had wanted to ride back to his men and make haste for the Eyrie as soon as Robert’s bastard girl had finished her tale, but it was well into night, and neither he nor Catelyn had rested or eaten since early in the day. Knowing that leaving the Brotherhood’s lair in the dark in such condition was utterly foolish did not make him wish to leave any less, however, and he found himself unable to keep still or to swallow more than a few bites of the food brought to them.

Catelyn, in contrast, sat still as a stone in her chair by the table, staring at her untouched plate, but undoubtedly seeing Sansa far away in the Eyrie. Ned stopped his pacing to look at her. “You must eat something, my lady,” he said.

“I have no appetite,” she responded quietly.

He went to her then and put his hands on her shoulders. “Nor have I, my love, but you must keep up your strength. The journey to the Vale will be long and difficult. I fear the snows will already be falling on the High Road through the mountains.”

She turned to look up him then, something very like panic on her face. “But we can get through, my lord, can‘t we?” she asked urgently.

He nodded. “We will get through, Catelyn.” He sighed. “Mya wishes to return home. She will ride with us, and with luck, her Stone Crows will meet us. With even more luck, they will help us. The clansman travel the mountain portions of the High Road throughout the winter. I only pray the weather does not turn ill enough to slow us too much.” At the thought of anything hampering his progress toward his daughter, Ned cursed and began pacing anew.

“You will not get any closer to the Eyrie by walking a thousand leagues back and forth, my love,” Catelyn said. “Come and sit. Rest your leg. Do that for me, and I shall do my best to eat a little.”

Ned narrowed his eyes at her, but he did want her to eat, so he took the chair beside her without a word. She dutifully took a bite of the stewed turnips on her plate and looked at him. “Put your leg up, my lord,” she told him. “You know it is likely to swell with all we’ve done today.”

There were no other chairs, so he pulled off his boot and laid his foot on the corner of the table. Satisfied, she took another bite. She looked at him thoughtfully as she chewed, and after she swallowed she said softly, “Ned, did you know? When my father arranged the match between Jon Arryn and my sister, did you know about Lysa?”

Ned sighed heavily. “Hoster told Jon that Lysa was not a maiden. He said she’d been taken advantage of by a man whose birth was too low to permit a marriage, although he did not give a name. Jon was no fool, Cat, and had wondered why your father would offer his daughter of barely six and ten to a man older than himself.”

“Because he feared no one would take her ruined,” Catelyn said bitterly, “Except, perhaps, an old man desperate for the heir a young wife could give him. Poor Lysa.”

“Jon always treated her well,” Ned said defensively.

“I’m sure he did. He was a good man, my love.” She looked at Ned levelly. “That’s what my father told me, you know, about our marriage. I was devastated when Brandon died.” Ned felt the old irrational jealousy flare at her words. “I didn’t love him. I know that now. But I was rather in love with the idea of the two of us as Lord and Lady of Winterfell--full of silly, romantic notions about my life in a place I‘d never even seen. Perhaps I was more like Sansa than I let myself remember.” Ned remained quiet and waited for her to continue. “When Brandon died and you asked to wed me in his place, my father told me, 'He’s a good man, little Cat. He’ll treat you well.'” She laughed softly. “And I thought that would be enough. I would do my duty; go north and be your lady wife and bear your children, and you would treat me with respect and kindness. But it isn’t enough, Ned.”

“My lady?” Ned asked hesitantly. “What do you mean?” The old doubts crept upon him; that deeply rooted fear that she was never meant to be his, that his lies had poisoned their marriage before it could really begin, that he was still a second son playing at being Lord, and failing his family and people at every turn.

She reached out to him and took his hands. “I married you for politics, my love, but then discovered you were my very heart. And I know now that anything less would never be enough.” Tears shone in her eyes and she swallowed before continuing. “Lysa lived and died without ever truly knowing what she missed, but she knew she missed it. Petyr took all chance of it from her when he took her maidenhead. And he never even wanted her.”

Ned held tightly to her hands and even more tightly to the words she had spoken, trying to banish his doubts. “No,” he said. “It was you he loved. Are you certain Petyr is the man Lysa went with? He was hardly more than a boy then.”

Catelyn laughed harshly. “A boy who had tried often enough with me! I thought it all so innocent, but now I see Edmure had the right of it. I was too involved in my own concerns to see Petyr or Lysa clearly then.” She shook her head. “But he never loved me, Ned. He wanted me, yes, but love, . . . No . . . I believe Tyrion Lannister told me at least one true thing. He told me Littlefinger never loved anyone except Littlefinger.”

“He still wants you,” Ned said, and suddenly he couldn’t stand the thought of it. He stood up and pulled her into his arms, holding her against him because she was his. Not Littlefinger’s. Not Brandon’s. His. He put his mouth on hers and kissed her. This was no gentle or comforting kiss. It was an act of possession. She was his, and he needed both of them to know it. What rational mind he had left urged him to stop, but then she threw her arms around him, her hands clawing into his back, and returned his kiss with equal ferocity, until they had to break apart to breathe, both panting.

“He only wants me because he cannot have me,” she said between gasps. “He took Lysa because he couldn’t have me, and he used her as he wished. It would seem now he used her until her death.” She grabbed his face in her hands and looked at him with sheer desperation in her eyes. “And now he has our daughter.”

“He will not have her long, my lady. I swear it to you.” Ned said fiercely. “Sansa is ours, and I shall take her back. This man will never touch anything of mine again. Not my daughter and not my wife.” He could hear the cold rage in his voice, the fury he’d held back since he’d first heard Mya’s tale. He realized how tightly he gripped Catelyn and suddenly feared he was hurting her. _Gods, what if I've frightened her!_

Then he looked into her eyes and saw not fear, but the same fury blazing there, overflowing from the blue depths. “No, my lord,” she agreed. “He will not.” Then she pulled his face to hers, and her mouth was on his again, hungry and desperate.

They grasped at each other’s clothing, attempting to remove anything between them without ever letting each other go, and moved toward the bed, which was truly just a raised straw pallet barely wide enough to accommodate both of them, in a frenzied tangle of limbs. He could not hold her tightly enough or be too close to her, and it seemed she felt the same.

As they tumbled together onto the pallet, free at last of all their garments, his cock pushed against the soft, bright hair between her legs, and she parted her thighs with a gasp. This was a far cry from the sweetly rapturous joy of their bedding at Riverrun. This was pure hunger and need for each other. He drove deeply into her with his first thrust, and she cried out before biting his shoulder and raking his back with her nails. All the hurt, anger, fear, and longing seemed to drive both of them, and it took only a few thrusts before they both peaked, and then lay shaking in each other’s arms.

Neither could speak for awhile, and Ned felt vaguely ashamed of using her in such a manner. “Cat,” he finally gasped, as his breathing slowed enough to allow speech. “Forgive me. I should not have allowed myself . . .” He searched her face with his eyes and ran his hands gently over her arms and back. “Are you hurt, my love?”

To his intense surprise, she caressed his face and smiled at him, her face warmer and more expressive than it had been since coming to this place. “Do not apologize, my love, for you did nothing to me that I did not do to you. I am not hurt, Ned. I am alive. You are alive.” Her voice shook slightly as she added, “And Sansa is alive.” She moved her face to kiss him then, with all the gentle warmth her kisses normally held for him. “That is far more than I should have had reason to hope for, my love,” she whispered as she released his lips. “And it gives me the courage to hope for still more.”

“Are you still frightened, my love?” he asked her softly.

“Terrified,” she replied. “But I am trying to brave in spite of it. Sansa needs us.”

“That reminds me of something I told Bran at Winterfell the day the boys found the direwolf pups,” Ned recalled suddenly. “He asked me if a man could be brave if he’s afraid. I told him that was the only time a man could be brave.”

“Then I shall have the opportunity to be very brave indeed,” she said with a small laugh. “I suppose we should put out the candles, my lord.”

He sat up. “I shall do it. Try not to freeze to death before I come back.”

She laughed a bit more at that, and his heart was gladdened by the sound. So much fear still gripped him. The journey ahead was full of dangers, and once they reached the Eyrie, he had no clear plan as to how to free Sansa from Baelish. But if Catelyn could still laugh in his arms, he could still believe in their chance of success. He gathered every fur in the room to pile over his wife, snuffed both candles, and then lay back down beside her.

She fell asleep against him almost at once, and Ned knew she had been beyond exhausted. He was tired as well, but his mind ran through the task ahead of them repeatedly as he listened to Cat’s breathing and absently twirled her hair around his fingers. Finally, as he tried to calculate supplies for a trek through possible deep snow along parts of the High Road, exhaustion overwhelmed him, and Ned Stark fell asleep.


	18. Confrontations at the Crossroad--Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter had so much happening in it, it was getting ridiculously long even by my rather generous standards. So, I've decided to split it in two. Hopefully I'll get Confrontations at the Crossroad--Part 2 posted in the next 3 or 4 days.

Looking at the scowl on Addam Marbrand’s face as he strode quickly toward him through the hall at Darry, Jaime Lannister suspected his day was not about to get any better. He scowled himself and rose from his seat to meet him.

“What is it now?” he asked without preamble.

“Our scouts report a company of men riding this way from the direction of Riverrun. They come through the fields, not by the road, and don’t seem to be in too great a hurry.”

“Another bunch? How many this time?” Jaime asked. For the past two days, men had been arriving at Darry castle, claiming they had fought a battle at Riverrun. First they had trickled in by ones and twos, but more recently, ragged bands of as many as ten or so had sought refuge in the castle or with Jaime’s men encamped outside it. All told wild tales of the siege army at Riverrun being overtaken by northmen or outlaws or even ghosts. They couldn’t even agree from which direction the attack had come. Some said the north and others the south. Yet faced with the sheer numbers of men showing up, Jaime could not escape the fact that something had happened at Riverrun, and it likely wasn’t good.

“Not another bunch like these,” Marbrand said, scowling even more as he swept his arm about the hall, indicating the men who had been brought in and given food, thanks to Jaime’s cousin Lancel. The new Lord of Darry had bestirred himself from his sept just long enough to declare that loyal men of the king should not be sent away in need. He then retreated back to his prayers, leaving his Frey wife and her household staff the task of actually dealing with the needs.

“This new bunch isn’t hungry, then?” Jaime asked, looking at all the good food being consumed by the extra mouths while he kept his own men outside the walls rationing their own provisions.

“Jaime!” said Marbrand in frustration. “I said a company of men. A mounted company of close to one hundred men, riding leisurely our way.” He paused half a beat. “Flying Tully banners.”

That got Jaime‘s attention. “Tully banners? If the Blackfish did escape my cousin Daven’s grasp, surely he doesn’t think to attack me with a scarce hundred men?” Now Jaime paused, thinking of some of the better stories the craven men who had run away from battle had told him. “Or perhaps it’s a hundred ghosts. No doubt they are led by Eddard Stark, one arm holding his sword and the other holding his head.”

His friend snorted in derision. “No, these are men, all right. They make little secret of their presence and do not hurry. Likely, they are envoys of some sort. In any event, they shan’t be here before the morrow at the earliest. They were spotted by our furthest outriders, and word was sent to me in haste.”

“Damn it, Addam!” Jaime swore. “I’d give a lot to know what has really happened at Riverrun. I’ve half a mind to ride out and demand answers from this company of men.”

“Why don’t we? I can have as many men ready to ride as you wish within the hour.”

Jaime sighed. He would have undoubtedly done just that not long ago. Apparently losing a hand had taught him something of patience and prudence. _Or has it only made you_ _craven?_ whispered a voice in his head.

“Has it not occurred to you that drawing me out might be precisely what this company is sent to do?” he asked Addam. “We don’t know who they are, what they want, or how many other companies might be lurking where. I’ve spent a good bit of time in the dungeon at Riverrun, Addam, brought there mostly by own impatience. I’d not return given the choice, and if the Tullys have managed to somehow free themselves from Daven’s army and his horde of Freys, they’ve got a lot more than a hundred men stashed somewhere. What men? Where did they come from? Where are they now? I hesitate to take up arms against this little band of Tullys until I know what lies behind them.” _Or do you hesitate to take up arms against Tullys because of your vow to dear, dead Lady Catelyn?_ came that mocking voice again in his head.

“There is sense in that,” Addam sighed. “Certainly, this one small flock of fish cannot threaten the castle or even our men outside. I suppose we let them ride up and tell us what they want.”

Jaime nodded, and then swore under his breath as he saw the Lady Amerei approaching with an aggrieved look on her face. He turned to go as if he had not seen her, but she called out to him.

“Ser Jaime!”

He sighed and turned to greet her. “Lady Amerei, how might I be of service to you?”

“Where on earth shall I quarter these men, ser? We’ve barely enough rooms in the castle as it is, and my lord husband insists they should not be put out.” She sounded rather put out, herself, Jaime thought, but he couldn’t really blame her.

“Let them sleep outside in the courtyard, my lady. You are not refusing them protection that way, and if they choose to leave rather than sleep cold, well you haven’t put them out. You simply aren’t holding them against their will.” He rather thought quite a few of these men would depart quickly if the hospitality became less generous. “You might consider rationing the food as well. Feeding them need not mean feasting them.” He looked again at men gorging themselves around the hall and shook his head.

“What if my lord husband objects?”

Thoroughly tired of Gatehouse Ami and her lord husband, Jaime answered shortly, “Tell him to pray about it.” He strode out of the hall with Addam in his wake.

Out in the courtyard, there were more men telling fantastic tales about the attack on Riverrun. Jaime overheard one young man with a definite Frey look about him regaling three other men with an account of a giant northman killing five and six men with each swipe of his sword as he rode through their camp. He walked over to him.

“Truly?” he said, looking him in the eye. “One northman cut through your camp, killing indiscriminately, with no opposition?”

“Oh no, ser!” the youth protested. “We tried to fight him, we did. But he wasn’t alone. All kinds of northmen came riding out of the woods, yelling and swinging swords.”

“Truly? You are a Frey, aren’t you, boy?”

“I’m one of Ser Stevron’s grandsons,” the young man replied. “My mother was his daughter.”

“Then perhaps you can tell me what lies between the north and those woods above Riverrun,” Jaime said.

“Lies between? Oh, you mean the Green Fork and the Twins.”

“Precisely. And just how would northmen get past the Twins to attack you at Riverrun?”

The boy paused then, unable to come up with an answer.

“That’s right,” Jaime said. “They couldn’t, unless your great-grandfather issued them an invitation. And there are no northmen anyway. Between your great-grandfather and the Greyjoys, all the strength of the northern houses is gone. Their pitiful remnants are left to follow after Bolton and hope to survive the winter. Whoever chased you from Riverrun, it wasn’t northmen.”

He turned to walk away and the boy called after him. “But I heard what one man yelled, Ser Jaime! He yelled Winterfell!”

Jaime kept walking. Even if a small group of renegade northmen had stayed in the riverlands building support for an assault at Riverrun, there couldn’t have been any Winterfell men among them. Bitterly, he thought again of that vow he’d been forced to make to Catelyn Stark. He may have no choice but to fight the Tullys now, but the other half of his vow should be easy enough to keep. He couldn’t very well take up arms against Starks when there were no bloody Starks left.

He could see the sept as he and Addam walked on, and he thought of his cousin Lancel lying on the floor and praying for absolution for lying with his queen. The thought of it made him sick. Lancel had confessed to Jaime his great sin just before the first men arrived from Riverrun. While he needed to think about how to respond to the Riverrun situation, his mind kept giving him images of Lancel, his skinny arse pumping up and down between Cersei’s thighs before he pulled his little cock out of her cunt to spill himself on her belly _. She’s been fucking Lancel, Osmund Kettleblack, and Moonboy, for all I know._

“Gods!” he suddenly exploded, and Addam Marbrand jumped beside him. “I cannot stay here, Addam. Let’s go for a ride.”

“A ride? But you said . . .”

“Not out to meet the Tully party. And not with any men. Let’s go up toward the Crossroads, just the two of us. We can stop at that inn and see what information can be found there.”

“Are you daft?” Addam asked him. “You just explained how foolish riding out with men would be, and now you want to ride out alone?”

“Not alone. You’ll be there.” Jaime looked at his friend. “I cannot stay here another minute. I am sick to death of my my cousin the sniveling septon and his wife the Frey whore. I am sick of these men who ran from Riverrun so quickly they cannot even say who battled there. I need to think, Addam, and I cannot do it here.”

Addam sighed heavily. “Don’t wear that gold hand. If we do this, we do not go as ourselves.”

Jaime nodded eagerly. “Our men can hold their camp without the two of us. I’m no good as a swordhand now anyway. I’m just a pretty target.”

“You’re more than that and you know it. What if the Tully envoy arrives here while we’re still gone?” Addam said. “They’ll expect to treat with you.”

“Let them treat with Lancel,” Jaime snorted. “It’s his castle.”

Addam shook his head. “All right, Jaime, but we’re bringing Ilyn Payne along. Forgetting all about Tullys and mythical northmen, there are outlaws all along the Kingsroad here. Another sword would be welcome.”

Jaime grinned at him. “And I do so enjoy his conversation.”

Addam then went to see to his men and find Payne, and Jaime went to put on something a bit less conspicuous than his white Kingsguard cloak, first stopping to speak with a couple of his own men. He knew this was madness. He admitted to himself that looking for information was a feeble excuse, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t stay in this castle one more minute. In the past, when he felt this restless, he would either find someone to fight or his sister to fuck. But he couldn’t very well go out killing people with one hand, and as for Cersei . . . _Lancel, Osmund Kettleblack, and Moonboy, for all I know_.

Cursing again, he called for his squire, Peck, and told him to have Honor saddled. At least he could still ride a horse.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn’s horse was blowing hard as she slowed him to a walk. Ned had set a hard pace for their company since leaving the camp at the Red Fork, pushing the horses and the men as they rode quickly and camped for sleep only briefly on their journey eastward along the River Road. She hadn’t minded the haste. Every night they spent on the road was one more night Sansa spent without them in the Eyrie with Petyr Baelish. That thought filled her with dread, but she hardened it into resolve. They would get Sansa back.

Ned had been at the head of their column with Lord Reed. Having signaled for the horses to slow and rest a bit, he turned his mount back to where Catelyn rode by Mya Stone. “We have made good time, my lady!” he called to her as he approached. “We shall make the crossroads before sunset today.”

“Good, my lord. We shall seek this Gendry at the inn, then?” she asked him.

“Yes.” He paused. “I think it best we don’t take the whole company there, though. Harwin told me the inn is filled mostly with children. Orphans. I’d rather them not fear they are under attack. Perhaps, just us with Howland and Donnell.” He looked at the young woman from the Vale. “And you, too, if you would, Mya? You’ve met the boy Gendry, right?”

“Yes, my lord,” Mya replied. “I have met him. He and Lemoncloak found me in Saltpans and brought me to Lord Beric.” There was something in the girl’s tone that made Catelyn feel she had more to say about Gendry.

“Good, then,” Ned said. To Catelyn, he added, “You are well, my lady? We shall walk the horses at an easy pace for a bit, but should you need to stop . . .”

“I am quite well, my lord,” she told him. “I have no wish to stop. And when you feel the horses sufficiently recovered, I am prepared to ride as fast as you like.”

He didn’t smile, but Catelyn could see the pleasure he took in her response light his eyes. She smiled at him, and he turned to go back to the front of the column.

“What do you want with Gendry?” Mya asked her.

Noting that she had entirely omitted her usual polite “my lady” from her question, Catelyn felt even more strongly that the girl knew something about the boy Harwin had confirmed came to the Brotherhood with Arya.

“He traveled with my daughter,” Catelyn said briefly, watching the girl for a reaction. “Not Sansa, but my younger daughter, Arya. We believe he came from King’s Landing with her. And he kept searching for her after she disappeared with Sandor Clegane.” Disappeared. Catelyn hated even saying it. “We hope to speak with him and learn whatever he can tell us of her.”

Mya barely reacted to her talk of Arya. She simply nodded while looking down at her horse’s head and said vaguely, “Yes, he did say he comes from King’s Landing.” After a moment, she looked up at Catelyn and asked, “Is it true, my lady? What Lord Stark told me about the king?”

Catelyn regarded her closely. “My lord husband rarely lies, child,” she replied, and realized with a pang that once she would have said “never” in place of “rarely.” “If you mean to ask me if Robert Baratheon was truly your father, the answer is yes. Lord Stark was fostered with King Robert at the Eyrie when they were boys and young men. He remembers your mother well, and told me that Robert would take him to visit you often when you were first born.”

“He seems to have gotten over any need to visit quickly enough,” Mya said. “I have no memory of him.”

Catelyn sighed. “Robert Baratheon was a man of . . .great appetites, and short attention, I fear. You were his first child, Mya. That fascinated him for a time. I doubt that those who came after you held his attention even through infancy.” She smiled at the girl sadly.

“So there are others?” Mya asked.

“I fear there are quite a few. As I said, Robert was not one to deny his appetites.” The girl was silent and seemed troubled, so Catelyn sought to turn the conversation away from the myriad bastards of Robert Baratheon. “You said Gendry and Lemon something found you in Saltpans?” she asked. “How did that come about?”

Mya laughed. “Lemoncloak,” she said. “Lem. I was trying to decide if there was anyone I could tell about the girl in the Eyrie, the Lady Sansa, I mean, and I was just walking by the docks when someone started yelling at me. It was Lem. Only, he was calling me Bella, and he kept asking what I’d done to my hair and how I’d got so far from the Peach. Then he walked right up and grabbed me . . .well, where you shouldn’t grab a girl, my lady.” She looked down briefly. “Apparently this Bella is a whore.” She looked up at Catelyn again and said fiercely, “I may be a bastard, but I’m no man’s whore.”

“No, child,” Catelyn said softly. “You are not.”

“Anyway,” Mya continued, “When I slapped him, he looked me right in the face and realized he’d grabbed the wrong girl. He started apologizing, and then Gendry came up, and started laughing at him, saying I should have hit him harder.” She shook her head, smiling at the memory. “He’s really just a boy, Gendry, for all he acts like he’s grown.” She shrugged slightly. “So Gendry said the least they could do to make up for Lem’s bad behavior was feed me, and I ended up telling them about the gir . . . I mean, Lady Sansa . . . and Gendry said I had to come with them to see Lord Beric. He was pretty insistent, really.”

“He was?”

“He kept saying she could be the sister, and Lord Beric would want to help her if she was. I didn’t know what he was talking about then, of course., but I didn’t have any other real plans, so I came along. Besides, Gendry looks so much . . .” she stopped herself from speaking.

“So much what, Mya?”

“Oh, I think you’ll see, my lady. I think you’ll see it right away.”

On that enigmatic note, Mya refused to speak further, and Catelyn had little chance to ask her more because just then Ned gave the signal to speed the horses once more.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark looked at the sky and calculated that they still had at least an hour before sunset as they drew near to the crossroads. They had passed a few more travelers going in either direction along the River Road during the past couple hours, and he had drawn up the hood of his cloak, instructing Catelyn to do the same. Within an easy ride of the inn, they found a good place to make camp, and Ned assigned two of his Winterfell men to take charge of the others. Then he, Catelyn, Howland Reed, Donnell Boden, and Mya Stone rode for the inn.

As they approached the yard, Ned noticed a great number of children on the large porch of the three story inn and others running about through the mud. Several of those on the porch were armed with crossbows, and he noted to his dismay that the youngest bowman appeared to be no more than six or seven. He could hear the sound of adult male laughter coming from inside, so apparently the inn had some custom on this evening. He also heard the clang of metal from the direction of a forge which was positioned behind the thatched roof stable.

“You lookin’ for rooms? Or trouble?” the smallest bowman called out as they rode up.

It had been agreed that Donnell would speak for them initially, as he was the least recognizable man among them, and he called up to the boy. “We certainly want no trouble, my boy. We would like a meal if you’ve got one, and perhaps beds for the night.”

The boy didn’t lower his crossbow. A little girl beside him said, “Aw, go on with you. They’re not robbers. They got two ladies with ‘em. I’ll go get Willow.”

The little girl disappeared into the inn and returned in a moment with another slightly older girl, perhaps about Arya‘s age. “You got silver?” she said without introduction.

“Are you the innkeep?” asked Donnell with some amusement evident in his voice.

“No, my sister is. But she’s not here right now. If you got silver you can stay. There’s horsemeat if you’re hungry, but nothing else . The men coming through from Riverrun took all the rest. I got a little ale left, though.”

Donnell nodded. “That’ll do, lass. Why don’t I come in with you and settle for rooms while my companions put up our horses?”

She looked at him a moment, and nodded. Donnell dismounted, handing his reins to Ned and walked up onto the porch to follow the girl inside. _Good. He can find out how many men there are inside._

Ned turned his mount toward the stable, leading Donnell’s along beside him and the other three followed. The sound of the hammer from the forge grew louder as they approached the stable.

“I wouldn’t have imagined they’d have a smith here after all that’s happened,” Ned mused out loud.

“Oh,” said Mya. “That’s Gendry. He was a smith’s apprentice in King’s Landing, and he helps out here at the inn whenever he can. Smiths for the Brotherhood here, too.”

 _Gendry? That Gendry? Was it possible?_ Ned recalled Robert’s bastard in King’s Landing, the boy with the inky mop of hair and sullen blue eyes. He had hoped to keep him far from Cersei’s reach. Had he come here?

“Mya,” he said. “Go to the forge and ask Gendry if he’ll come speak with us. He knows you, and may be more inclined to listen to you than a pack of strangers showing up at his forge.

“I’ll go with her, my lord,” Catelyn said quickly, already dismounting from her horse.

Ned looked at his wife quizzically, but she offered no explanation. He was loathe to let her out of his sight, but the forge was directly behind the stable, and she was unlikely to come to harm, so he simply nodded. “As you wish, my lady. I’ll take your horse.” He dismounted from his own horse as he now had three to deal with, and Howland took Mya’s.

Ned stood in the yard watching the women until they disappeared into the forge. He heard Mya call out a greeting and then heard a brief burst of male laughter as the sound of the hammer ceased.

“Neither of them is screaming, my lord,” Reed said with some amusement. “I think we should take the horses in.”

As they led the beasts through the stable in search of empty stalls, Ned saw three horses of questionable health in the first three, but then noted three horses of unquestionable quality in the next, especially a blood bay palfrey. Ned wondered who might be at the inn who rode such fine animals.

He and Reed had just about finished removing all the tack from their five horses when he heard the sound of a man entering the stables. Standing well back in a stall, Ned could not see the man, but it sounded as if he had stopped beside one of the quality mounts. Curious, Ned stepped out to see who the man might be. No one was visible outside any of the stalls, so he walked along to peer into them. In the second one he passed, he saw a man bending over to pour water for the animal.

“Good evening,” he said.

The man stood to face him, and Ned Stark went cold. “You!” he hissed, and his hand went to his sword hilt.

The other man’s face registered surprise and then what appeared to be amusement. He, too, wore a sword which he pulled at once with a nasty grin.

Ned had his own sword out in time to meet the man’s first thrust, but was hampered by his bad leg in trying to gain an advantage. Fortunately, the small space within the stall limited his opponent’s movements almost as much as the leg limited him, so Ned was able to hold his own.

The sound of the swords clashing brought Howland Reed to his side within moments, and very shortly, the two men together had disarmed Ned’s attacker and had him backed against the wall.

“Who are you?” demanded Howland Reed. “How dare you draw steel against Lord Stark unprovoked?” He was met with silence. “Answer me!” he shouted at the man.

“He can’t,” Ned said simply, as he slowly lowered his sword and stared at the grim pox-scarred face of Ilyn Payne. “He hasn’t a tongue.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The boy at the forge looked up at Mya’s greeting, and a grin split his face. He was just a boy, Catelyn realized, in spite of the dark stubble on his cheeks and chin, likely not much older than Sansa. His hair was a black mop, and his eyes . . . _oh, gods!_ She saw it, all right. A younger version of Renly Baratheon was laughing and walking toward Mya. _No_ , she thought. _Not Renly_. Renly had been a slender young man. She barely remembered the young, muscular man her husband’s best friend had been when she first met him; that image having been obscured by the fat king who had come to Winterfell to take her family away. But this broad shouldered smith’s apprentice was the image of the younger Robert Baratheon, already tall and muscular, with large hands which spoke of greater height yet to come.

As she stared at the boy, she suddenly realized that he was staring back at her, and that he had spoken.

“Milady?” he repeated. “You are her mother aren’t you?”

Confused for a moment, Catelyn thought he asked if she were Mya’s mother, but then realized he spoke of Arya. She nodded. “I am Catelyn Stark,” she said. “I understand you were with my daughter, Arya. My lord husband and I would very much like to speak with you.”

The boy looked at her as if she were a ghost. She supposed she should be getting used to that. “So it is true, milady? You and the Hand both still live? How can that be?” the boy stammered.

She sighed. “It is a long tale, young Gendry, and we have ridden long and hard for days. Let us go into the inn and we shall give you our tale for yours.”

He started to nod, but then an expression of horror came over his face. “Oh no, milady! You cannot go into the inn! Where is Lord Stark? Is he with you?”

Startled by the boy’s sudden distress, Catelyn answered his questions before asking her own. “Yes, he and his man are in the stable tending to our horses. But why can’t we go into the inn?”

The boy was already pushing past her toward the exit as she asked it, so she reached out and grabbed his arm. “Why can’t we go into the inn, Gendry?” she repeated.

He looked as if he wished nothing more than to shake her hand off him, but some ingrained courtesy restrained him even as desperation showed in his Baratheon blue eyes. “Because he is in there, milady!” he spit out. “And I don’t know what he . . .”

“Who, Gendry?” Catelyn asked him. “Who is in the inn?”

“The bloody Kingslayer!” the boy yelled.

Catelyn dropped her hand from his arm and felt her entire body turn to ice. _Jaime Lannister sends his regards_. She was back there. Roose Bolton’s voice went through her heart just as his sword went through her son’s. Vaguely, she realized that somewhere, Gendry was still speaking.

“ . . never seen him up close, but I think it’s him. I’ve got to get to Lord Stark.” He turned and left the forge.

Catelyn made no move to stop him. _Jaime Lannister sends his regards._ The ice around her heart began to steam and then boil. She felt herself walking from the forge herself, not in the direction of the stables, but toward the inn. Soon she was running, grateful for the riding breeches beneath her long cloak in place of a skirt which would have slowed her pace. He was in there. He would answer to her now.

From somewhere behind her, she heard Mya call out, “My lady! Stop! Wait!”

But Catelyn wouldn’t wait. And she couldn’t stop. She did, however, pause on the porch of the inn long enough to draw the hood of her cloak back up around her face. _Jaime Lannister sends his regards._ With icy hate and burning fury gripping her heart in equal measures, Catelyn Stark stepped inside the inn.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The girl could call it ale if she wanted. It tasted like horse piss. Jaime slammed his tankard down on the table. “Damn!” he exclaimed.

Addam Marbrand and Ilyn Payne both looked at him. “If you can’t come up with any better conversation than that, I’m going to listen exclusively to Payne, here,” Addam told him.

Jaime sighed. “I am wondering what possessed me to come here, and what possessed you to let me.”

Addam raised an eyebrow at him.

“All right,” Jaime conceded. “I wasn’t in a mood to be told no, I admit.” He looked around the common room and took note of the three poorly dressed men drinking at one other table, the man who had just followed the girl Willow in and now stood at the bar discussing something with her, and the myriad children at other tables and sitting in corners. “Why I thought I might find answers to the mystery of Riverrun here is beyond me.”

“Perhaps you merely needed good food and entertainment,” said Marbrand, with some amusement.

“Ah yes, horse meat and horse piss,” Jaime proclaimed, lifting his tankard to take another swig. He thought of the good food and drink at Darry being devoured by the men fleeing Riverrun and shook his head. “And no whores,” he added with a laugh. “My brother would have left immediately upon the little girl telling him that.” The thought of Tyrion made him scowl, as he wondered where his brother had fled, and whether he had told him the truth in that dark cell. _She’s been fucking Lancel, Osmund Kettleblack,_ _and Moonboy, too, for all I know_. He’d told the truth about Lancel, at any rate. Jaime had the truth of that from the wretched boy’s own mouth.

“If it’s whores you want, I’ll wager you can find any number of women who’d play the role for you back at Darry,” Addam Marbrand smirked at him.

Jaime laughed. “No doubt. Starting with my cousin’s sweet bride. Although like as not, I’d have to kick Lyle Crakehall out of her bed first!” He took another drink. The horse piss became less offensive with each swig, and this was his third tankard. “Well, it’s late enough that we’re here til morning, so why don’t you go make sure the horses are well bedded down for the night, Payne, and we’ll get rooms. Perhaps we can talk to that man at the bar as well. He looks somewhat less useless than the other three.”

Payne looked at him for a moment, but then rose silently and went out the front door without so much as a nod.

“Well I suppose he’s going to tend the horses. Hard to tell what that man thinks, isn’t it?” Addam asked, after Payne had left.

“I don’t care what he thinks. I am only grateful that I don’t have to listen to it, whatever it is.” Jaime sighed. “Ah, Addam, I know it was a rash thing to come here, but I could not stay there and listen to any more foolishness.” He looked at the man he had known since boyhood, the closest thing a kingslayer and sisterfucker could have to a true friend and confidant, even if he could never could share his most important confidences. “I fear we are in trouble, my friend. If Riverrun is truly back under Tully control, then Daven’s force must be destroyed--most of them killed or hostage, and gods only know what’s happened to all those Freys. My sister has made one ill move after another--that small council of hers is laughable. My Uncle Kevan should be the Hand. And now Lancel tells me she’s allowing the Faith to arm itself.”

“What?”

“Yes. The Warrior’s Sons are back, and my fool of a cousin means to cast aside his castle and his wife and go to join them.”

“An armed church could cause no end of trouble for the throne,” Addam said. “History is full of . .”

“History is full of lessons which have been ignored by many men wiser than my sister,” Jaime interrupted. He drained the last of the ale in his tankard and raised it high. “Girl!” he called. “Willow! More ale, if you would!”

Both the girl and the man she was speaking with turned to look at him. The girl nodded and said something to a smaller girl standing beside her who scurried off into another room, presumably in search of more ale.

Turning back to Addam, Jaime sighed again. “If the siege at Riverrun is well and truly broken, I fear the most prudent course may be to pull back and strengthen what lands we do hold. Let the accursed Freys fend for themselves.”

He didn’t hear Addam’s reply because the door opened then, and a woman in a long dark cloak and hood entered the inn. She stopped inside the doorway and looked slowly around the room. Her face was shaded by her hood in the dim light of the common room, but he had no doubt that her gaze stopped on him.

She strode directly toward him, and as she moved through the light of the lantern by his table, he gasped and got to his feet. She stopped just in front of him, blue eyes blazing at him, and struck him hard across the face.

“That,” she said, in a clear, cold voice, “is for my son.”

Jaime stood as if transfixed, his left cheek stinging and his left eye watering profusely. Before he could recover, she swung at him again. Now he did move by reflex, raising his right hand to grab her arm. But he had no right hand, and her second slap landed as well.

“Damn you to all seven hells, Kingslayer,” she said as she struck.

Now Addam Marbrand was on his feet. He grabbed her around the waist from behind, pinning her arms and pulling her backwards. As she stumbled back against Marbrand, the hood slipped from her head, revealing the bright auburn hair of Lady Catelyn Stark.

Her eyes blazed hatred at him as she struggled against Addam’s grasp, and Jaime noted several long, red scars marring the white of her cheeks. He raised his left hand to rub his own left cheek, and said calmly, “You hit very hard for a dead woman, Lady Stark.”

Some commotion occurred at the door, and Jaime looked up to see several people rushing in. The man at the bar suddenly lunged at him, and Jaime turned to defend himself with his wretched left hand. As soon as he turned his back toward the men at the door, however, he felt the cold steel of a knife at his throat and a strong arm wrapped around him from behind.

“Unhand my lady wife, Marbrand,” said the coldest voice Jaime could ever remember hearing, “or Lannister is a dead man.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark regarded the man bound hand and foot in the chair before him.

After Marbrand had reluctantly released Catelyn, Donnell had relieved him of his sword, and Howland had taken Lannister’s while Ned continued to hold him at knifepoint. Then, as Gendry and the six year old crossbowman carefully stood guard, they tied up both men and put them in separate rooms on the top floor of the inn. Howland Reed went to collect Ilyn Payne who was trussed up in the stable.

The three unfortunate men who had witnessed the commotion had begged leave to go, but Ned could not afford to have this tale spread while they were so unprotected. He had ordered Donnell to ride out and bring the rest of their men to the inn, and then told the hapless three that they could leave in the morning. They grumbled considerably less when he added that he would pay them for their trouble.

Now he stood staring down at Jaime Lannister and wondering what he was going to do with him. Catelyn sat silently in a chair by the door of the room, staring at Lannister as well. Looking at her expression, Ned silently thanked the gods she had not had a knife on her, for she certainly would have stabbed the man rather than slapping him, and then Marbrand would have drawn his own steel on her before Ned had a chance to intervene.

“Why don’t you just kill me, Stark?” Lannister said. “Or give your sword to your lady wife, there. She doesn’t look like she’d hesitate to do it.”

“She has cause,” Ned said coldly.

“The brat?” Jaime asked flippantly. “She said the slap was for her son, but when I first confessed to flinging the boy from a tower, she set me free for it. I wish she’d make up her mind.”

“You foul monster,” Catelyn hissed from her chair. “You know I didn’t mean Bran.”

“As I haven’t injured any other sons of yours, my lady, I cannot imagine what else you mean.” He then looked back to Ned. “Unless she is simply angry that I didn’t service her properly when she came to see me in my lovely cell at Riverrun. I did offer to fuck . .”

Ned’s fist slammed into Lannister’s face before he could say another word, and the man and chair both fell backward onto the floor. “You will shut your evil mouth, Lannister!” he shouted, struggling to control the rage inside him.

Lying on the floor, still bound to the chair, Jaime Lannister turned his head to the side and spit blood from between his split lips. “You two are the most violent pair of corpses I’ve ever encountered,” he said, before spitting again.

Not trusting himself to touch the man without throttling him, Ned went to the door where Gendry stood guard outside, and asked the boy to come in and help him get the Kingslayer and his chair righted again. When Gendry went back out, closing the door behind him, Ned sat down across from Lannister.

“I am going to ask you questions, and you are going to answer them,” he said.

“Am I?” Lannister responded. “Perhaps we can play the game I played with your wife at Riverrun.”

Ned was halfway out of his chair to punch the man’s lying, filthy mouth again when he felt Catelyn’s hand on his arm. “Truth for truth,” she said softly. Her eyes still regarded the man across from them coldly, but she seemed to be more in control of her anger now than he was. “In the dungeon at Riverrun, I offered to answer his questions truthfully in exchange for answers to mine.”

Ned looked carefully at his prisoner. He needed to know things. He needed to know as much as Lannister could tell him. “I can agree to that up to a point. You have my word of honor that I will not lie. But I do not promise to answer everything you ask.”

Lannister grinned at him. “Well, I’ll give you the same bargain then. Although, according to your lady wife, I have shit for honor.” He paused a minute. “I’ll go first. How are you not dead, Lord Stark?”

“I was removed from the Black Cells below the Red Keep, and another was killed in my place.”

“Removed how? No one can escape from the Black Cells.”

Ned saw something in Lannister’s eyes when he said that, although he wasn’t sure exactly what it was. “Why don’t you ask your brother about that?” he said carefully. “I understand he escaped them as well.”

Again, there was a flash of something in the man’s eyes. Anger? Guilt? Ned couldn’t be sure. “Where did you go when you left Riverrun?” he asked.

“Why, to King’s Landing, of course. That is where Lady Stark instructed I be taken, and that bloody, big wench of hers was determined to get me there.”

“Brienne!” cried Catelyn. “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” Jaime said. “The wench still has both her hands, my lady. I am the only one who was maimed on our journey.”

“By whom?” Catelyn asked.

“My, my. That’s what . . .three questions? It is my turn.” He turned to Ned. “Does my cousin Daven live?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I require a little more detail than that, Lord Stark,” Jaime persisted.

“He is held hostage by Lord Edmure Tully at Riverrun. He is not harmed,” Ned said flatly. “I am tired of this game, Kingslayer. I would have you tell me what occurred after you and Lady Brienne of Tarth left Riverrun, and why you broke every vow you made to my wife.”

“Broke every vow? When did I do this? I admit I could not get your daughters exchanged for myself, but that is hardly my fault. By the time the wench and I reached King’s Landing, my father had taken Tyrion’s place as Hand and forced him to marry your little red-headed girl. As for the other girl, no one in King’s Landing even knows where she is. And while I may have been on my way to Riverrun, I certainly haven’t taken up arms against any Starks or Tullys yet.” He looked at Ned and Catelyn in turn. “Not even dead ones who hit me.”

That was all Ned could stand. He couldn’t look at the man’s lying face or listen to his japing words for another moment. He stood and walked up to Lannister until he stood right over him. He could feel himself shaking. He looked down at the bound man and growled, “How dare you sit there and say such things after you sent Roose Bolton to murder my son?”

Lannister’s mocking expression was replaced by confusion. “Murder? Bolton? What are you talking about, Lord Stark? I thought your wolf pup was murdered by the Freys at that abominable wedding.”

Ned heard Catelyn rise behind him and she came to stand over Lannister as well. “Jaime Lannister sends his regards,” she whispered. Then she repeated it more loudly right into Lannister’s face. “Jaime Lannister sends his regards! That is what Roose Bolton said when he put his sword through my son’s heart!” She was shaking now and her eyes had that terrified look they got when Ned knew she was back in that hall at the Twins.

Momentarily forgetting Lannister, he put his arms around Catelyn, gently pulling her back away from the man, as she continued to stare accusingly at him and yet stare right through him at the same time.

“Is she mad?” Lannister asked suddenly, and that caused Catelyn to scream with rage.

Ned held her more tightly as she tried to fling herself at Lannister, and she shouted, “I am not mad! I was there! I saw it happen! You sent Roose Bolton to murder my son!”

“I did no such thing!” Lannister shouted. “I didn’t even know what happened at that damned wedding until we reached Brindlewood! Ser Bertram Beesbury told us you and your son were dead, and that big wench of yours like to died from hearing of it. I practically had to drag her into King’s Landing after that!”

Ned’s attention was focused mostly on Catelyn, but he thought he heard truth in the man’s words. Could she have been wrong? “Catelyn . . . Cat,” he whispered desperately in her ear. “Please, my love, let’s listen. Stay with me. Look at me.”

She did look at him then, fear and pain still foremost in those blue eyes he loved so much, but she was listening. He could see her trying to concentrate on his words. “We need to hear what he says,” he told her softly. “I don’t understand it, but there may be more to this than we know.”

She nodded mutely, and he slowly let go of her. She remained standing where she was.

Turning back toward Jaime, Ned asked him, “If you did not send Bolton, why would he speak of you when he killed my son?”

“I have no idea,” Jaime said. “I will not deny my father’s fingerprints were all over that wedding. And since that time, Bolton has certainly become my father’s creature---Warden of the North and all. Are you certain he did not mention my father rather than me, my lady?”

Catelyn took only the tiniest step toward the man, but Ned laid his hand lightly on her arm to be sure. Looking Lannister directly in the eyes, she whispered once more through clenched teeth, “Jaime Lannister sends his regards. That is what he said, Kingslayer. I heard it then, and now I hear it every night in my dreams.”

Lannister was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Oh,” so softly that Ned might have missed it, but for the movement of his mouth.

“What?” Ned asked him.

“Your lady wife asked earlier how I lost my hand, Lord Stark,” Jaime told him. “My cousin Cleos was killed, and then a group of mercenaries known as the Brave Companions fell upon the wench and myself. They were led by a man called Vargo Hoat. They were pets of my fathers, but had changed hands along with Harrenhall and now belonged to Roose Bolton. Vargo Hoat took my hand and then took the wench and me to Bolton.” He paused.

“Go on,” Ned told him.

“Bolton kept us there at Harrenhall until he decided what to do with us. Aenys Fry was with him and they told us about Robb Stark marrying the Westerling girl, and that Edmure Tully was to marry some Frey girl for penance. Ser Aenys left for the wedding while I was there. Bolton finally decided to send me on to my father, but give Brienne to Hoat. He left for the wedding when I left for King’s Landing, and he told me to give his regards to Tywin Lannister.” Jaime looked directly at Catelyn then. “So I told him to give my regards to Robb Stark.”

Ned looked at Lannister and then at his wife. The two of them stared at each other silently for a moment. Then Lannister said quietly, “I would have gladly killed your son in battle, my lady. Gods know I tried hard enough in the Whispering Wood. But I had no hand in that wedding.”

Catelyn remained silent another moment before asking him, “What happened to Brienne? Tell me.”

“I went back for her. Hoat tried to make her fight a bear with nothing but a tourney sword. Damn wench was holding her own, too. We got out of Harrenhall. We went to King’s Landing. I don’t know where she is now. She’s off still trying to fulfill her oath to you.”

“What?” Catelyn asked, her eyes opening wide.

“She’s looking for your daughters,” Lannister sighed. “Stupid wench swore she would find and protect them for you, even after you were dead.”

Catelyn sat back down, exhausted, and Ned looked at Lannister. “That’s enough for now. I hear horses in the yard. That’ll be my men. I’ll have some food sent up for you.”

“No horsemeat, please,” Lannister said.

Ned didn’t reply to that. “You will be well guarded all night, Lannister. If you make any move to escape, my men will have instructions to kill you without hesitation. Tomorrow, we leave here.”

“Where are we going?” Jaime Lannister asked.

“You will be taken to Riverrun,” Ned replied, his heart sinking as he said it. “Edmure’s dungeons are rather full, but I know he’ll make room for you.”

He took Catelyn’s arm and led her out of the room, sending Gendry inside to watch Lannister. Once they were alone in the hall, she looked at him. “We can’t go back, Ned! Sansa! We can’t go all the way back to Riverrun and then start again. We’ll lose days and days!”

“I know, my love. But what can I do with the bloody man? Drag him with us to the Eyrie? Split our company and take greater chance of his escaping or our being overcome by brigands on the High Road? I don’t know what to do.” Ned looked at his wife and wondered if his desperation and indecision showed as clearly to her as he feared it must.

Apparently, it did, for she took his face in her hands then and said, “Go down to the men, Ned. Set up whatever guard we need to secure Lannister and his two men and then come to bed.”

“Bed, my lady?”

“Bed,” she said firmly. “No staying up all night thinking and planning and worrying, my lord. We have to go get Sansa. We have to do something the Kingslayer and his friends. Those things will still be true tomorrow, and you can worry about them after a full night’s rest in an actual bed--the first in many nights, my love.”

Ned shook his head. “It won’t work, Cat. I shan’t be able to sleep in any event.”

She actually smiled at him then, and moved her hands from his face back through his hair. “I think perhaps I could help you with that, my lord.”

Now he was shocked. With everything they had been through today and the impossible dilemma facing them on the morrow, was she actually suggesting what he thought whe was? “My lady?” he stammered.

She quit running her fingers through his hair, and took both his hands in hers. “I asked you to hold on to me, Ned,” she said quietly. “And you did. Just now, in there . . . You held on to me and wouldn’t let me go.” She took a deep breath and then continued. “Now, let me hold on to you, my love. You have been doing so much, facing impossible tasks again and again. So please just let me hold on to you tonight. Just for a bit, put it all aside, and let me kiss you to sleep. The morrow will be here soon enough.”

She kissed him then, a long, sweet kiss that made him consider that her plan had merit. He couldn’t just forget all of it, though. As they broke apart, he asked her, “Do you believe him? The Kingslayer? Do you think he told us the truth?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. If I knew for certain that he lied, I’d suggest that killing him here would solve our dilemma nicely. But I don’t know.”

“Neither do I,” he frowned. He started to say something else, but she pressed her lips against his once more, and he found that he couldn’t remember what he had wanted to say. He only wanted her. He was tired, worried, and unsure he could find a solution to their current situation; but she was right. He wanted to be held safe in her arms.

When they broke apart this time, he said only, “I’ll go see to the men and come to bed.”

She took his arm. “I’ll come with you, my lord, lest you forget your way.”

The moon was nearly full and illuminated the place where the Kingsroad met the River and High Roads. Ned looked at the intersecting roads as they entered the yard and thought that they certainly had come to a crossroad. He felt the gentle pressure of Catelyn’s hand on his arm and reassured himself that as long as they held each other, they would be able to find their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to all you wonderful people who are reading and commenting. :)


	19. Confrontations at the Crossroad--Part 2

Catelyn Stark sipped cautiously from the cup in her hands and made a face at the bitter taste. The gods only knew what the girl had put into this brew she called tea, but at least it was warm and wet, and the taste certainly would help her be fully awake. Pale sunlight came through the windows of the common room as she carried her cup to the table where Ned sat with Howland Reed, Donnell Boden and the boy Gendry. Mya was nowhere to be seen.

Ned looked up at her as she approached and moved on his bench to make a place for her beside him. “Join us, my lady,” he said courteously.

She looked at him and saw the deep lines of worry creasing his face. He looked tired, but not so much as he had been last night. She did not know when he had left the bed they shared this morning, but at least she knew he had slept. She had kissed him and held him, and taken him inside her until he cried out softly, and afterward she had held him in her arms, softly stroking his hair and his back until she knew he slept. Only then had she closed her own eyes to wake alone in the pale dawn light.

The common room was full of children, and the girl, Willow, was giving them bread from the supplies Ned’s men had brought. _So many children with no parents_ , Catelyn thought sadly. It caused her to think longingly of her own daughters who had no parents close to them to protect them either, and her heart ached in her chest.

“What decisions have been made this morning, my lord?” she asked Ned, fearing that no answers could ease the ache in her heart. She had given him the night, but she could not see any clearer answers for them this morning.

“I have been to see Lannister again this morning,” Ned said shortly. “He repeated much of what he told us last night, and said some little more. Lord Reed has questioned Marbrand and it seems their tales match well enough, not that Marbrand was willing to speak more than a word or two.”

“Shouldn’t my uncle be at Darry by now?” Catelyn inquired.

“I would think so, my lady,” Donnell Boden answered that question. “He should be very close at any rate, although apparently he had not arrived when these men left.”

“Why would they have come here?” Catelyn asked. “There are only the three? The men have found no others?”

“None at all, my lady,” said Boden. He shook his head. “I cannot think why they are here.”

Ned looked at her. “We will go over all of these things presently, my lady. But I had just asked Gendry to join us to speak of Arya, while we have the chance.”

Catelyn’s heart jumped. She looked at Ned and nodded. “Yes, please let’s do that,” she whispered.

Ned turned to the boy who looked rather uncomfortable with the four pairs of eyes on him. “Go on, lad. Tell us your tale.”

Gendry cleared his throat, and started by telling them how he had been taken from Tobho Mott’s shop to go with a man called Yoren of the Night’s Watch. He went on to tell them of a scrawny little boy called Arry whom Yoren had brought to the group just before they started up the Kingsroad. He told them of the gold cloaks pursuing them and how Yoren had taken them off the road to avoid further pursuit. Catelyn noted how his voice almost broke when he spoke of the abandoned holdfast where they were attacked by Ser Amory Lorch.

“Arry fought, milord. I mean, the Lady Arya. She was yelling Winterfell, which didn’t make any sense to me at the time, but she fought like the boy we all thought she was then. Then everyone was dying and buildings were burning and we had to get out. There was a tunnel in the barn and Yoren told us to go out that way. Me and Arry got Lem and Hot Pie and Weasel. But those three chained to the wagon were yelling at us.” Gendry’s eyes looked at something none of the rest of them could see, and Catelyn shivered, recognizing that he was back in that holdfast. “I told him, I mean her, to leave them, but she went back and got them the axe. Then she got out after the rest of us.”

“What three?” Ned asked.

“There were three going to the Wall that Yoren kept chained, milord. They were called Rorge and Biter and I don’t remember the other name. He was an eastern fellow, always talking at Arry. We didn’t see them again til Harrenhall.”

“Harrenhall?” asked Catelyn.

“Yeah,” said Gendry. “We didn’t really know what to do after we got away from the keep. Weasel was really just a baby, and Lommy was hurt too bad to walk even, and Hot Pie . . . Well, Hot Pie just wasn’t much use for anything except baking, I guess. So it was Arry and me. We tried to sneak up and see what we could find in this little village, and that’s when I told her I knew she was a girl.” The boy actually smiled then. “She told me who she was, and then she started hitting and kicking me for calling her milady!”

Catelyn let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and Ned caught her hand and held it tightly beneath the table.

“Anyway, I was stupid and got caught. It was Gregor Clegane’s men in that village. And she wouldn’t leave me. She tried to get Hot Pie to help her, but he just got them both caught.” He shook his head. “Arry told me Weasel ran off and the Mountain’s men killed Lommy. The rest of us they brought to Harrenhall, but only after they kept us in a house there for awhile with the people from the village. They’d question somebody every day.” He had that haunted look in his eyes again. “A man called the Tickler would ask them questions and . . .do things to them. Terrible things. And we all had to watch.” He swallowed.

Catelyn didn’t know if she was gripping Ned’s hand more tightly or he was tightening his grip on hers, but the thought of her little girl in such a place was threatening her ability to breathe.

Gendry continued. “Lord Tywin had charge of Harrenhall when we got there. I was sent to the forge and Hot Pie to the kitchens. Arya, she called herself Weasel there, she was made to work in some tower. After awhile, Ser Amory Lorch came riding in with his men and those three were with them. The ones she helped get away. The one with the funny name tried to talk to her sometimes. I don’t know what he said. I don’t think she knew I ever watched her. Then the Bloody Mummers brought in northmen captives, and she wanted me to help her free them. I didn’t see how it could be done and I told her so. But she did it. Somehow she got men to help her. I think she worked with that eastern man. He disappeared after that. Then Lord Bolton came and he was in charge of the castle, but nothing really changed. I think it got worse.”

Knowing what they did now of Bolton, this did not surprise Catelyn, but she simply let Gendry continue. “So one night Arya came and said we were going to escape, me and her and Hot Pie. She planned it all out and . . .we did.”

Catelyn couldn’t help but feel Gendry was leaving something out here, but she did not press him. “Then we were captured by Lord Beric’s men and you know the rest, milord,” the boy said, looking at Ned. “You said you talked to Harwin about it.”

Ned nodded. “Yes. And you found nothing of her in Saltpans, Gendry? Nothing at all?”

“No,” the boy said. “Whatever she did there after leaving the Hound, I think she was gone before it was burned. Maybe on a ship. She had talked about taking a ship north. Although she had no money.”

“She’d be unlikely to find passage on a ship with no coin,” Ned said thoughtfully.

At that Gendry looked up as if he’d just remembered something. “She did have a coin,” he said. “Not real money. It was iron, I think, although she held it tightly to her like it was a secret. I don’t think she had it before Harrenhall, but when we left there, she would hold it at night when she did her list.”

“Her list?” Catelyn asked.

The boy actually blushed at that. “I . .I shouldn’t have listened to her, milady, I know, but she would say it every night, starting before we ever got to Harrenhall. She whispered and I know she didn’t mean for me to hear.”

“Tell us, Gendry,” Ned said quietly. “We aren’t angry at you for listening. Any small thing may help us find Arya now. Tell us.”

“I thought it was prayers, at first,” he said. “But it was names. She said the same names over and over. All of Ser Gregor Clegane’s men that took us, the queen and King Joffrey. Some others. She had added some new ones when we left Harrenhall, and . . .and she stopped saying the ones who were . . .dead.”

Catelyn went cold. Her ten year old daughter had kept a list of people she wished dead. There was no other explanation. _Oh, Arya._

Ned sighed heavily. “Did she say anything else, Gendry? Anything at all?”

Gendry screwed up his face in thought. “After Harrenhall, she started saying a funny word. I can’t remember it exactly. Val . .valla morga something or other.”

The syllables meant nothing to Catelyn, but Donnell Boden who had listened to the boys’ tale without comment suddenly jumped. “Valar morghulis?” he whispered. “Surely, that isn’t what she said.”

“Yes, milord,” Gendry said. “That sounds right.”

“Gods be good,” Donnell said, his face suddenly pale.

Catelyn thought back to the High Valyrian she had been taught in her youth. “All men must die?” she asked Donnell softly. “That’s what it means, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “You will hear it said in many places in Essos, my lady, but most of all in Braavos. I learned of its significance when I traveled there. It is the traditional greeting of the Faceless Men.”

“The Faceless Men,” she whispered. She knew little of the shadowy assassins from across the Narrow Sea, only that they killed whomever you asked as long as you could meet their price. “What would Arya know of Faceless Men?”

Ned had been silent during this exchange. She looked at him now and saw that he sat perfectly still with his jaw clenched tight. He took a deep breath and turned to look at her. “What would Arya know of war and torture and death and killing?” he asked her quietly. Then turning to face Gendry, he said, “It would appear that she has learned much of such things.”

Catelyn watched her husband’s grey eyes search Gendry’s face as if seeking there all the things he hadn’t said. The boy looked down silently and did not contradict Ned’s statement. Icy fingers began crawling over Catelyn’s skin as she contemplated what precisely her little girl had seen, suffered, and done since she had last held her tight.

Ned’s jaw had clenched even tighter and she could feel the tension resonating through him in the hand she held. Suddenly, he pulled his hand from her grasp, stood, and strode out the door of the inn without a word.

“My lord?” Donnell said, rising as if to follow him.

“No,” said Catelyn and Howland Reed at the same time. Donnell sat back down.

Catelyn looked at Reed for a long moment. “I will go,” she said quietly, and Reed nodded. To Gendry, she said, “I thank you for telling us all you know of our daughter. And I thank you for being a friend to her.”

The boy looked at her with sorrow and guilt showing plainly on his face. “I was not so good a friend as I should have been, milady.”

She shook her head. “You were there when we were not. She wasn’t always alone. Do not trouble yourself about things you could not or did not do.” She looked toward the door where Ned had walked out. “Nothing can come of that.”

Without another word, she rose and went outside to find her husband. Men and horses were milling about in the yard, and she could see that Ned had stationed men on the road as well. She looked around and noted there was a small grove of trees back behind the forge. She walked that way.

She found him alone there on his knees. Her own suffering seemed suddenly very unimportant to her when she saw the turmoil on his face. He turned to face her as she approached and the pain and guilt in his eyes was more than she had ever beheld there.

“I tossed away our daughters, Cat,” he said softly.

“No,” she said.

“Yes,” he said more loudly, getting to his feet. “I did!,” he said, almost shouting. “I went to the Lannister woman! I told her what I knew, what I planned! Gods, Cat, I threw my own children to the lions to protect Cersei’s bastards! What kind of father does that?”

The anguish on his face ripped her heart into pieces. “The kind who does not suffer harm to children, to any children,” she said quietly.

“I harmed our children!” he shouted, turning away from her. “They are mine to protect and I failed them! For what? For Cersei Lannister?”

She swallowed to keep the tears in check. “You did what was honorable, Ned. You tried . . .”

“Don’t speak to me of honor! Honor has no place in a world with Lannisters, and I am a fool to have believed otherwise.” Now his eyes held more of anger than anything else in their grey depths. He came to stand just in front of her. “The monster Joffrey is dead now, but Cersei holds her other two children close to her in King’s Landing. Where are your children, Cat? Do you hold them?”

At that, she sobbed, unable to hold it back any longer, and he grabbed her arms and forced her to look at him. “I have done this to you, my love. I have done this to us,” he said desperately.

Catelyn fought to regain control of herself and looked her husband in the eyes. “No,” she said firmly. “Stop it, Eddard Stark. You went to Cersei, yes, and I took Tyrion Lannister captive and freed the Kingslayer as well. Blaming ourselves and each other for all that happened since does not get our daughters back!”

They stared at each other then, unable to say any more, until Ned seemed to realize how tightly he gripped her arms. He let go of her, with a murmured, “Forgive me, my lady.”

“I forgive you all of it, Ned, if that is what you need. And I ask the same from you,” she said, looking downward.

“There is nothing to . . “ he started.

“There is,” she interrupted. “You are not alone in feeling the weight of your decisions, my lord.”

She looked directly at him then, and he nodded in understanding. “You are forgiven, my lady. Always.”

After another few moments of silence, she said, “We still have to go back inside and decide what we want to do, my lord.”

He laughed bitterly at that. “When has it ever been about what we want, Cat?” An edge of anger returned to his voice. “I want to take the Kingslayer’s head off and see it roll across the yard. I want to ride to the Eyrie, toss Baelish out the Moon Door, and carry Sansa safely away. I want to take ship for Essos and find Arya safe and whole in some eastern port.” He shook his head. “I want to go home, Cat,” he said softly, nothing but grief and weariness left now. “I want my wife and my children and my home.”

She put her arms around him then. “You have your wife,” she whispered. “We shall get our daughters, and we will go home, my love.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Let us return to the inn, my lady,” he said tiredly, but determinedly.

She nodded, and the two of them walked back to the inn together.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Gendry was no longer in the common room, Ned noted, upon entering it with Catelyn, and many of the children had gone as well. Donnell and Howland still sat at the table where they had left them. He led Catelyn over to rejoin them.

“We cannot stay here much longer,” he said as he sat down. “Surely someone will come looking for the Kingslayer eventually.”

“If they know where he is, my lord,” said Reed. He paused. “Marbrand is a good soldier. He answered very little of what he was asked, but I learned some things in what he did not say.”

Ned had learned long ago to trust Howland Reed’s observations. “Go on,” he said.

“Marbrand is frustrated, some with Jaime Lannister, but more with the situation in general. I think Lannister likely shares his general frustration, and knowing his reputation for brashness, he may have decided to ride off on a whim.”

“Hmm,” Ned said thoughtfully. “He doesn’t waste much thought before he acts. That is true. But what frustrations, Howland?”

“That is more difficult to say, my lord. I don’t gather that all is as Marbrand feels it should be at Darry Castle. He doesn’t seem to think much of the Lannister cousin it’s been given to. And his attitude about the queen borders on contempt. I think perhaps that things in King’s Landing do not go as Ser Marbrand would have them, either.”

“Addam Marbrand is as loyal a Lannister bannerman as you could find,” Ned said thoughtfully. “I cannot seeing him ever going against them. If he is truly displeased by what occurs in Darry or King’s Landing, that can only be bad for the Lannisters and good for us.”

“I agree,” said his wife. “But as much as any potential Lannister misfortune may gladden my heart, we still need to know if anyone at Darry knows the Kingslayer came here.”

“At least one person knew it!” came a deep booming voice from the doorway.

Before Ned could even turn to look, Catelyn was across the room. “Uncle Brynden!” she exclaimed as she grabbed the older man.

“Ser Tully,” Ned said, standing to greet the Blackfish. “It is indeed good to see you here.”

Tully chuckled. “So you’ve caught him, have you? The Kingslayer?”

“Lannister, Addam Marbrand, and Ilyn Payne are all tucked away upstairs,” Ned responded.

“That is good news indeed,” Ser Brynden said. “We’ll need to take the Kingslayer to Riverrun, of course.”

Ned nodded. “But how do you come to be here? Have you been to Darry?”

It was Tully’s turn to nod. “Sit, and I’ll tell you,” he said, leading Catelyn by the arm back to the table.

“We reached Darry last evening before sunset, and I decided not to wait until morning. I rode up and demanded a parley with Lannister. Well, the Lannister that met me wasn’t the Kingslayer, but a little wisp of a boy that looks half dead--name of Lancel Lannister, and apparently the new Lord of Darry. He tells me the Kingslayer has ridden out and asks me if I mean any harm to his people.” Brynden shook his head. “He’s got what looks to be a thousand men camped around his walls. I ride up with a mere ten of mine under a white flag, and the man wants to know if I mean harm! Anyway, I told him that Daven Lannister’s force had been routed at Riverrun and that Ser Daven and others were held hostage. I wished to negotiate terms that would secure the peace at Riverrun and possibly allow return of some hostages. The little man actually told me he had no interest in such matters. I would have to wait upon Ser Jaime’s return as this Lord Lancel is planning to leave his title and his castle to join the Warrior’s Sons!”

“The Warrior’s Sons?” Ned asked in disbelief. “They’ve not been in existence for hundreds of years!”

“That’s what I said,” Brynden replied. “The little lion told me King Tommen had signed a decree reinstating them. Arming the faith!” The old knight shook his head. “What Lannister madness this is, I do not know. But in the event, we withdrew to camp with the rest of our party just out of sight of the men camped around Darry, and after dark we received a visitor.”

“A visitor?” Catelyn asked.

Now Brynden Tully smiled broadly. “Lewys Piper. Younger son of our Lord Clement Piper. Apparently he was gifted to the Kingslayer as a squire as part of Piper’s swearing fealty to King Tommen and all. It seems Little Lew recognized his father and his brother Marq in my company when we rode up and realized that things had changed dramatically. He sneaked out to find us under cover of night, and told us another of the Kingslayer’s squires had saddled his horse for him and heard him talk to Addam Marbrand about riding to the inn. We rode all night to get here.”

Ned’s mind considered the possibilities that Brynden’s arrival had brought. “How many men rode with you?” he asked.

“Over half my company. I have about sixty men here. The rest are with Lord Umber, back at Darry. By now, the Greatjon is bellowing at the gates, demanding that Jaime Lannister come out and treat with us, and proclaiming that I have refused to speak any more to the little lord who has nothing to say.”

Ned smiled at his wife’s uncle. “Nicely done, Ser Brynden. I take it you planned to capture the Kingslayer and take him to Riverrun?”

“Of course,” Brynden replied. “But as you’ve done the capturing for me, I shall be pleased to simply escort the man back to his cell.”

Ned’s heart leapt at that. The Blackfish had more men than he did, even with only half his company present. There would be no need for he and Catelyn to turn aside from their journey to the Eyrie. “Then let’s get on with it. Lord Lancel may not pose much of a threat, but surely the Kingslayer’s own men will seek him out soon enough.”

Ser Brynden nodded grimly. “No doubt. My plan is set out for Riverrun as quickly as possible with most of my men. A few will be sent back to let Umber know we’ve been successful, so that he can leave with the rest and join us along the road. A few more will be sent back to Darry as envoys with Marbrand. Although I want them to wait a bit to give us a good start. I have no doubt we can defend ourselves on the road if need be, but I’d rather not have the need.”

“You want to set Marbrand free?” Ned asked him.

“We’ll have the Kingslayer. He’s not needed. And Marbrand’ll be believed when he speaks. We’ll send him with our promise to take the Kingslayer’s head if any Lannister force so much as marches toward Riverrun. And we’ll make him vow not to personally take up arms in the riverlands or the north again.” Tully shrugged. “We all know words are wind, but Marbrand’s an honorable enough man that it will at least give him pause. He can go work for the Lannisters elsewhere.”

Ned nodded thoughtfully.

“He has seen us, my love,” Catelyn said softly. “Are you ready for the Lannisters to know for certain we live?”

“I would rather Petyr Baelish not know yet,” Ned said slowly, “but by the time word of Marbrand’s report reaches King’s Landing from Darry, we shall be well on our way. And I don’t think reporting to Littlefinger is high priority for Cersei Lannister in any event. No, let Marbrand spread the word. See what that brings.” He looked at his wife. “I grow rather tired of being dead, in truth.”

She smiled at him. “As do I.”

“We’ll need to keep Marbrand closed up in his rooms until well after we leave,” Tully said. “I want no hint of the fact that you and Cat are not coming with us to reach his ears. We shall be safe from pursuit in our large party, but I would not have you overtaken on the High Road.”

“No,” said Ned. No one will know we travel another way. We’ll start down the River Road with you and double back after a bit, keeping to the north of the road until we’ve passed back by the inn.”

Brynden nodded, and everyone at the table stood to begin preparations for leaving.

“Where did Gendry go?” Ned asked.

Donnell Boden smiled then. “He went to his forge. Apparently the boy started a fine set of irons to bind the Kingslayer for his journey last night, and he went to finish them.”

Ned went to see Gendry in the forge and found him doing exactly as Donnell had said.

“Those look to be plenty strong,” Ned said as he eyed the boy’s work.

“They’ll keep him secure. I had enough scrap iron around, and shackles need not be anything to look at as long as they hold tight,” Gendry said without looking up. He paused. “Mya Stone was here, milord.”

“Ah,” said Ned. “And what did Mya come to speak about?”

“Our father,” Gendry said clearly and without hesitating. He looked directly at Ned and asked him, “Is it true, milord? Is that why you came to see me in King‘s Landing?”

Ned looked directly back into his Baratheon eyes and said simply, “Yes.”

Gendry nodded. “And that’s why the queen sent the gold cloaks after me then. If she was putting her bastard on the throne, it wouldn’t do to have any of King Robert’s bastards about. That the way of it?”

Impressed by how quickly the boy seemed to have grasped the situation, Ned nodded. “That’s why you were sent with the Night’s Watch. King’s Landing had become a very dangerous place for any of Robert’s natural born children. Cersei Lannister had already been implicated in the deaths of some.”

“Had a lot of us, did he?” Gendry asked somewhat bitterly.

“Yes, Gendry, he did.” Ned sighed. “Robert was my friend as well as my king, and he was a good man. But I cannot say he behaved well in this, or that he did rightly by you.”

Gendry shrugged. “It’s what you lords do, I guess. You’ve got your own bastard, right? Arry--Lady Arya--she told me she had a bastard brother in the Night’s Watch. Talked about going to the Wall herself. Did you stop at the one or just ignore all the others like King Robert did?”

Ned felt the old guilt and shame. Gendry had every right to compare him to Robert. He didn’t know. He was just one more man who felt entitled to judge Lord Eddard Stark for betraying his marriage vows and fathering a bastard. “There is only Jon,” Ned said quietly. “Not that it makes it any more right.”

Gendry was quiet for a long moment. “She talked about you all the time. Your daughter. She believed you were the bravest, most honorable man in all the world.”

That stabbed Ned’s heart more sharply than any blade could. He didn’t respond because he couldn’t speak.

Gendry looked up at him. “I believe you are a good man, Lord Stark. Good men do things they regret. I’d like to think I’m a good man, but I regret a lot of things I’ve done. Maybe King Robert . . .my father . . .was the same.”

Ned looked at this boy and saw that he was truly becoming a man even as they spoke. _Is this what it was like with Robb?_ he wondered. _Is this what I missed?_ “Yes, Gendry, he was. And while it may not mean much to you, I know he would have been proud of you now.”

Gendry nodded. “I’d like to come with you, Lord Stark. I’d like to help you get Lady Arya’s sister.”

Ned thought for a moment, and then sighed. “As much as I would like that Gendry, I believe your place is here.”

Gendry started to protest, but Ned interrupted him. “No, lad. Listen to me. When they learn that Riverrun and the Twins are truly lost to them, and that my lady and I yet live, the Lannisters will be furious. The riverlands will continue to bleed. Lord Beric and your Brotherhood will have even more to do than now. They will have need of your steel. And these children . . .” He swept his arm in a gesture meant to encompass all the area about the inn. “You are the only man here, Gendry. You cannot leave them.”

The boy still looked like he wished to protest, but he could not argue. He sighed deeply and nodded. “I will have these ready for you within the hour, Lord Stark,” he said, and turned back to his work.

As he left the forge, Ned thought about his dead friend, who had never really known this son, and it made him sad. _You would be proud of him, Robert. Bastard or no, he is_ _truly your son._ He thought also of his own son, Robb, who grew to manhood with him gone and was killed before he could know him as a man. _I have ever been proud of you, Robb. I pray to the gods you knew it._

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

When Ned left to speak with Gendry, Catelyn endeavored to get her uncle alone. Finally, he pause briefly in barking orders to his men, and she caught his arm. “I would speak with you, Uncle, if I may,” she said.

He looked at her curiously. “But of course, little Cat.”

She led him up to the room she and Ned had shared the night before and closed the door behind them.

“What is this about, Catelyn?” he asked her.

“Once you have returned Jaime Lannister to Riverrun, he should provide a reasonable guarantee of safety there for some time. What do you plan to do next?”

“Well, that will ultimately be up to your brother, but I had thought to ride for Seagard, to aid the Mallisters.”

“I had thought you might,” she said. She swallowed hard. “If you go to Seagard, I need you to do something for me.”

Her uncle looked puzzled. “Anything, little Cat. Only name it.”

“You must kill Black Walder Frey. Last I heard he had remained there once he got Lord Jason’s surrender, and I want him dead.” She said it flatly with no particular heat in her voice.

Brynden Tully nodded slowly. “I understand he played a large role in that unspeakable wedding. We will see him brought to justice, Cat, do not fear.”

“Justice has nothing to do with it!” she spit out. “He dies for me. He dies because I cannot abide the thought that he lives.” She was shaking now, and the memory of that alcove in the Twins threatened to overwhelm her.

“Catelyn,” said her uncle softly, and he reached out to take her arm. She flinched away from him, though, because she could not stand to be touched in that moment.

He must have seen it in her face, because his face changed then. “Oh, Cat. Oh gods, child. What did he do to you?” The sympathy and anger mixed in her uncle’s voice made her feel worse.

“Precisely what you think!” she flung back. “And I want him dead. Will you do that for me?”

Her uncle was silent a moment. “I would kill him in an instant,” he said. “But, Cat. Lord Eddard is your husband. You should not keep this from him. It is his right to . . .”

“I have no secrets from my husband!” she almost shouted it. Remembering that the inn was full of people, she willed herself to speak softly. “My husband knows all of what happened to me at the Twins, Uncle. Black Walder was only one of many. The others are all dead now, most of them by my husband’s hand.” She looked her uncle in the face and pleaded with her eyes for him to understand. “I watched him kill them, Uncle. I’ve seen what it does to him. He’s taken his vengeance, again and again. But it cannot take from him the knowledge of what was done to me. What of my rights, Uncle? I need my husband to ride with me to the Eyrie and rescue our daughter, not to feel honor bound to ride to Seagard and kill yet one more Frey in my name!” She stopped speaking then, afraid she would start screaming or crying if she continued.

“Cat,” her uncle said, and she heard his voice trembling on her name. “Child, I wish . . .”

“I am not a child, Uncle Brynden,” she said sadly. “I have not been one for a long time. I cannot change what happened. Neither can Ned or you. I wish to move forward, but I find myself still wanting Black Walder Frey dead--for myself and for my son. I will not send my husband back into that black pit again. He has been there long enough. So, I ask you, Uncle Brynden, even knowing I have no right. Will you do this for me?”

“You have every right, niece. I am your family. That remains true however many years your name has been Stark.” He took her hands then, and she allowed it. “Whenever we ride to Seagard, the man will pay with his life. You have my word.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

Her uncle left the room then, as there was nothing more to say, and Catelyn was left alone with her thoughts. Her daughter, Arya, came to her mind, and the list Gendry had told them she recited each night. Catelyn realized she had kept her own list, even if she had never spoken it out loud. Black Walder was the last Frey on her list, but not the last name. “Cersei Lannister,” she whispered. “Roose Bolton.” _Oh gods, Arya! Do you have anything else to hold on to?_

Catelyn had the love of her husband, the hope of being with Sansa very soon, and even the hope of finding Arya herself at some point to balance against the hatred of those who had hurt her and her family. And still that hatred threatened to overwhelm her, cause her to lose herself in it at times. She wondered fearfully if her daughter had anything to balance against her hatred, and how she could hold on to herself if she did not. _Please, Arya, do not forget who you are. Hold on, my sweetling, and I will hold on to you._

 

______________________________________________________________________________________

 

They had left the inn well before midday, and by the time the sun had reached its zenith had traveled far enough down the River Road that Ned felt it was time for his party to double back. They took their leave of Brynden Tully, and as Ned and Catelyn turned their horses away, Jaime Lannister called out to them.

He and Ilyn Payne were both shackled to their mounts with men on either side of each of them. “Leaving us so soon, Lord Stark? Surely you haven’t tired of my company?” Lannister called.

Ned knew he should ignore the man and ride on, but he didn’t. He rode up to him and heard Catelyn follow him. “I have other places to be, Kingslayer. Enjoy your cell at Riverrun.”

“Oh, how can I enjoy it without your lady wife to keep me company?”

Ned’s hands tightened on his reins, but he made no reply. He started to go, but Lannister continued, “Of course, she’s a bit less attractive now. Whatever did happen to your face, Lady Stark? You look like you were mauled by an angry lion.”

At that, Ned sprinted his horse toward Lannister’s, startling the man on this side of him into turning his mount away so that Ned was directly beside Jaime. He punched his face and felt the crack of his nose against his fist. Lannister was knocked backwards, but couldn’t truly fall, shackled to the horse as he was. He couldn’t defend himself either, as his one hand was secured tightly to the pommel of his saddle, and Ned felt a brief, reflexive pang of regret for striking a defenseless man.

Lannister, however simply raised himself back into a seated position, and despite the blood pouring from his nose, Ned saw that he was laughing. “You are so predictable, Stark. I can say whatever I want about you, and you sit there like a block of ice, but one unkind word about Littlefinger’s little plaything and you lose all control.”

“You are not to say another word, Kingslayer. No promises have been made to keep your tongue in your head. You and Payne would make a much better pair were you both silent,” Ned said coldly. “Your words are no more fit to be heard than your shoulders are to wear that white cape of yours.”

Jaime Lannister sighed. “It always comes back to that, doesn’t it? The great, honorable Eddard Stark, sitting in judgment over all the world, especially kingslayers like me. Well you can imprison me Stark, or kill me if you wish, but you cannot judge me. You have your own sins.”

Lannister turned to look at Catelyn then, who had reined up beside Ned. “They say he never he never speaks the name of his bastard’s mother,” he flung at her. “Is that true, Lady Stark, or does he call it out when he fucks you?”

Ned went to hit him again, but Catelyn grabbed his arm, and hissed “No! He is baiting you, my lord. Ride away and end this!”

Shaking with rage, Ned turned away to Brynden Tully. “Gag him if he says anything else between here and Riverrun.”

Catelyn’s uncle nodded, but the look he gave Ned was colder than usual, and Ned knew it was because he blamed him for Lannister’s last awful words to Catelyn. He then turned his horse and rode to join the rest of their small party, already a short way into the woods. As Catelyn rode up beside him again, he noted that her cheeks were stained crimson, and he cursed himself for shaming her once again.

Halfway between the two groups of men, he stopped his horse, and motioned her to do the same. “My lady,” he said. “I am sorry. I . .” He really didn’t know what to say.

She reached out and took his hand. “It is behind us,” she said. “Leave it there. We are done with this place and done with that man and his mocking words. He is nothing.” Her voice was firm and resolved.

“But . .” he started.

“Please, Ned,” Her voice trembled only slightly on the please. “I only want to leave here. Let us go get our daughter.”

He squeezed her hand wordlessly and nodded. They joined their men and Mya, and rode without speaking through the woods for some time. When sunset approached, and they turned south out of the trees, they had long passed the inn, and found themselves on the High Road, riding toward the Vale of Arryn with the crossroad well behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once more for reading and all the comments that keep me motivated!


	20. Oathkeeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The early part of this chapter very closely parallels events in chapter 37 of George R.R. Martin's A Feast for Crows, to the point where some small sections of dialogue are direct quotes from that chapter. That plot line and the words all belong to the brilliant Mr. Martin and I give him full credit. I have merely changed the POV and changed events enough to put them into the universe of this story.

The metal rang with each stroke of his hammer, and Gendry swung harder and harder as if he could hammer away his frustration at being left here. Ser Brynden Tully rode to Riverrun with the Kingslayer as his captive. Lord and Lady Stark and even Mya rode to the Eyrie to rescue Sansa Stark. He didn’t know the names of the men who had left only an hour or two ago with Addam Marbrand, but he envied even them. They were all riding off to do something important, something exciting, and he was left to hammer metal and herd children.

“Damn!” he shouted to no one. Perhaps if Lem and his men had been here, Lord Stark would have agreed to allow him to come. Gendry couldn’t argue with the fact that the inn couldn’t be left defenseless, but he was only one smith’s apprentice. Even if he was knighted by Lord Beric himself. _Where are you, Lem? You should have been here ages ago!_

The air inside the forge was hot from the fire, and he had pulled off his shirt. Now, he was sweating miserably even in only his apron and breeches. He walked to the door and looked outside. The day had turned grey and damp by noon, and now it was raining so hard, he could barely see the inn across the yard through the downpour.

He wondered if the four travelers were enjoying their meal. He’d tried to get Willow to send them away; the huge, odd-looking woman, the knight, the shabby septon, and the boy. She’d argued that the four had food, and she had a point. The Starks had left behind what they could, but they couldn’t very well travel the High Road without ample provisions. With so many little mouths to feed already, and the bloody sparrows bringing more children all the time, the food left here wouldn’t last long. He did laugh, though, remembering how boldly Willow had proclaimed to these new travelers that she had nothing to offer but horsemeat, when, in truth, they were better provisioned now than they had been in weeks.

The big woman had stared at him as if he were a ghost. “My lord,” she’d called him. That made him angry. He wasn’t any lord. His father may have been a king like Mya and Lord and Lady Stark said, but he was still just a bastard smith. The thought of Mya made him scowl. He had liked her from the moment he and Lem had met her in Saltpans. She was tough and didn’t let Lem get away with anything. But she had treated him like a kid brother from the start, and now that he knew he actually was her younger brother, that somehow annoyed him even more.

Their farewell had been awkward to say the least. He was already angry that she was going with the Starks while he was staying here, and then she went on and on about him keeping safe and staying out of trouble and remembering he was a smith not a soldier, blah, blah ,blah, until he snapped and started yelling at her. She started yelling right back, and the two of them had nearly come to blows when Lord Stark came by, looked at them, and burst out laughing. The shock of laughter coming from that solemn, granite-faced man had stunned them both into silence. As they stood there gaping at him, Lord Stark just shook his head, said, “Ours is the fury, indeed,” and walked away chuckling. Gendry had muttered, “Take care,” at Mya, and stalked off in the opposite direction.

Cooled by the mist coming in from the deluge outside, Gendry turned back to his forge. Removing the wheel rim he had been repairing, he picked up the sword he had been working on every chance he got and put it to the heat. Once the metal was warm enough, he went to work with his hammer, beating it with a fury.

After awhile, he was as hot as he had been and the damp hair and sweat in his eyes made it difficult to see. He paused to wipe his brow and realized someone else was in the forge. That big, awkward woman in man’s clothing was standing in the doorway holding a cloth-covered basket. “What do you want?” he asked sharply.

“I brought supper,” she told him, showing him the food beneath the cloth.

“If I wanted food, I would have eaten some.”

“A smith needs to eat to keep his strength up.”

 _Oh, no,_ he thought. _I already had this conversation with Mya. I am not listening to this again._ “Are you my mother?”

“No,” she said, putting down the basket of food. She was staring at him again. He realized her expression reminded him of Lady Stark’s when she had first come to the forge. _Great. Someone else who looks at me and sees Robert Baratheon’s face._ “Who was your mother?” the woman was asking.

Gendry had had enough. “Ask what you really want to know!” he shouted at her. “Tell me who you think I look like and ask me about my bloody father!”

That caused her to raise her eyebrows and widen her eyes. Gendry noticed then that she had rather large, blue eyes, the only pretty feature in her broad face. “Oh,” she said. “Someone has remarked upon your face before?”

“Yeah,” he said sullenly. “Unknown sisters, dead lords, and murdered ladies have all come to stare. Might as well take your turn.”

She creased her brow then in puzzlement at his words. “My name is Brienne of Tarth,” she said. “I am on a quest of sorts. So you do know who your father was? Am I right to believe it was King Robert?”

“So I’ve been told in the last two days,” Gendry sighed. “A quest? What kind of quest?”

“Only in the past two days?” The woman looked back out into the rain toward the inn. “But who has been here that would know such things in the past two days? There was a small party of men riding south as we approached. We hid in the woods until they passed. Did they come here to bring you such tidings?”

Gendry shook his head. Why did this woman care who his father was or who had told him about it? Why did she ask so many questions? She wasn’t going to get any more answers until she gave some. “I asked what kind of quest,” he said. “And why would you hide in the woods?”

She gave a small shrug. “The roads aren’t safe. The party was small, but still larger than ours, and Ser Hyle and I are the only members of our party skilled at arms.”

Gendry snorted at her description of herself as skilled at arms, but she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “As for my quest, I seek a highborn girl of three and ten with auburn hair and blue eyes. I was sworn to . .”

“Wait a minute!” Gendry exclaimed, as he heard the description of the girl. “What did you say your name was?”

“Brienne,” she said. “Lady Brienne of House Tarth,” she added in mumbled tones.

Now he remembered. “Your Lady Stark’s swordswoman!” he exclaimed. That’s where he’d heard the name. He heard Lady Stark speak of her when she and Lord Stark were questioning the Kingslayer. And the Kingslayer had said she was out looking for the Stark daughters.

Lady Brienne’s big eyes had gone even wider than before when he had mentioned Lady Stark. “You knew my lady?” she asked.

“Met her yesterday,” he shrugged.

Now those blue eyes clouded with anger. “What cruel jape is this?” she demanded. “My lady was murdered at her brother’s wedding along with her son, the King in the North!”

“Well,” Gendry started, wondering how he could explain the Starks to this woman so that she would believe him. Before he could say any more, though, a dog started barking continuously.

“Someone is coming,” Lady Brienne said, putting her hand to her sword.

“Friends,” Gendry responded. _About time, Lem_ , he thought.

The woman had moved back to the doorway to stare out into the rain. Gendry could hear the sound of horses’ hooves splashing through puddles in the yard, and then he heard Brienne say in a low voice, “Gendry, you’ll want a sword and some armor. These are not your friends. They’re no one’s friends.”

Gendry rolled his eyes. What was the woman talking about? He moved beside her and looked out just as lightning flashed. These men weren’t Lem’s He clearly saw one man with an axe, wearing mail and plate and the unmistakable helmet of the Hound. “Him,” he breathed.

“Not him. His helm.”

After that, things moved almost too quickly for Gendry could keep up. The Hound was threatening little Willow, and Lady Brienne had gone out to meet him. She and the Hound were taunting each other, and then they were fighting, axe against sword in the mud and the rain. Gendry noted her sword was beautiful with a blade that appeared wickedly sharp. The other men were getting off horses but did not intervene as the two fought, simply cheering on the Hound and throwing taunts at Brienne. From the porch of the inn, wide eyed children watched as well. Gendry grabbed a spear for which he had recently made a new point and ran into the rain. It appeared Brienne was going down, but just as Gendry tried to figure out the best way to get at the man, he seemed to tire, and Gendry saw Brienne of Tarth plunge that beautiful, sharp sword right through the man’s belly.

Gendry became aware that the dog was barking wildly again, and he looked around to see that the other men were now fighting. Lem’s men had finally arrived. A swordsman had run from the inn to join the fray as well; the knight who came with Lady Brienne he supposed. He looked back to where Brienne had stood and was horrified to see that she no longer stood there. She was flat on her back and a monstrous man was on top of her, with his hands around her throat and his face on top of hers. Suddenly the man raised up and Gendry saw blood dripping from his mouth. He had bitten her face! Without thought, he charged toward the pair of them and buried the spear point in the back of the man’s neck as he bent to bite her again. The man collapsed immediately, falling onto Lady Brienne. Gendry heaved him off her into the mud. Biter, he thought, when he saw the dead man’s face with it’s sharply filed teeth.

“Lady Brienne!” he yelled, but the woman did not respond. She lay in the mud as if dead, blood pouring from a ghastly looking wound in her cheek. Gendry looked desperately for something to press against it, and cursed the fact he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He looked and saw several of the children on the porch staring at him. “Cloth!” he screamed at them. “Get some cloth!” Then he picked Brienne up and carried her onto the porch and into the inn, leaving the sounds of battle behind them in the rain.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Ow.” Pain shot through her chest when she moved, and then stabbed at her jaw and cheek when she opened it to make the sound. Brienne swallowed uncomfortably and tried to shake the fog of her dreams. She had been dreaming. She was certain of it. Renly had been there, but he kept turning into that smith boy, Gendry. And Rorge and Biter and Vargo Hoat. She couldn’t find her sword. She had called out for Jaime, but he hadn’t answered. Lady Catelyn had watched as she fought the bear, but the bear was Biter. She shook her head, and her cheek throbbed in protest.

“Milady?” she heard from far away. A girl’s voice _. I seek a girl._

“Milady, hold still. You’ll hurt yourself,” came the girl’s voice again.

“Let her.” A man’s voice. “Let the Kingslayer’s whore kill herself for all I care. Save me from hanging her.”

 _Kingslayer’s whore?_ Brienne heard, but didn’t understand. She shook her head and tried to move her arms, desperately trying to remember how to open her eyes. _Where am I?_ The inn. The man in the Hound’s helm--Rorge. Biter. It all came back to her, and her eyes suddenly flew open.

She was lying in a bed and her left arm was tied to some type of board and wrapped tightly. Her right arm was bound at the wrist and secured to the bed frame. She blinked in the dim light and looked at the girl who sat by the bed looking down at her. “Willow?” she asked, hazily. No, that couldn’t be right. This girl was too old.

“I’m Jeyne, Jeyne Heddle” the girl said. “Willow’s my sister. Hold still milady.” The girl reached out to press down on something plastered to Brienne’s face.

“She’s awake for true now?” the man’s voice again. He stepped into her line of vision and her heart stopped as she saw the helm on his head.

“I killed you!” she cried out.

The man laughed. She could see now that he wore a tattered and stained yellow cloak. “No, milady. You’ve got that backwards. But I do thank you for killing the Hound.”

She shook her head. “Not the Hound,” she rasped, her throat feeling terribly dry. “Rorge. He must have taken the helmet off Clegane’s grave.”

“And now I’ve took it off him.” He turned and spoke to someone else. “See that she doesn’t get out of that bed. I’m going to check on the others.”

The man in the yellow cloak turned and left.

“Where am I?” Brienne asked the girl. “Can I have some water?” she asked, licking her lips. “Why am I bound? Where are Pod and Ser Hyle?”

“Drink this,” the girl said, shoving something to her lips. “It’s better than water to dull the pain. And don’t ask so many questions.” A bitter liquid entered Brienne’s mouth, but she was so thirsty she gulped it greedily.

“I get to ask the questions,” said a new voice, quietly, and Briene turned to see Renly, no Gendry--that was his name, sitting in the far corner.

“Gendry,” she said. “What happened? Is Biter . . .”

“Dead,” he said. “And I am asking the questions now.”

His voice sounded cold, and Brienne wondered why. Then she remembered something important. “Lady Catelyn!” she exclaimed. “You had said something about . . .”

“Shut up!” the boy exclaimed, scowling, and rising to come stand over her at the bed. “Why did you come here? Why do seek Sansa Stark?”

“I . . I swore an oath to Lady Catelyn. I have to protect her daughter.”

“Protect,” the boy said bitterly. “Explain this, then.” He shoved a piece of parchment at her, and Brienne tried to focus her eyes on it as he held it above her.

Recognizing it, she said, “Oh, that’s the letter Jaime gave me to . . .”

“Jaime!” Gendry shouted angrily. “Jaime Lannister, you mean. This has the boy king’s seal on it and says you are about his business. Do you mean us to believe the Lannisters are in the business of protecting Sansa Stark?”

“Yes!” she cried out. “I mean, no! I mean . . .only Jaime, he gave me that for protection. He sent me out from King’s Landing to find Sansa Stark.”

“And do what with her?”

“Take her someplace safe. He swore an oath to Lady Catelyn, too. He . . .”

Now the boy started laughing, loudly and bitterly. “An oath to Lady Catelyn Stark. I don’t think so. And he certainly wasn’t interested in keeping it if he did.”

“He did! He gave me the sword and named it Oathkeeper. He told me to keep my vow to Lady Catelyn and find her daughter!”

“This sword?” Gendry turned and lifted Oathkeeper from the table. “Beautiful blade this. Fine lion’s head for a pommel. Yet you say you don’t serve the lions.” He gave her a look of disbelief. “My brothers want to condemn you for the gold and rubies on this sword alone. No Lannister would give such a valuable blade to any but their own!”

“No, you don’t understand,” Brienne protested.

“I do,” Gendry told her. “I know more than my brothers about the value of this blade. They know it’s pretty, but they’ve never seen Valyrian steel.” He twisted it in the light showing the deep crimson and black of its ripples. “This blade is far more valuable than they even know.”

“Yes!” Brienne cried. “It was forged from Ice, Lord Eddard Stark’s blade. Jaime told me. Defend Ned Stark’s daughter with Ned Stark’s steel. He told me . .”

Now Gendry’s eyes absolutely blazed with anger. “Shut up!” he said again, even more forcefully. “Jaime Lannister cares nothing for Lord Stark or his daughter, and he has nothing but curses for him or Lady Stark. I know the truth of that so you can save your lies. No one here will believe them.”

Brienne was at a loss. She didn’t understand why the boy was so angry at her. She had done nothing here but fight Rorge in defense of the children. Why did Gendry suddenly view her as a criminal? What was Jaime to him or these friends of his? And what did he know of Lord and Lady Stark? Then something dawned on her. “Dondarrion,” she said. “Your friends are Dondarrion’s men, and you’re with them.”

Gendry said nothing, so she continued, “I know Lord Beric is turned outlaw, but I had heard he administers justice in his way.” She raised her right hand as far as it would go and looked pointedly at the binding. “This is not justice, Gendry.”

“We serve justice to all Lannisters, Freys, and those who serve them, milady. You serve Jaime Lannister, by your own admission.”

She sighed. “I served the Lady Catelyn Stark, Jaime just allowed me a chance to fulfill that oath in some way.”

He stubbornly shook his head.

“What do you know of it Gendry?” she asked in frustration. “You don’t even know Ser Jaime!”

Now the boy laughed again. “Now, there you’re wrong, milady. It so happens I helped tie him up in this very room not two nights past.”

His words hit her like a bolt. _Jaime had been here?_ “What . . .what do you mean?” she stammered.

“I mean that your friend the Kingslayer strolled right into the inn and now he’s in irons where he belongs.”

“Where?” she exclaimed. “Is he all right?”

“Is he all right?” Gendry mocked. “No, you’re not Jaime Lannister’s at all.” He laughed. “You yelled out his name enough in your dreams, and your concern for him is really touching. Shame you’ll be dead without him ever hearing about it.”

“He lives then?” she asked, desperately. Her need to be sure of that mattered more than her knowledge that she damned herself in the eyes of this boy by even asking the question.

“Oh, he lives. He’s on his way to a cell at Riverrun. That’s where Lord and Lady Stark sent him.”

“Lord and Lady Stark! What are you talking about?” Brienne’s mind again scrambled to make sense of the boy’s words. _Met her yesterday,_ she remembered him saying right before Rorge and his men had appeared. “Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn are both dead.”

“Well, one way or another, people seem to not stay dead around here, milady. Lord and Lady Stark were here, too. They questioned your precious Kingslayer right in this room, and I tell you he had no oaths for either of them--only curses and insults. Lord Stark nearly killed the man for the things he said about the lady. So don’t tell me Jaime Lannister cares about Lady Catelyn Stark!”

Brienne barely heard the end of Gendry’s words as her mind and heart both raced. Could it be true? Could her lady live? _Oh, dear gods, can this be?_ “Gendry,” she said to him, tears threatening to choke her voice, “Is this true? Does my lady live? Do not lie to me about this, I beg you.”

Gendry stared at her a moment, his expression quite changed. The angry storm in his blue eyes was gone, replaced by questioning. He looked remarkably like Renly had, when he had looked at her sometimes, wondering how she could possibly be understood. “She lives,” he said quietly. “Her lord husband, too. I don’t know all of it, but they both somehow escaped death. They have taken the Twins and Riverrun, and now they go to find their daughter.”

“Their daughter!” Brienne exclaimed, her heart leaping. “They know where the Lady Sansa is?”

Gendry shook his head, not in answer to her question, but as if he needed to clear it. “I have already said too much,” he said. He looked at her. “I don’t know who you serve, milady, but I cannot trust you.” He reached down and checked the bindings on her arms. “She isn’t going anywhere,” he said to Jeyne, who had been sitting quietly in the room all this time. “Go get her some food. I’m going to get Lem and the others to come up and question her after that.”

He turned to go. “Pod and Ser Hyle and Septon Meribald!” Brienne called after him. “Are they well?”

He stopped at the door and looked back at her. “No harm will be done the septon. The other two are well enough. But Hyle Hunt is Randyll Tarly’s man and the boy admits he’s Tyrion Lannister’s own squire, so don’t expect them to stay that way.” With that, he walked out of the room, leaving her with such a mixture of contrasting emotions that she wasn’t sure she could feel anything at all.

“Jeyne,” she said, before the girl could go as well. “What is wrong with my arm?”

“It’s broken, milady. But it’s a clean break, and I set it good. It would heal up right as rain if you weren’t . . .”

“If I weren’t going to be hanged,” Brienne finished for her. “What else is wrong with me?”

“Your ribs got banged up. I’m pretty sure some are broken. And your face, well . . .”

“Biter,” said Brienne.

Jeyne Heddle nodded. “I cleaned it good and I’ve got a poultice on it to draw any putrification.” She shook her head. “Lem wanted to take you to Lord Beric straight away. I don’t know what would’ve happened to that wound if we’d had to drag you all that way in the rain, but Gendry said we should keep you here and treat your injuries out of respect for your fighting off Rorge.”

 _Gendry_. “Thank you for treating me, Jeyne. How long have I slept?”

“Most of a night and day, milady. Sun’s almost down and it was last night those men came here and you fought.”

Brienne nodded and said nothing. Jeyne left her then to get a plate, and Brienne closed her eyes and tried to make sense of all that had occurred. If Lady Catelyn truly lived, she had to get out of here. She had an oath to keep.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

With all the men gathered in the small room, it felt close and hot. Gendry thought he would actuallyfeel more comfortable in the forge, but even so realized that the woman tied in the chair in front of them likely felt far worse than he did.

He had asked Jeyne Heddle to help him get her out of the bed before the rest of his brothers came to question her. It didn’t seem decent to make her plead for her life while lying on her back. While she had been given her supper, he had gone to speak with her companions. The septon they’d arrived with had been sent away, but the other two were held in separate rooms. Both had confirmed Brienne’s version of their travels and both seemed convinced of her sincerity in wishing to find and protect Sansa Stark. While Ser Hyle’s truthfulness was a matter for debate, Gendry sensed no deceit in young Podrick Payne.

“Explain again how you went from being the Kingslayer’s captor to being his companion,” Lem was saying, putting a lewd emphasis on the word companion.

If she heard the insult, the woman ignored it. “I was never his companion,” she said tiredly. “I ceased to be his captor once we were both captured by Vargo Hoat and taken to Harrenhall. He saved my life there, as I told you, but I was still bound to take him to King’s Landing with Lady Catelyn’s terms. I had no power to compel him there once Roose Bolton’s men were assigned to escort him, but I had to travel with him to present those terms, even though we had learned of Lady Sansa’s marriage to the Imp from Bolton.” She swallowed. “Then at Brindlewood, we heard of the Red Wedding,” she said softly.

“Yet still you went with him to King’s Landing, and still you do his bidding,” Lem insisted.

“No,” she said just as softly. “I went to King’s Landing because there was nowhere else to go. Then when Ser Jaime gave me Oathkeeper and bid me find and protect the Lady Sansa for the sake of my oath to her mother, I went.”

“To do the Lannisters’ bidding,” Lem repeated.

Brienne stubbornly shook her head. “To keep my oath to Lady Catelyn.”

 _She keeps repeating that,_ Gendry thought. She had said it over and over, in spite of the fact that it moved Lem and the others not at all. Was she stupid or stubborn or merely repeating the only truth she knew?

“Lady Brienne,” Gendry said suddenly. “If we were to let you go, what would you do? What is it you want?”

She looked at him. “If what you told me is true, I wish only to find my lady, lay my sword at her feet, and do what she bids me.” Those astonishing blue eyes of hers never left his as she spoke.

“Really?” asked Lem. “And what if she bids you to bring her the head of your sweet kingslaying Lannister?”

Brienne looked shocked. “She would not do that,” she said.

“But what if she does?” Lem pushed.

“She would not,” the woman stubbornly repeated. “The Lady Catelyn is good and honorable. She would never have me kill a man to whom I owe my life.”

“You still haven’t said which you would choose, milady,” Lem said mockingly. “Do you choose Lady Stark or Ser Jaime? How do I know you won’t betray and kidnap Lady Stark and try to ransom her to Riverrun for your lover?”

The shock and dismay Gendry saw on her face at that question could not possibly have been feigned.

“He is not my lover,” she insisted. “And I would die before I would betray the Lady Catelyn! I am sworn to her service!”

“So you are perfectly happy to allow Jaime Lannister to rot in the dungeon at Riverrun for the rest of his miserable life,” Lem said with a nasty smile. _When had he become so_ _cruel?_ He’d always had a knack for mockery, but Gendry suddenly realized that the man’s irreverence had become something darker somehow.

Brienne took a moment to respond. “No,” she finally said. “No, I would not be happy to see the man who saved me from rape and murder spend his life in a dungeon. But Ser Jaime Lannister has commited crimes against House Stark and if my lady and her lord husband have imprisoned him for those, I would not say them nay.”

She had lifted her chin up a notch as she spoke, and her voice was firm although Gendry thought he heard just the slightest tremble.

“She admits she doesn’t want the Kingslayer to stay locked up, Lem. We ought to just hang her and her friends with the others in the morning,” said one of the men.

“She doesn’t lie to you,” protested Gendry. “She could tell you she hates the man and would cheer if he rots. If she wanted to lie to save her skin, she could do a better job of it! If she tells the truth here, then perhaps she tells the truth in all of it.”

Lem looked around at the men. “She’s a lying Kingslayer’s whore,” he said darkly. “There’s the parchment and the sword to prove she’s his. We don’t even need her words.”

A couple men nodded agreement, but others looked troubled. “We should take her to Lord Beric,” said Jack. “She should have a real trial in front of him.”

This suggestion got even more nods and murmurs of approval. Lem looked at Gendry darkly, but nodded. “We’ll discuss it after we hang the rest of those raiders in the morning. It’s late.” He pointed out two men and said, “You’ve got first watch. The rest of you get some sleep.” To Jeyne, he said, “Tie her back to her bed.” Finally, to Gendry, he said, “You come with me.”

Without another word, Lem walked down the stairs, pausing in the common room only long enough to pick up the Hound’s helm he had taken for his own before walking out into the yard. Gendry followed him.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Gendry,” the big man said when they stood outside in the damp and the mud beneath grey light of the moon.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Gendry replied.

“You never used to be disloyal. That big, ugly wench is just another lion. The Kingslayer’s whore. She deserves to swing.” Lem said it flatly, without any particular malice. That somehow seemed worse to Gendry.

“Why are you so anxious to hang her? She didn’t do anything to you, Lem. Ever since Saltpans, you’ve wanted to hang everybody you meet . . .”

“Did you bloody look around in Saltpans?” Lem exploded. “Did you see what they did there? Or were you too busy worrying about your skinny little Stark girl to pay attention? The men who did that deserve worse than hanging!”

“I saw it,” Gendry said quietly. “And I haven’t said anything about us hanging any of those men without trials, have I? But Lady Brienne wasn’t at Saltpans, Lem. She even killed Rorge! And we’ve been after him forever.”

Lem fingered the helm in his hands. “So she killed one criminal. Does that erase all her crimes? Do you think if Walder Frey had killed Rorge, old Lord Stark would’ve let him live?”

Gendry shook his head. “What crimes, Lem?”

“She’s a lion, Gendry! They killed my wife! They killed my daughter!” He stopped for a moment and looked up at the porch as two little boys came running out of the inn, chasing each other into the mud. Willow could be heard shouting for them to come back inside. “They won’t stop until the whole world’s nothing but orphans, Gendry,” Lem said grimly. “Not unless we hang them all. They’re all guilty.”

“They’re all guilty,” Gendry repeated. “And what are we?”

Lem stared up at the moon and then spat. “What we have to be.” He looked up at Gendry. “She’s gotta hang, Gendry, and you know it. Now go get some sleep.” He raised the Hound’s helm and put it on his head then, and walked off toward the men he had assigned to first watch without another word.

Gendry watched him go and shivered at that helmet glinting in the moonlight. _And what are we?_ he wondered again.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Brienne woke in the darkness just before dawn after a few hours of restless, dream-filled sleep. “Who’s there?” she hissed when she realized someone was in the room.

“Hush,” came Gendry’s voice. “They’ve only just ridden out. We have to wait a moment.”

“Wait for what?”

“Hush.”

She fell silent and realized that Gendry had started undoing the bindings on her wrist and around the splint on her arm. Wordlessly, she watched him free her from the ties and then go to stand near the window.

“Okay,” he said. “They’ll ride a ways down the Kingsroad because Lem likes to hang the men along the roadside so travelers can see. There are already enough corpses in the trees near the inn.”

“We saw them,” Brienne said quietly, wondering what the boy was doing here.

“Lem didn’t want me to go with them. He’s going to get the others all whipped up hanging the rest of Rorge’s men. He’ll talk about justice and vengeance and how it’s all up to us.” He had said that as he stared out the window. Now he turned to face Brienne. “They’ll be ready to hang you when they come back.”

Brienne felt her heart sink. She had no response to that so she remained silent.

“We don’t have much time,” Gendry said. “There’s one pretty good horse left in the stable. We can saddle him and get you out of here if you can ride with that arm. Those ribs will hurt like the devil on horseback, too.”

Brienne wasn’t sure she was hearing correctly. “I can ride,” she said. “Where are we going?”

“Not we. You. Didn’t you say you wanted to find Lady Stark?”

Now her heart leapt. “Yes, yes,” she whispered. “We have to get Pod and Hyle, though.”

“No,” Gendry said.

“What? I’m not leaving them,” she told him. “I couldn’t do that.”

“You have to. I’ve only got the one horse that might be fast enough. And I don‘t trust Hunt anyway.”

She felt her heart sink. “I cannot leave them to hang.”

“You’re not leaving them to hang. You’re leaving them to me.” He sighed. "Will you at least come to the stable with me? I can tell you the rest there while I saddle the horse.”

She hesitated. She was not leaving Pod or Hyle whatever the boy said, but she could talk to him in the stable. Perhaps if she could just get out of this room, something else would come to her.

They crept down the stairs. In the common room, they were stopped by Jeyne Heddle, and Brienne’s heart sank again.

“Here,” said the girl, handing Gendry a large bundle. “I’ve got the others when you’re ready for them.”

It dawned on Brienne that the girl was helping them. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Don’t thank me,” said the girl in a cold voice. “This is his doing, not mine. I put some more rags soaked in the stuff for your face in here. Keep that wound clean and covered or it will fester for sure.” She turned on her heel and walked off.

“She’s not happy about this,” Gendry said. “But she likes me well enough to want me gone before Lem gets back, and she is grateful to you for defending Willow even if she won’t admit it.”

He was out the door and headed to the stables before she had a chance to respond. Chasing after him, Brienne hissed, “I thought you weren’t coming with me.”

“I’m not,” Gendry said. “I can’t leave the Brotherhood. You aren’t the only one who keeps oaths, milady.”

They had reached the stables, and he walked straight up to a big chestnut gelding. Gendry stroked the animal’s neck. “He’s strong, his feet are healthy, and he’s got four good shoes.” He started to grab the saddle.

“Wait,” said Brienne. “I told you I’m not leaving Pod and Ser Hyle.”

“You have to,” Gendry told her. “I’ll take them to Lord Beric for trial. I’ll have to go myself, anyway, to explain what I’ve done here and accept whatever punishment Lord Beric decides for me.”

“What?”

“Lem is wrong,” Gendry said simply. “But he is my brother and I’m going against him. That won’t sit well with the rest of them. They won’t string me up without a trial, though. Rather than sit around and wait on them, I’m riding for Lord Beric as soon as I get you gone, and I’m taking your two friends with me. I’ll have to tie their hands, but I won’t treat them badly.”

“You’re crazy,” Brienne said, shaking her head. She couldn’t understand why this boy was doing this or why he thought she’d agree to turn her friends over to another outlaw.

“Lord Beric won’t hang Pod,” he said. “I’m sure of it. He’s just a kid.”

Brienne fought down an absurd desire to laugh. If Gendry was older than Pod at all, it wasn’t by much.

“I’m not as sure about Ser Hyle," Gendry continued, "but I don’t think he’ll hang him. There’s no evidence he’s done anything really, except leave Lord Tarly’s service to ride around with you.” He’d been fiddling with the saddle as he spoke, but he stopped now and looked at Brienne. “I realize you have no reason to believe me, milady, but Lord Beric is not Lem. He won’t hang any of us without listening to us. It’s the best I can do.”

“It’s not good enough,” she told him.

“It has to be. Otherwise the three of you will hang as soon as Lem and the others get back. I am sure of that.”

He certainly sounded sure. She sighed. “Where am I riding?” she asked him.

“Probably to your death.” He shook his head. “The Starks have a two day start on you. I know they have to stop at some point to meet someone Mya has arranged for them, but I don’t know when that is. You will be pursued, milady. You cannot stop to rest until you catch up with them, and with your injuries . . .” He shook his head again. “This may do nothing but delay your death.”

“Where am I riding?” she asked again.

“The High Road. The Starks and their men ride for the Eyrie. They number about twenty.”

She nodded. The High Road was dangerous in the best of times. With winter fast approaching, it could be deadly. As if he had read her thoughts, Gendry pulled a thick cloak from behind a food trough. “Here. It isn’t much, but it’s all I could get my hands on.”

She pulled it to her. “What if they decide to pursue you?” she asked.

“Oh, they will.” Gendry shrugged. “There are eight of them. They can split up. But Lem will want you. He'll be coming your way, milady. And any who may come after me will simply ride with us to see Lord Beric. Without Lem, I can persuade them to let your friends have their trial with Lord Beric since we’ll be going there for me anyway.”

“How are you so sure Lem will come after me? Won’t he be angry at you?” Brienne could imagine the big man’s fury when he discovered what Gendry had done.

“Oh, he will be. But he knows me. When Jeyne tells him I’ve gone to our lord, he’ll know she speaks true. He can always find me. It’s you he won’t want to lose. And he knows where you’ll go, milady. You cannot stop.”

The horse was tacked now, and Brienne noted that in addition to the bag Jeyne had provided, two thick furs were rolled and secured to the saddle.

“Thank you, Gendry,” she said. “Will you tell Pod and Hyle that I . . .” she wasn’t sure what to say.

“I’ll tell them,” Gendry said. “Now go.”

Brienne pulled herself into the saddle with her ribs protesting all the way, and one arm feeling awkward and useless. It was no matter. She could not pay any mind to that. Once she was mounted, Gendry handed her Oathkeeper in its scabbard. She fastened it around her with some difficulty in using the hand and fingers on her broken arm. She felt terrible about leaving Pod and Hyle. She almost felt as if she were being torn in two thinking about them. But Gendry was right. This was the only chance any of them had.

She smiled sadly at the boy with Renly Baratheon‘s blue eyes. “I never knew King Robert,” she said suddenly. “But his brother Renly was the finest man who ever lived. You are like him, I think. I trust you to take care of Pod and Ser Hyle.” Then she kicked the horse and rode out of the stable. By the time the sun came up, she was galloping along the High Road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is the first chapter in this story without an appearance by Ned or Catelyn. I am VERY interested in what you all think of it. As always, thanks for reading, and comments are appreciated.


	21. Doubts

Early on the morning of their fourth day on the High Road, Catelyn Stark crawled out from underneath her furs having slept little, if any. She had been settled out of the wind in the protection of an overhanging rock formation, and the campfire had been near enough, but she’d shivered throughout the night anyway. She’d been frightened without Ned there--frightened that something would happen to him, frightened that she would cry out in her sleep when the nightmares came, frightened by the fact that she couldn’t seem to breathe in the dark unless her husband was beside her.

Pulling her cloak around her, she walked to stand beside the fire. Two men were sitting there already, and they nodded politely to her. They didn’t look at her as if she might be mad or wounded, so perhaps she hadn’t screamed during the night. She didn’t remember any nightmares, but then again, perhaps she hadn’t slept long enough to have any. She looked into the trees up the gently sloping hill to her left where Ned had disappeared with Mya and two others the day before and willed him to return quickly this morning. _Gods! This won’t do at all! I have to get a grip on myself._

She and Ned had often slept apart in the early years of their marriage, and although they had long since fallen into the habit of spending every night together in Winterfell, they had endured lengthy separations when he was off at war or visiting his bannermen. While she missed him terribly when he was gone, and some nights dreaded going to her empty bed, she had never come as completely undone as she had last night. _Perhaps I am mad,_ she thought. The only thing that had kept her beneath her furs as a thousand terrors ran through her mind was the thought of the men sleeping and watching all around her. She was the Lady of Winterfell, wife of Lord Eddard Stark, and she would not dissolve into tears or run screaming into the woods and shame her husband in front of his men. So she had lain still and silent, shivering from fears she could name and fears she could not. Mostly, though, she feared what she had become--a creature so weak that a single night without Ned holding on to her reduced her to panic. Catelyn Stark had never tolerated weakness in herself.

The men by the fire were heating a pot of tea, and one of them handed her a cup. She murmured her thanks and sat down on the ground. More men were stirring now as the camp awoke for the day, and a man named Aljen came up to her. He was one of Reed’s men, small like most crannogmen, and he had an easy manner about him.

“Good morrow, Lady Stark,” he said with a smile. “Lord Reed says that if the Stone Crows answered the signal last night, Lord Stark and the others should be back here well before midday.”

She nodded absently. “I hope he is right. I would like to continue on as quickly as possible” _And I need to see Ned. I need him beside me_. Unable to remain still, she stood up and began walking aimlessly about. She found a man breaking bread to soak in a broth and offered to help him, just to have something to do with her hands.

They had arrived at this place near midday the previous day, and Mya had announced this was where they needed to stop. To signal Petyr’s men, she would have to climb a ways up the hillside into the dense forest. She told them it was about a two hour walk to the spot, and that the signal was given at night. Ned, of course, had refused to consider allowing her to go alone, and Mya had insisted that a large company might frighten the Stone Crows off. In the end, it was decided that she and Ned would take just two others, and the large part of the company would camp near the road. Catelyn had considered demanding that Ned take her with him, but she knew he wanted her kept safe, and that she had nothing really to contribute to the group going with Mya. So, she had bitten her tongue and told herself she could survive one night without her husband. _Well, I did survive_ , she told herself, _if only just barely._

Just as she was breaking up the last loaf of bread, Howland Reed approached. “How fare you this morning, my lady?” he said in greeting.

She smiled at him and wondered if he somehow knew how poorly she fared. “Well enough,” she said non-commitally. “I am anxious for my lord husband’s return and our continued progress toward the Eyrie.”

“As are we all, my lady,” Lord Reed responded. He offered a hand to her. “Would you care to walk with me, Lady Stark?”

Catelyn looked at the crannogman, wondering what he wished to discuss. “Certainly, Lord Reed.” She accepted his assistance in rising and took his arm.

He led her a short distance from the rest of the their men and chuckled softly as he took note of her repeatedly checking that they remained within sight of at least some of them.

“You have nothing to fear, my lady,” he said with a smile.

“Oh!” she said, and felt the flush in her cheeks. “Of course not! I do not mistrust you, my lord. It is only . . .” She hesitated, not truly wanting to explain to Howland Reed her need to safeguard her honor from any hint of fault.

It appeared no explanation was necessary, however, as he looked at her with that disconcerting gaze of his and said, “I know what you fear, my lady, and you have no need. There is not a man here who holds you in less than the highest regard.”

“Am I that transparent?” she asked.

He smiled again. “Only to someone looking closely. But I assure you, were the two of us to disappear for the next hour, none here would look askance at you.” She must have looked alarmed, because he quickly added. “We’ll be staying right here, however. I’d hate poor Donnell to have to leave his breakfast in order to follow.”

“Donnell?” she asked, bewildered by the sudden reference to Boden.

Reed tipped his head toward the nearest group of men, and Catelyn saw that Donnell Boden had indeed joined that bunch, sitting on a fallen log, eating and talking with the others, but casting frequent glances in her direction.

“Your husband gave him very clear instructions not to let you out of his sight,” Reed said with a smile.

“Oh.” She had wanted Donnell to go with Ned and Mya, but Ned had decreed he should remain here to look after her. Their conversation had been remarkably similar to the one they’d had before the battle at Riverrun, but Ned had refused to back down this time. She bit her lip as she thought of Ned, wondering when he would return and praying it would be soon.

Lord Reed must have seen the concern on her face, but mistook the cause. “Donnell is to guard your safety, not your honor, my lady. Lord Stark knows well he has no cause to doubt you.”

 _Does he?_ Catelyn wondered. _Littlefinger’s little plaything_. Unbidden, Jaime Lannister’s taunting words came back to her. The Kingslayer had made the accusation to her before, as had his brother the Imp. _Had Petyr truly spread such tales in Kings Landing? Had Ned heard it before? Surely he couldn’t believe such a thing of me!_ She swallowed hard against the lump that formed in her throat at the thought Ned might doubt her.

“Lady Stark? Are you quite well?” came Reed’s quiet voice beside her.

“Oh, yes, Lord Reed,” she answered, forcing herself to attend to the man speaking with her instead of her own troubling thoughts. “Please forgive me. I fear my thoughts are very much with my husband. What did you wish to speak to me about?”

He looked at her steadily once again. “It is natural you should dislike being separated, my lady. You believed him lost to you for so long, and have had him with you again for only a little while yet.”

Catelyn stared at the man, wondering if Ned wasn’t correct in his assertion that Howland Reed could read minds. “Well . . .yes,” she said. “But he shall doubtless be back soon. You did have something you wished to discuss, did you not? Or did you truly just desire my company while you stretched your legs?”

Reed laughed at that. “I find your company most pleasant, Lady Stark. So much so, that I confess I am quite aggravated with my friend Lord Eddard for depriving me of it for so many years. However, I did wish to ask you whether you had decided to speak to him about young Robb’s wishes concerning his heir.”

That surprised her. “He did not tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“I told him about it before the battle at Riverrun.” In truth, she had almost forgotten about that early part of their conversation that day, considering the magnitude of Ned’s revelation afterward. And neither of them had spoken of Robb’s decree since then. “You were correct in thinking he does not wish it done,” she said softly. “Although, I fear he was somewhat angry that you hadn’t told him of it.”

“Yes, I imagined he would be,” Reed said softly. “And yet, he has never come to me about it.” He looked at Catelyn intently again. “Something more pressing must have put it from his mind.” He continued staring at her.

She hesitated only briefly. “He told me,” she said simply. When Reed said nothing, she added, “He told me all of it. He says you are the only other person who knows.”

Howland Reed nodded slowly. “I am glad he told you in spite of his fears. He is not made for lies. It has been a very difficult thing for him.”

Catelyn felt a flash of anger rise at that. _A difficult thing for him? And what has it been for me?_ But she would not criticize her husband to his bannerman, so she held her tongue. This thing lay between Ned and herself. Howland Reed may know the truth of Jon Snow’s parentage, but she would never discuss with him Ned’s actions or her feelings about them.

“My lord husband did what he thought he must,” she said, keeping her voice even.

Reed nodded again. “Your lord husband generally does what he thinks he must,” he said gently. “And he disregards any pain it causes him. It’s the pain his actions have caused others that troubles him.”

Catelyn knew Lord Reed spoke the truth. She said nothing, because she did not trust herself to speak any further on the subject.

Her husband‘s friend must have noticed her reticence, for he smiled then and said in a much lighter tone, “Of course, on occasion, that ironclad sense of honor of his does benefit him beyond expectations. He wed you because he thought he must, my lady, and he certainly thanks the gods for that every day!”

She smiled back at him then, but as she started to reply, he suddenly held up a hand for silence and appeared to be listening intently to something she couldn’t hear. “Someone’s coming,” he said tersely.

“Ned?” she asked breathlessly, turning back in the direction of the trail Ned and his companions had taken the previous day.

“No,” Lord Reed said. “Riders. On the road. And coming fast.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned’s leg felt as if it were being stabbed with every step as he and the others made their way back toward camp. Catelyn had warned him that an extended trek through wooded, hilly terrain would be difficult for him, but he had shrugged off her objections. He was the leader of this expedition, for gods’ sake! He couldn’t very well play the invalid and sit around a campfire while he let others put themselves in danger. He had to be the one to go. He had to meet these Stone Crows himself before putting his wife and his men into their hands.

And meet them, he had. Just before dawn, three men had come in answer to their signal fire. All had wild hair and beards and were dressed in odd combinations of animal skins and mail. Two wore well-made helms, and all three had swords of what appeared to be good castle-forged steel. Someone was paying these men, indeed.

Mya had greeted all three by name. Mogga, Hugor, and Romm, they were called. She had asked about the fourth, a man named Jaggot, and Hugor had told her that when she delayed so long in coming, Jaggot had left for the Eyrie to report to Lord Baelish that she had chosen not to return with them straight away lest he believe they had betrayed him somehow. The other three had stayed nearby, taking turns watching for Mya’s signal.

It was a rather ingenious signal system. After a long and rather arduous walk over terrain often far too steep for horses, Mya had led them into what appeared to be a cave. Once through the entry however, it proved to be more of a chimney, open to the top. It curved away from the opening into almost a complete second chamber which had only one small window-like opening in the rock. In this chamber, they had built a fire, visible to the outside only through that small rock window, and because of the lay of the land, visible only to someone who knew precisely where to stand and look for it.

They had arrived at the place well before sundown. He had agreed then to sit and rest his leg while his two men gathered wood to make the fire. He had expected Mya to go with them, but she had remained with him. As soon as they had left, she had surprised him by pulling a small bottle from her bag and grinning at him.

“Lady Stark said I am to rub this on your leg, my lord,” she had said with an infuriating grin on her face.

“That will not be necessary, Mya,” he had replied stiffly. “My leg is fine.”

“No it isn’t. You’re limping a lot worse than you usually do. Lady Stark said you would by the time we got here. She asked me a lot about what the trail was like. She said that . . .”

“It would appear that Lady Stark said a lot of things,” he interrupted. “But I do not require you to tend my leg.”

“She said you’d say that, too,” Mya told him complacently. “And that she expected me to tend your leg anyway. She insisted that I not take no for an answer, my lord.” She hesitated slightly then. “And I am to tell you that you shall regret it more than I if I fail to do so.” The girl at least had the decency to look down when she delivered Catelyn’s threat.

Ned had been tired, hungry, and thoroughly annoyed with both his wife and this infuriating young woman by this point. “Mya,” he said, “I am not about to let you rub anything onto my leg. My wife means well, but it’s hardly proper for . . .”

“As to being proper, my lord, she did say as you’d probably prefer me just to roll up your breeches rather than take them off.” That had left Ned speechless and before he recovered, the girl continued, “so if you’ll just go ahead and let me do that, my lord, I can have this finished before the others come back.” The look she gave him clearly stated she would not hesitate to continue this argument in front of the men.

Ned had conceded defeat and rolled up the leg of his breeches. True to her word, Mya worked quickly and efficiently, rubbing the salve into his leg, and she had it rewrapped long before the other two returned with not only wood but two freshly killed rabbits.

Limping along the trail now, Ned conceded silently that he probably would not have been able to walk at all at this point had Catelyn not sent the bloody stuff and ordered Mya to force it on him. He smiled at the thought that he was within an hour of being back with his beautiful, if sometimes infuriating wife. Last night had been the first one he’d spent apart from her since he’d gotten her back, and he’d found it even more difficult than he’d expected.

He hadn’t slept at all and wondered if she had. He wondered if her nightmares would trouble her more with him gone. He’d confided briefly to Donnell that her sleep was often troubled, and asked him to stay close to her through the night. Undoubtedly, Donnell knew something of her nightmares as he had been one of their guards at their tent outside the Twins, and her screams those first nights would have been easily heard outside. _Gods, do not let her be frightened_ , he’d prayed.

Ned had been the one on watch when the Stone Crows arrived. They’d been rather surprised to find Mya now accompanied by three northmen. As agreed, Mya explained to them that this was why she had stayed behind. Lord Baelish had sent letters to these men with a business proposition, and they had sent word to her in Saltpans that they were prepared to ride to the Vale and discuss the matter with him.

Mogga had at first demanded to know what sort of business, but Ned has simply looked coldly at him and asked if he made a habit of inquiring into Lord Baelish’s private matters. The man called Hugor had then hit Mogga hard between the shoulder blades and told him their only business was to get Mya and the rest up the High Road to the Bloody Gate. There they’d collect their pay and leave the rest to Lord Baelish.

When they’d explained to the Stone Crows that they had an escort of about twenty men waiting for them by the road, Hugor had laughed and told them they didn’t need them. “No one will attack the Stone Crows!” he roared. “No one will be so foolish!”

Ned hoped the man was correct. Catelyn had told him of her perilous trip to the Eyrie with Tyrion Lannister during which they’d suffered multiple attacks by clansmen. Her eyes always filled with a dark guilt when she spoke of it, and he knew she felt responsible for the men who died on that journey. He wanted no clan attacks to put her at risk or to bring those memories to her mind.

He misliked that Baelish would hear of Mya’s delaying her departure from Saltpans and hoped it wouldn’t make the man more vigilant upon her return. He feared it would cause the man to be suspicious, though. Baelish was suspicious by nature. He wondered when Brynden Tully would reach Riverrun and send the letter he’d given him for Yohn Royce at Runestone. If Baelish suspected Mya of any deception, Ned feared he may have even more need of Bronze Yohn.

The thought of Brynden Tully caused Ned to remember the man’s cold look at him after the damned Kingslayer’s filthy words to Catelyn about Jon Snow’s mother. He could deal with the Blackfish’s disdain for him. It was his pity for Cat and how it shamed her that made his blood boil. At least a dozen men had heard clearly what Lannister had said to her. He doubted that she’d suffered many insults quite so blatantly vile over the years, but certainly she’d endured any number of veiled insults to his character and countless pitying glances from other ladies. He’d closed his eyes to how deeply his actions had shamed her, he realized. Now, she knew the truth, and yet still in the eyes of others, he shamed her. As he limped along behind Mogga, Ned prayed she would continue to forgive him. He could not truly regret protecting Jon, but he would regret until he died every moment of pain his decision had caused her.

He realized the descent had become much gentler. They were on the last easy slope just beyond their camp. His heart leapt at the thought of seeing her. The pain in his leg didn’t even seem so great and he quickened his step, overtaking Mogga and coming up beside Mya, who had stopped.

“Why have you . .”

“Shh,” Mya said, holding up a hand.

Then Ned realized why they had stopped. Noises came from the direction of the camp. There were shouts and the sounds of men moving quickly. Horses stomped. Suddenly one voice which Ned did not recognize called out clearly, “The woman’s our rightful prisoner, and we’re taking her!”

His blood ran cold.

“Cat!” he shouted. Then without a thought for caution or for his injured leg, he ran toward the camp as quickly as he was able.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Brienne was panting as hard as her horse as she kicked its sides and urged it to gallop faster. She hadn’t eaten or slept in gods knew how long, and had stopped only when the horse couldn’t go any further without rest. Her broken ribs screamed with the horse’s every stride and the wrist of her broken arm had long since gone numb as she gripped the reins. She had done all she could, and still they had caught her.

She quickly looked over her shoulder and saw that the two horsemen galloping behind her had closed a little more of the distance. She could recognize Lem by the Hound’s helm he wore. Gendry had been right in his supposition that he would chase her down himself. She did not know who the second man was. She kicked her horse again and gave a cry of frustration. The poor beast simply had no more to give. She could feel it slowing. Soon the men would be upon her, and there was no way she could fight both of them in her current condition.

 _I am sorry, my lady,_ she thought. _I have failed you again_.

Just then, she heard a man shouting. As she wondered vaguely why Lem was wasting breath yelling at her, she realized the shouts were coming from in front of her. She saw three mounted men appear from the side of the road and ride out to block her way. She slowed her horse and waved her arms over her head.

“Mercy!” she cried. “Mercy, good sers!”

Lem and his companion were still riding at full speed. She could hear the hooves of their horses behind her. Suddenly she felt a sharp pain just to the side of her left shoulder blade. What? Then an arrow sailed beside her face and she realized what had caused the pain. Lem’s companion was an archer and he was shooting at her.

Now one of the men in front of her shouted in outrage as his horse reared. The arrow which had just missed her had struck the beast’s foreleg. The man drew a sword and rode past her toward Lem and his archer. She saw more men coming from the trees, a few on horseback, but most on foot. Lem and the man with him had stopped now, turning their horses round and round as if not sure whether to flee or fight or surrender.

One of the mounted men in front of her had now ridden up and grabbed her reins. “You’ll be coming with us, lad,” he said.

“I’m . . I’m not . . I’m . .” she could barely speak for breathing so hard and greatly feared she was about to fall off her horse. She shook her head and tried to focus on the man’s face which seemed out of focus. “Who’s man are you?” she managed to gasp finally.

He looked shocked by the sound of her voice, and some small part of her recognized that he had just realized her to be a woman. “We’re Lord Eddard Stark’s men, my . . my lady,” he said.

At that, a wordless cry of relief escaped her, and she very nearly did fall off her horse as she lunged sideways to grab the front of the man’s mail shirt. “Take me to the Lady Catelyn,” she begged him. “Please, ser. Please.”

The startled man must have touched the arrow sticking out of her as he went to grab her because she felt a fresh stab of pain and then heard him cry out, “Somebody help me with her! She’s wounded!”

Brienne was vaguely aware of other arms holding her as they slid her off the horse, and as she began to lose consciousness, she heard a familiar female voice ring out in clear, authoritative tones, “Be certain they are disarmed, Donnell! And then bring them here that we may find who they are!”

 _My lady_ , she thought. _You do live._ Then she knew no more.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Lord Reed had shouted “Horses!” to Donnell and the men with him, and they had instantly run for their own mounts, already saddled. As those men galloped toward the High Road, Catelyn and Reed ran after them in the same direction. Aljen and another of Reed’s men ran up to them with Reed’s sword which they handed to him.

He turned to Catelyn. “Stay here, my lady!” Turning to Aljen, he said, “Stay with her. Allow no harm to come to her!”

Aljen took her arm as Lord Reed ran toward the road, now joined by most of the other men on foot or on horseback.

“Let go of me, Aljen,” she said irritably, jerking her arm.

“I can’t do that, my lady,” he said apologetically. “You’ll run after them if I do, and I don’t know what’s out there.”

She glared at him, but as her heart rate slowed a little, she realized he was right. They did not who was on the road, nor how many, nor what purpose they had. She certainly had no business running into a battle.

“Let’s walk then, Aljen,” she said reasonably. “I’d like to get close enough to know what is happening, but if it is too dangerous, I promise I will turn back at your direction.”

He looked at her and then nodded. She knew he wanted to see what was happening as well.

They walked to the edge of their camp closest to the road and could see two men pulling a tall youth off his horse. The poor boy looked to be half unconscious. Just down the road, Donnell Boden and several other horsemen had two mounted men encircled. The one held his arms above his head, a bow in his right hand. The other continued to brandish a sword, and Catelyn saw with a start that he wore the same hound’s head helm she remembered seeing on Sandor Clegane at Winterfell. _We were told the Hound_ _was dead_ , she thought.

The shouting had died down a bit, and she called out to Boden. “Be certain they are disarmed, Donnell! And then bring them here that we may find out who they are!”

The two men who had the youth supported between them were already coming toward her. “My lady!” one of them called out. “This one’s wounded! And she said to bring her to you, my lady!”

 _Her? Oh gods be good, could it be?_ Catelyn ran then, and met the men with their burden before they had gotten another three paces. She put her hand under the chin of the unconscious woman and raised her face. She drew her breath in sharply at the sight of the mauled cheek, but she recognized the broad face at once even with the big, blue eyes closed , one of them swollen shut. “Oh, Brienne,” she said softly. Louder, she called, “Bring me clean water, and make a place to lay her down!”

As several men ran to do her bidding regarding Brienne, she saw Donnell approaching with the two men from the horses, now on foot and with their hands bound. The one still wore the hound helmet.

“Remove his helm,” she commanded. Donnell did so, and the man revealed had a full head of hair, no burns on his face, and a bushy brown beard. “You wear the helmet of a dead villain, ser,” she said coldly. “Pray tell us why you would ride down and attack this young woman?”

“She’s a Lannister whore and a traitor, milady,” the man spat. “We took her to be tried and hanged for her crimes, but she escaped. Now we’re here to get her back.”

“She is Lady Brienne of Tarth,” Catelyn responded. “And she is under my protection. You shall pay dearly for this assault upon her.” Catelyn looked to where her men had laid Brienne face down to see to the arrow in the far left side of her upper back. “Look at her!” she shouted at the two before her. “There’s scarcely an uninjured place on her! What sort of fiends are you?”

“We didn’t do none of that!” protested the second man. “Well, I shot the arrow, yes, but all that other stuff happened when she fought Rorge and the Biter!”

“Shut up!” the brown-bearded man told him. “That doesn’t matter none.”

 _Rorge and the Biter_ , Catelyn was thinking. _Where have I heard those names?_

“You’re Lady Catelyn Stark, aren’t you?” Brown Beard was saying.

“I am,” she replied.

“I’m Lemoncloak,” the man said. “I’m one of Lord Beric’s men.”

Catelyn raised her eyebrows. “And does Lord Beric Dondarrion know that his men are out accosting women?”

“Not women, milady. Traitors, murderers, and whores. This one said she was sworn to you, but we caught her with a Lannister sword and a paper from the boy king saying she’s about Lannister business. Said she was looking for your daughter. No doubt to sell her to that other whore Cersei Lannister!”

“Lady Brienne is no traitor, Lemoncloak. She told you true that she is sworn to my service. And she swore an oath to find my daughters and keep them safe.” _Even when she_ _believed me dead_ , Catelyn thought, remembering the Kingslayer’s words in the inn at the crossroad.

“Look at her sword, milady,” the man called Lemoncloak insisted. “Then you’ll see I’m telling the truth about her. Anguy told it true that she got injured in a fight. Happened right in the yard of the inn, and we took her in to tend her injuries. And all the while she was unconscious, she kept calling out, “Jaime, Jaime!” Then we looked through her things and we figured it out.”

As if she had heard the man, Brienne stirred on her pallet just then, and murmured, “Jaime” softly, but not so softly that Catelyn couldn’t hear.

She looked at the young woman. “Give me her sword,” she said.

As soon as it was drawn from the scabbard, all the men near enough to see gasped at the sight. Catelyn took it in her hand and looked at the handle with its gold and rubies, an ornate lion’s head for a pommel. The blade was even more impressive. She had seen her husband clean Ice often enough to recognize Valyrian steel when she saw it. This blade differed from Ice in that it had crimson ripples intermixed with the black, but it was Valyrian steel nonetheless.

“Where did she get this?” she asked the men. “Did she say?”

“Sure she did,” said Lemoncloak. “She told us the bloody Kingslayer gave it to her! She’s his whore I tell you, and if you can’t see it then you’re a damned fool of a woman!”

Lemoncloak had jerked away from the man holding him as he shouted, and he took several steps toward Catelyn. At this, several of the men shouted and about ten ran to grab him and pull him to the ground. The shouting and running startled the horses who began to stomp and snort.

“You will speak no more. I will hear what Lady Brienne says herself when she wakes,” Catelyn told him coldly, looking down at him where her men now held him on his knees before her.

The man’s eyes were defiant as he shouted at her, “The woman’s our rightful prisoner, and we’re taking her!”

“It would appear that you are the prisoner here,” she started to say when suddenly she heard her name shouted loudly.

“Cat!” Ned’s voice rang out from the direction of the trees behind them. She turned to see him emerge a few moments later, running _Running?_ toward her with his sword raised.

“My lord!” she cried. “All is well!” She walked toward him so that he could see she was safe, and her heart lurched to see the fear in his eyes.

He had stopped running when he saw her approach, and now he slowly lowered his sword. “My lady,” he gasped. “I heard the shouting. I feared . . .”

She had reached him now. She knew every man in the camp was looking at them, so while every part of her longed to throw herself into his arms, she merely reached out and took his hand. “I know what you feared, my love,” she whispered. “But I am well.”

Mya, the other two men who had traveled with them, and three shaggy men in outlandish costume of skins and various bits of mail had come out from the wooded path now as well and looked around to see what was going on.

Ned simply stood and stared at her face as if making certain she truly was still in one piece. Finally, he said simply, “I . . .missed you, my lady. And I am glad to find you well.”

She smiled. “You just missed all the excitement here, I fear. Come, my lord, we have much to speak about.” She took his arm and was dismayed at the severity of his limp as they walked back toward her injured woman and new prisoners. “Oh gods, Ned! Your poor leg!”

“It’s fine,” he lied.

She shook her head. But, in truth, she knew they could deal with the leg. He was here beside her again, and in spite of the complications that had just entered their camp and her confusion about precisely what Brienne’s lion’s head sword meant, she now breathed easily for the first time since yesterday.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark sat with his leg propped up. His wife had slathered more foul smelling ointment on it, wrapped it, and forbidden him to move. They obviously weren’t going anywhere today, much to his frustration, so an actual tent had been erected, and the tallest woman he had ever seen lay stretched out on a pallet laid on the ground in the tent beside him. She appeared to have been beaten almost to death. She had a broken arm, which Howland Reed proclaimed had been well set, and half her face appeared to have been torn off by a wild animal. Reed said that wound was remarkably clean, and he had discovered linens with some form of linament in a bundle tied to her saddle.

“Someone treated her injuries as well as they could, my lord,” he said. “And the arrow wound is very shallow. I think she still sleeps mostly from exhaustion. Her life is not in danger.”

That had cheered Catelyn. She was obviously very fond of the girl even if she was troubled by Lemoncloak’s tale and that fancy Lannister sword. _Valyrian steel_ , Ned thought. Tywin Lannister had wanted to own a Valyrian steel sword for as long as Ned could recall. It would appear he’d found one. So how did Catelyn’s odd little vassal wind up with it?

He looked again at the sleeping woman. “Little” was probably not the word to use. Ned thought the woman may well be taller than he when she stood up. But she was apparently Catelyn’s vassal of sorts. His wife had spirited this odd woman away when she was suspected of Renly Baratheon’s death, and in turn the woman had sworn herself to Catelyn’s service, not Robb’s, but Catelyn’s. She had told him the story one night during their journey from Riverrun. “I’ve watched you accept enough oaths of service,” she had told him with a smile. “I knew the words well enough.”

He had laughed then. He wasn’t laughing now. This injured woman was under Catelyn’s protection. They couldn’t very well leave her, but he was eager to press on toward the Eyrie. And if this woman had actually developed some sort of loyalty to Jaime Lannister, then she was Catelyn’s to pass judgment on. He shook his head and hoped that Catelyn’s faith in the woman was not misplaced.

Mya had been surprised to find Lemoncloak and Anguy held prisoner in the camp. She had confirmed they were Beric Dondarrion’s men. Lemoncloak had been the one to find her in Saltpans. She said he could be hot tempered and vengeful at times, but she didn’t believe him to be a bad man. She had tried to talk to them, but Lemoncloak had told her he had nothing more to say, and Anguy had told her only that Gendry had apparently set Lady Brienne free before Lemoncloak had told him not to say anything else.

The fact that Gendry had set the woman free spoke in her favor as far as Ned was concerned. He found it hard to believe that Gendry would break faith with Dondarrion’s men over anything other than a terrible miscarriage of justice.

Deep in thought about all these things, he barely noticed Catelyn coming back into the tent. “How’s the leg, my love?” she asked him.

“Fine,” he answered absently.

She laughed at him. “You need a new word, Ned. That one is becoming rather tired.” She came and prodded his leg just below the knee, and he winced. “Not quite fine, then,” she said. “You will absolutely stay off it until tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said with exaggerated courtesy. “Sending Mya with your nasty potion was sneaky trick, by the way.”

She laughed again. “If I’d sent it with you, you simply would have neglected to use it.” She looked down at Brienne and sighed. “I wish she’d wake. I know Lord Reed says she needs to sleep, but I so want to speak with her.”

“I know, my love,” Ned said. “Come here.”

When she got within his reach, Ned reached up and grabbed her by the hands, pulling her into his lap. “I’ve barely gotten to touch you since I’ve gotten back,” he said, nuzzling her neck.

“Ned! Brienne is right there.”

“And completely insensible.” He turned her face toward him and kissed her. He felt her respond to the kiss and he pulled her tighter against him. When they finally pulled apart, both were breathing raggedly and he noted her lips were puffy. “I missed you badly,” he said.

“I missed you,” she whispered. “I did not sleep.”

“Nor did I,” he told her. “I find it . . ..difficult to be away from you.” He shook his head. “I could not keep from thinking of you.”

“I felt the same,” she told him. “Lord Reed said that having believed you . . .dead” She whispered the word as if she feared to say it aloud, “ for so long, that it is unsurprising I want you with me always now.”

“Lord Reed, eh?” he asked her. “You discussed this with Lord Reed?”

“Not really. He simply made the observation when he saw how distracted I was.”

Ned smiled and wound her hair absently around his fingers. “Yes, he’s irritatingly observant.”

“I told him that you told me about Jon,” she suddenly blurted out.

Ned raised his brows at that. “You did?”

“He asked me if I had told you about Robb’s decree about Jon being his heir, and I said yes, and then I just told him that I knew.” She looked at him as if she feared he might be angry with her.

“It’s all right, Cat,” he assured her. He’s known the truth as long as I have after all.”

“You never told him you told me. Why not?”

He shrugged slightly. “He never asked me.”

She sighed and ruffled his hair back. “Do you ever tell anyone anything unless they specifically ask you, my lord?”

He thought about that for a moment. “Not often,” he admitted. “Did you and Howland discuss Jon’s origins at length?” He realized that he didn’t want the two of them discussing it. They may be the only two people in the world who knew what he’d done, but he didn’t like the idea of them talking about it in his absence.

“No,” she said. She pulled back far enough to look him in the face. “I am still angry at times, Ned. And hurt.” She paused. “But those are not things I would discuss with anyone save you. Ever.”

He nodded and pulled her back against him, holding her tight in his arms. “I would take the hurt from you if I could, Cat.”

“I know,” she said simply.

They sat silently for a moment, and then she pulled away again. “I’m going to go get us something to eat, my lord.”

She knelt down to feel Lady Brienne’s forehead before leaving. “She’s not feverish,” she said, “and her breathing is easy. Mayhaps she simply does need to sleep until morning.” She stood back up, but continued looking down at the sleeping woman. “And then she will answer all our questions and put any foolish doubts to rest,” she said firmly, but Ned still heard an edge of doubt in her voice. She looked up at him with a sad smile, and then she walked from the tent.

Ned looked after her for a long while and then looked down at the sleeping woman.

“Don’t you betray her,” he told the woman softly. “She’s had enough of betrayal and doubt.”


	22. Conversations and Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another long one, but there was a lot I wanted to include in it. Both Brienne and Catelyn spend a significant amount of time discussing the past in this chapter and they paraphrase sections from George R.R. Martin's A Storm of Swords and A Clash of Kings, and the characters use direct quotes from some conversations in those books. As always, I give full credit to Mr. Martin for his brilliant words and plot.

Ned Stark had fallen into sleep easily enough bundled in furs within the shelter of the tent, his arms around his lady wife. The small twinge of guilt he had felt at sleeping with the twin luxuries of a tent and Catelyn’s arms while the rest of the men slept alone outside had been erased by the presence of the wounded giantess sleeping beside them in the tent. Her presence effectively prevented him from taking advantage of the privacy the tent provided. In truth, he and Catelyn were probably both too exhausted to have done more than sleep in any event. So he had simply pulled her to him beneath the furs, kissed her gently, and held her as she drifted off, following her into slumber soon after.

He was awakened by the sound of a woman’s voice uttering a soft frightened cry. Instinctively, he reached for his wife, whispering, “Cat, I am here. You are safe.” Then the cry came again, and he realized that his wife slumbered on quietly. The sound was from further away.

He sat up and tried to get his eyes to focus in the dark. The woman who slept only a few feet on the other side of Catelyn was thrashing about on her pallet. “No,” she said. “Please, no.”

Ned had no idea what to do about the nightmares of this other woman, and was about to wake his wife, when the Lady Brienne suddenly called out, “Jaime! Jaime, please!” Ned sat unmoving in the darkness, staring toward the dreaming woman. “Jaime,” she said once more, almost too quietly to be understood. _Gods!_ Ned thought.

He didn’t want to think about what this meant. He certainly no longer wanted to wake Catelyn, but he also no longer had any inclination to sleep with this woman of unknown loyalties lying unrestrained so close to his wife. The potential threat she posed had been brought up by Donnell, but Catelyn had refused to entertain any talk of removing her from the tent or having her bound in any way. Ned had contented himself with guards just outside, and his belief that even with his leg, he could defend his wife against an injured, unarmed woman.

Now, as his eyes grew more accustomed to the dark, he watched this Maid of Tarth settle into a more quiet slumber and wondered what the hour was. He hoped dawn was not too far off, as he pulled the furs more tightly around Catelyn to fill the space where his body had lain. Carefully, he moved to sit between the two women and determined to watch for whatever remained of the night.

She spoke in her sleep only once more just as pale fingers of light began to creep at the edges of the tent. This time, her body was still and her voice a whisper filled with awe. “My lady,” she said. “You do live.”

Ned’s eyes widened at that, for in that whisper, he heard a faint echo of his own mingled hope and fear when Olyvar Frey had first told him Catelyn lived. There was unmistakable devotion in the woman’s voice, just as there had been unmistakable longing in it when she’d uttered Lannister’s name earlier. It would appear that Brienne of Tarth was a riddle he could not easily solve.

Ned sighed, adjusting his position to ease his leg, and watched the dark slowly diminish as he waited for the sleeping women on either side of him to wake.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Brienne stretched her arms and felt a painful catch in her back just below her left shoulder. The air was cold, but she was covered in something warm and soft.  _Fur?_ she thought. There had been furs on her saddle, but she could not stop. She had to keep going. _Lem!_ Lem was going to overtake her. She wouldn’t reach Lady Catelyn. _Lady_ _Catelyn!_ Her lady had spoken! Brienne had heard her. She knew her voice. She was here!

Brienne’s eyes opened and she sat up suddenly at the memory, her broken ribs causing her to breathe in sharply. From beside her came the startled sound of a man’s deep voice.

Blinking, she looked toward the voice and saw a man sitting there who looked like grim death. He had dark hair streaked with grey, and a closely cropped beard of mostly grey. Even his eyes looked grey, but that may have been simply the cold grey light in the tent which seemed to leech color away.

“Be still, my lady,” he commanded. “You took an arrow beneath your shoulder. Movement may start it bleeding again.” _By the gods, even his voice was grey!_

“I . . I . .where am I, ser?” Brienne hesitated, trying to clear her mind. “Lem was chasing me. I heard my lady!” She looked up at the man, then. “Ser, I seek the Lady Catelyn Stark,” she said breathlessly. “Do you know her?”

Just then she noticed movement on the the man’s other side. Someone lying beneath fur coverings was stirring and as the head turned, Brienne caught sight of a long copper braid shining with color even in the grey light.

“My lady!” she cried out loudly and then several things happened at once. The grey man said rather coldly, “What do you wish of her?” Her own Lady Catelyn sat up right in front of her and cried out, “Brienne, child, you are awake!” Two men came rushing into the tent with swords drawn.

Brienne cared only about Lady Catelyn at that point. She lunged forward and grabbed the older woman’s hand in both of her much larger ones, and fell toward her so that her forhead rested on the hands.

One of the swordsmen called out, “You will unhand Lady Stark at once!”

She was vaguely aware of the grey man holding up a hand to stop the other man. “Wait,” he said.

Without raising her eyes, Brienne spoke to Lady Catelyn. “My lady,” she said. “I have failed to return your daughters to you. Forgive me. I remain yours to command, and I will never give up seeking them. I give you my oath.” She remained there, half sitting and half lying prostrate in front of Lady Catelyn, waiting for her answer.

“Oh, Brienne,” her lady said softly. “Look at me.”

She raised her eyes and looked Lady Catelyn in the face. She was shocked to realize that the woman had a number of pale red scars running down both cheeks, and a much wider, darker red slash of a scar visible all the way across her throat just above the neckline of the thick garment she was wearing. “Oh, my lady,” she whispered. “Tell me who has done this, and I will see them dead for you.”

Lady Catelyn shook her head sadly. “I would not have you kill anyone for me, Brienne.”

“You do not wish me to serve you any longer, my lady?” Brienne felt a vague sense of panic at the thought, and tightened her grip on Lady Catelyn’s hand.

“Of course, I do!” Lady Catelyn assured her. “Did I not vow that you should always have a place at my hearth?” She brought her other hand up and laid it over Brienne’s. “But you are not my sword of vengeance, Lady Brienne. Rather I would have your help in rescuing my daughter.”

“The Lady Sansa?” Brienne said. She had been seeking Sansa Stark for so long, it almost felt as if the girl were but a myth or legend. “You know where she is, my lady?”

Lady Catelyn’s face lit up as she smiled and nodded.

Before she could speak further, though, the grey man’s voice interrupted. “My lady, I don’t believe we should speak any further of Sansa quite yet.”

Brienne was startled at the interruption. She had quite forgotten the men were there with them. She turned now to see all three of them staring at her as if they weren’t quite sure what to make of her.

“My lord,” said Lady Catelyn somewhat sharply. “Why don’t you and the others go find some breakfast. Then send Lord Reed to me so he can have a look at Lady Brienne’s injuries. I should like to dress before he comes. If he pronounces her able, we should ride again as soon as possible.”

Brienne swore that the man actually growled low in his throat. “Donnell, you two may leave us. Go to Lord Reed and tell him to attend my lady and her guest after he breaks his fast. Then see that the two men in custody are dressed and fed as well. We have a busy morning ahead of us.”

The two men with swords left, but the lord who had spoken made no move to leave or even to stand up. “Lady Brienne, I am Lord Eddard Stark,” he said.

Gods be good! It was all true! Her lady’s husband lived as well. “Lord Eddard,” she said, bowing her head. “I am most honored to meet you.” She started to rise so that she could kneel properly, but her head began swimming as she got to her feet, and her vision clouded.

“Ned!” she heard Lady Catelyn cry, “She’s going to faint.”

Then she was gripped by a pair of strong arms and slowly lowered back to the furs.

“Here, Brienne,” Lady Catelyn was holding a cup to her lips. “Water,” she said. “With some honey in it for the blood you lost.”

Her vision cleared now that she was back down again and she raised herself on her elbows, as Lady Catelyn tipped the liquid into her mouth. She found she was very thirsty, and she drank it all.

“Thank you, my lady. That is much better.”

“Had you been stopping to rest or eat at all, child?”

Brienne shook her head. “Gendry told me you had two days head start on me. He told me Lem would come after me. I had to reach you before he caught me.”

“It was a very near thing,” Lady Catelyn said, shaking her own head.

“Lady Brienne, why would Lord Dondarrion’s men think you a traitor?” Lord Stark asked her.

“Ned!” Lady Catelyn protested. “She’s barely been awake yet!”

“Catelyn, she will have to answer Lemoncloak’s accusations soon. And before many more people than just the two of us.” Lord Stark’s voice was not truly unkind, but it certainly was not warm.

“I will answer Lord Stark, my lady,” Brienne said quickly. “And I will answer any accusations Lem makes. I have done so once already, and my answers were enough for at least one person.”

“The boy, Gendry,” said Lord Stark.

Brienne nodded, thinking of the boy with Renly’s eyes. “He told me he was riding to Lord Beric once I left. He was turning himself over to his judgment.”

“For letting you go?” Lord Stark asked.

Brienne nodded again and thought she saw approval in the man’s grey eyes. The light was brighter within the tent now, and she could see that they truly were grey. “He took my two companions with him. A knight who in truth had nothing much to do with me, and a boy. Lem would have hanged them without a trial. Gendry promised me that Lord Beric would at least hear what they had to say.”

Lady Catelyn looked thoughtful. “Lord Dondarrion will not hang them for no cause, Brienne,” she said softly. “He is not so far gone as that. Justice is what he holds most tightly to now.”

Brienne didn’t really understand what she meant. Nor did she understand the look that passed from her lady to her lord husband then, or the way those hard grey eyes suddenly softened as he reached out and touched her lady’s hand. Still, she took comfort in Lady Catelyn’s belief that Lord Beric’s justice could be trusted more than Lem’s.

Turning back to her, Lord Stark’s eyes were not quite as cold as they had been before. “Tell us your tale, Lady Brienne.”

She did. She told them all of it--the pursuit on the river by the men from Riverrun, Cleos Frey’s death, their capture by Vargo Hoat who took Ser Jaime’s sword hand, their time at Harrenhall, Jaime’s return to take her from the bear pit, their journey to King’s Landing in the company of Bolton’s men.

“Her account matches the Kingslayer’s point for point,” Lord Stark remarked to his wife when she had gotten that far. “When did you last see Jaime Lannister, my lady?” he asked her.

“After I was released in King’s Landing and he sent me out in search of your daughter, my lord.”

“Released? You were held prisoner?” asked Lady Catelyn.

“Sent you out? Lannister did send you to do his bidding?” asked her husband at the same time.

Brienne looked between the two of them and decided to answer Lady Catelyn first. “Ser Loras Tyrell meant to slay me when he saw me, my lady. You remember he was there.”

Lady Catelyn nodded. As her husband started to ask something, she said quietly, “When Renly died, Ned. Go on, Brienne.”

“Ser Jaime intervened and had me imprisoned. Not in a cell, but confined to my rooms. After awhile, Ser Loras came to me. He said that Ser Jaime had bid him speak with me. If he truly believed me guilty of killing my king after he heard me, Ser Jaime promised him I would be punished.” She swallowed.

“And?” Lord Stark demanded.

“I guess he believed me, my lord.” She shivered as she recalled that terrible day and Renly dying in her arms. “Although I scarcely believe it myself. I still do not understand how Stannis .. .”

“I have heard the tale from my wife,” Lord Stark interrupted. “From her, I believe it. Go on.”

“Ser Jaime had Ser Loras bring me to him. That’s when he gave me Oathkeeper.”

“Oathkeeper?”

“My sword,” she said. “Well, his sword actually. A gift from his father. He said a cripple such as himself had no need of such a thing and bid me take it and keep my oath to my lady by finding her daughter.”

“The Kingslayer gave you a Valyrian steel blade and ordered you to keep a vow made to my lady wife?” Lord Stark’s disbelief was evident in his voice. “Jaime Lannister has no love for myself or any of mine, Lady Brienne. Had you been at the inn earlier, you would have heard that for yourself.”

The thought that she had missed seeing Jaime by so narrow a margin stung more than she liked to admit to herself. She remained silent a moment, and then endeavored to look the Lord of Winterfell directly in the eyes. “I heard the terrible things he said to my lady in the dungeon at Riverrun, my lord. I know the terrible thing he did to your son, and what he did with his . . .his sister.” She swallowed. “But he did tell me to go, and he did tell me to keep my vow to Lady Catelyn. I don’t know why he did it. Whether he truly wanted to keep his own oaths to your lady wife, or cared anything about mine, or just wanted me gone from King’s Landing. I do not know.”

There was silence among the three of them then for a bit until Brienne turned to face Lady Catelyn. “I know you hate him, my lady. I know you sent him back to a cell in Riverrun. And I know he deserves to answer for what he did to your son.” She hesitated. “But I also know he came back for me in Harrenhall. He saved me from being raped and killed. He didn’t have to do that.”

She could feel Lord Stark’s grey gaze boring into the side of her head, but she kept her own eyes on Lady Catelyn. “I am yours, my lady. I swore I would give my life for you, and I will, gladly. But I do not hate him. I cannot. And I will not tell you otherwise.”

Lady Catelyn’s blue eyes never left hers. She looked sad, but not angry. “Brienne, I do not believe you would ever do me or my daughter harm, but I must know this. Have you sought her for my sake, or because Jaime Lannister asked it of you?”

Brienne didn’t know how to answer her. She didn’t think that her lady would understand how it could be both.

As if she had a window into her thoughts, Lady Catelyn then said, “You must choose, Brienne. There is naught but enmity between House Lannister and House Stark. You cannot serve both. Your loyalty must be clear.”

Brienne looked at her and then raised herself to her knees before her. “I serve neither House Lannister nor House Stark, my lady,” she declared. “I serve you. My loyalty is to you. I pledged that I would shield your back, keep your counsel and give my life for yours. I pledge all that to you again before your lord husband as witness. I can say no more.”

Lady Catelyn rose to stand for the first time then, and laid her hands on Brienne’s head. “No child, you need say no more.” She turned to her husband then, who sat still as a stone staring at Brienne with those grey eyes that seemed to look right through her. “My lord, she has spoken nothing but truth to us here. She is mine, and I will defend her. Allow me a few moments to dress for the day, and then bid Lord Reed come to us. Doubtless, he is waiting nearby.”

The man continued to sit silently for a moment, but had turned his gaze upon his wife. Finally, he stood as well. “As you wish, my lady.” He moved to stand very close to Lady Catelyn then and spoke in a low voice. Brienne could make out his words, though. “Are you certain of her, Cat?”

“I am, my lord,” her lady replied just a bit more loudly, and took her husband’s hands in hers. Their words were formal, but the way they touched and the expression on Lady Catelyn’s face caused Brienne to remember the grief she had seen in the woman when she had spoken of her husband’s death.

Lord Stark nodded then. He raised his wife’s hand to his lips and kissed it briefly, nodded courteously to Brienne, and left the tent.

Both women stared after him for a moment, and then Lady Stark picked up the cup Brienne had drunk from and filled it again from a pitcher nearby. “Here,” she said. “We’re going to have a long day ahead. You’d best work on recovering your strength quickly.”

Brienne smiled at her, even though the stretching of her mouth hurt her cheek. “I will be strong, my lady.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn greeted Howland Reed with a smile as she stepped out of the tent. “Lady Brienne is awake and drinking the honey-water almost faster than I can give it to her.”

“Excellent, my lady,” he replied. “I’ll have food sent for her as soon as I have seen her. Will you be coming back in with me?”

She shook her head. “I have already cleaned the wound on her face and changed the dressing. I told her you are far more knowledgeable than I about broken bones and arrow wounds, my lord. She is waiting for you.” She hesitated. “I need to speak with my lord husband.”

In truth, Catelyn felt rather badly about leaving Brienne alone to be cared for by a stranger, but she had to find Ned. She knew he had been troubled when he left, and she needed to speak with him and discover all that concerned him. She could guess much of it, but still she wanted to hear what he would say.

Lord Reed did not press her. He simply nodded and said, “I believe he is with Donnell where those two men are being held. Do not worry, Lady Stark,” he added with a mischievous smile. “I will take good care of your young vassal.”

Catelyn rolled her eyes. “That’s one of Ned's words for her. But I do thank you, Lord Reed.”

She turned then toward the large pair of sentinel pines where the two men were bound and guarded. Ned, Donnell Boden, and two other men were huddled in conversation off to the left of them. Around the camp, all the men were moving about restlessly. Two nights in the same spot had made everyone impatient to leave, and there was an air of unease about what would transpire with the two bound men and Brienne. In addition, the three Stone Crows who sat off to themselves just staring at everyone else and laughing almost randomly set quite a few people’s nerves on edge. They needed to be finished with this business with Dondarrion’s men and back on the road.

Ned saw her approaching and called out to her. “My lady! We have just been questioning our two guests again.”

“Guests?” she said with a raised brow.

“Of a sort,” he answered. “Would you walk with me, please?”

She nodded and he excused himself from the other men and offered her his arm. As they walked away from the others, he said, “We need to be away from this place, my lady. The longer we delay, the more snow will fall in the mountains to delay us and the more chance Littlefinger will hear of our coming.”

“I was just thinking the same thing, my lord.”

He chuckled softly at that. “Well, on that much, at least, we agree.” They had come some distance now, and he stopped, turning her toward him and holding her gently by both arms. “Catelyn, I know you care about this girl from Tarth, but how can we trust her? She spent a great deal of time with the Kingslayer and obviously earned his trust if he gifted her with that sword.”

“I don’t know what all transpired between Brienne and Lannister once they left Riverrun, Ned, but I do know she would never betray my trust. She has far too much honor for that.” The expression on his face clearly said he was unconvinced. “Did you not hear the truth in what she said, my lord? She did not try to hide anything. I have never known the girl to be anything but painfully honest, and I heard nothing to change that opinion this morning.”

“Hmm,” Ned murmured thoughtfully, in a low growl of a voice. “And what about that business of not serving House Stark? How the devil can the woman claim to serve you, but not your house?”

“Oh, and do your vassals answer to all Starks?” she asked with her brow arched.

“What do you mean, Cat?”

“I am Lady Stark, am I not? Yet, when the battle for Riverrun ended, your men refused my instruction to ride immediately for the castle.”

“Cat!” he exclaimed with some exasperation. “It wasn’t safe to do so. You know that I instructed them to wait because . .”

“I’m not questioning your judgment, Ned,” she interrupted. “I admit you were right about that. I merely point out that your men only obey me when you tell them to. They just as quickly refuse me if you have told them to.”

He looked at her without speaking, so she continued. “They may be sworn to House Stark, but it is to you they truly belong. How is that different than Brienne being sworn to me? She’ll obey you in anything you ask if I direct her to do so.”

She watched in some amusement as he tried to comprehend the concept. “I promise not to command that she keep you anywhere you don’t want to be,” she said, attempting not to laugh.

Ned was not amused. “You jape, Catelyn, but I have serious misgivings about her. She indeed cries out in her sleep for the Kingslayer. I heard her last night as you slept. Is there a chance she loves the man?”

“No,” Catelyn said quietly, but firmly. Her husband looked intently at her, questioning her certaintly in this. “She may well have some affection for the accursed man, Ned, and she undoubtedly is grateful to him for her life. I know she is not in love with him, however, because the poor girl is in love with Renly Baratheon.”

“Renly? Cat, Renly is dead!”

Catelyn looked at her husband and shook her head sadly. “Ned,” she said softly reaching up to touch his face. “You were dead for a long time. Do you suppose that caused me to love you any less?”

His entire face seemed to soften then, and she saw in his eyes an echo of that unbearable pain and loss she remembered too well. “No,” he said after a moment. “No, I do not think that.”

“And I know she still loves Renly," Catelyn said. “I saw her face when she merely mentioned that boy Gendry. You know how much he resembles his father . . .and his uncle.”

Ned nodded. “It is hard to imagine, though. This girl and Renly Baratheon were . . .lovers?” He looked dumbfounded.

“No. I fear it was only Brienne who felt so. Renly was amused by her . . .oddness . . .I suppose, and her devotion to him. No more than that. He did not seem to be cruel to her, at least.” Catelyn shrugged. “But, the point, my lord, is that whatever Jaime Lannister means to Brienne, I would stake my life that her oath to me means more.”

“You may well be staking your life, Cat,” he said darkly.

“I am not wrong about her, Ned,” Catelyn said. She had been shocked by that Lannister sword, and had privately harbored a few doubts of her own. But now that she had heard Brienne, she felt confident that her faith in the awkward, mannish, young woman was justified. The girl’s stubborn refusal to compromise what she saw as her honor was just as she remembered.

“All right, my lady. We shall keep her with us,” Ned sighed. “In speaking with that archer, Anguy, away from his friend Lemoncloak, I did learn that not all of Dondarrion’s men at the inn wanted to hang her right away. Apparently, she stepped in to defend the children there against some violent men before Dondarrion’s men showed up, and she took all those wounds in that fight. She killed their leader, and Gendry apparently killed a man who attacked her after that. Gendry argued for taking her to Lord Beric, but Lem wanted to hang her along with the brigands who had attacked at the inn. The rest of the men were somewhat divided, but are inclined to do what Lem tells them.”

Catelyn nodded thoughtfully. “So that’s why Gendry let her go. He didn’t think he could keep Lem from hanging her.” She shuddered to think of it. “What shall we do with the two of them, my lord?”

Ned sighed deeply. “Send them back to Dondarrion, I suppose.”

“What?” Catelyn thought of Lem’s violent words and Anguy’s arrow in Brienne’s back, and she knew her voice sounded outraged.

“Would you have me kill them, Cat? Lady Brienne came to no lasting harm at their hands, and they are Dondarrion’s men. He did us a great service by bringing us to Mya. And we certainly can’t take them with us. I have no wish to slow our progress leading bound men along, nor to devote men to guarding them.” He shook his head. “If I send a letter with them for Lord Beric, telling the truth of what has happened here and of your faith in Lady Brienne, it may go better for Gendry.”

“Do you think Lemoncloak would deliver your letter?”

“I don’t know. But I believe Anguy will. Lemoncloak need not know of it.”

It was a well thought plan, Catelyn knew, and probably the best that could be made. “I trust your judgment in this, my lord, she told him. “So what do we do now?”

Ned took a deep breath. “We gather the men and let your young lady tell her story to everyone. You then tell everyone that she is indeed sworn to you and under your protection. Finally, we publicly pardon Lemoncloak and Anguy for their pursuit of her on the grounds that they were acting in good faith on what evidence they had. We send them back to Dondarrion with the provision that if they ever threaten Lady Brienne or any of our party again, they will be executed.” He looked at her tiredly. “And then, my lady, we leave this place and get back on that road.”

Catelyn nodded and tucked her hand back under his arm. “Let us be done with this, my lord.” His face still looked troubled, so she added gently. “And I am right about Brienne, my love. You must trust me in this, as I trust you.”

He didn’t answer, and Catelyn knew that Brienne would have to earn his trust. As they walked back to their men, she prayed that her husband would give the young woman a chance to do so.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned moved the curry comb over the horse’s flanks, brushing out the sweat and grime from the day’s long ride. The young man assigned to the horses had looked rather scandalized at being forced to allow his lord to groom his own horse, but Ned’s mind was filled with far too many things, and he had sorely needed a nice, mindless task to settle it this night.

He knew he had pushed hard on today’s ride, going longer than perhaps was wise before calling a halt, but the Stone Crows assured him they could make camp safely here and not be troubled. It was already full dark, and the men were lighting fires. They had reached the portion of the High Road that truly ascended into the mountains, and their way would be much steeper from here on. At least it was not snowing. Yet.

Catelyn had gone with the men in charge of provisions to see about getting all the men their evening meal, and her Lady Brienne had followed her like a hulking, silent shadow. He had been right when he had supposed the woman was taller than he was, and he found it disconcerting. He was not an exceptionally tall man, but he certainly was not short, and he had never known a woman taller than himself before. He’d always considered Catelyn to be tall, and she looked like a child next to this woman. And apparently the woman could handle that fancy sword of hers, too, if Anguy had spoken truly.

The horse jumped, and he realized that his strokes had become much harder as his mind considered how easily this woman could hurt Cat if she wanted to. He pushed those thoughts from his mind. Catelyn steadfastly stood by the girl, and she had never been one to trust blindly. _She trusted Littlefinger_ , came a voice in his head. He mentally shushed it. Littlefinger had been a childhood friend, known to her for years. And this girl certainly did not appear to be as devious as Baelish.

She had done rather well that morning, reciting her story in front of an assembly of men she did not know, who attended at least as much to her odd appearance as they did to her words. Catelyn, of course, had spoken her part beautifully. Ned knew that whatever the men may feel about Brienne of Tarth, they would show her no discourtesy. They would not risk offending Lady Stark.

Dondarrion’s men had ridden back toward the crossroad with a minimum of fuss. Lemoncloak had looked sullen and angry, but wisely kept his mouth shut. Anguy simply looked relieved to be going. He had looked at Ned and patted his coat just before turning his horse away, acknowledging that Ned’s letter was tucked saftely inside.

Now, Ned wished to put the entire episode out of his mind and concentrate on getting to Sansa., but he couldn’t quite banish his sense of unease about this Brienne.

“Lord Stark,” came a quiet voice behind him.

He turned, and there she stood, as if his thoughts had conjured her. “Lady Brienne,” he said, hoping he did not sound as startled as he felt. “Does my lady wife have need of me?”

“No, my lord.” She just stood there looking at him, although he doubted she could see him any more clearly than he could see her by the light of the waning moon and the scattered fires. He decided to remain silent and wait to hear what she would say.

“My lord, she started, and then hesitated. “My lord, I need to speak with you about . .about the sword.”

“Your sword, you mean?” Ned asked.

“Not truly mine, my lord,” she said. “It was really Ser Jaime’s and it’s not really . .well, it started out . . .” She had begun speaking very quickly, and then seemed almost to trip over her words, and then run out of them. Again, Ned simply remained silent and waited.

He actually heard her swallow then, an uncomfortable gulping sound. “I would give this sword to you, my lord.”

Now he was stunned. Whatever he’d expected the girl to say, it hadn’t been that. “To me? I thought your sword already belonged to the Lady Catelyn. You have been very clear on that point, my lady.”

“My sword does!” she said vehemently. “Whatever sword I wield, I give to my lady and her service. I am her liege man . . .or . . .whatever you would prefer to call me,” she finished awkwardly. “But this was never truly my sword.” She drew it out then, and the rubies on it sparkled even in the dim light. She laid it on the ground before him, and instinctively he stepped back, almost backing into his horse.

“Well, it certainly isn’t mine,” he said coldly. “Do I look like a Lannister to you, woman?” The name Lannister sounded like a curse coming from his lips.

She shook here head. “No, my lord,” she said, almost too quietly to be heard. “You are a Stark, and this is a Stark blade.”

Now the girl made no sense at all. Ned stared at the sword on the ground before him, the revoltingly beautiful lion’s head pommel facing him. He shook his head.

Brienne continued speaking, looking at the ground rather than at him, and he had to strain to catch her words. “You had a greatsword called Ice, my lord. The Lannisters took it when you were arrested.”

“I recall the name of my own sword, my lady.” Ned said in a voice almost as quiet as Breinne’s.

“Lord Tywin had it melted down.” Ned’s heart gave an odd lurch at those words. “He had it melted down and had two smaller swords forged from it. This is one.”

Both were silent then for a long while. Slowly, Ned bent and picked up the sword before him. It was perfectly balanced. He could not truly see the color of the blade in the darkness, but he had seen it in the daylight and knew that it rippled crimson and black. There had been no crimson in Ice’s blade.

The girl mumbled something as he stood there staring at the sword. “What?” he asked her.

“You’ll be defending Ned Stark’s daughter with Ned Stark’s own steel,” she repeated. “That’s what he said to me. Ser Jaime, I mean, when he gave it to me.”

Ned scowled. “Why would Jaime Lannister care about defending my daughter? The man tried to murder my son!”

“I . . .I wondered the same. I thought he wanted me to bring her to Cersei, and I told him I would never harm my lady’s daughter for a sword . . .that I would never serve . . .” She stopped speaking and shook her head. “He told me to shut up and take the sword. That I had to find Sansa and take her somewhere safe. How else would the two of us make good our stupid vows to my . . .precious dead Lady Catelyn?” She whispered the last words, and Ned noted her eyes seemed to shine with moisture when her face caught any light.

“Well,” he said after a moment. “That at least sounds almost like something the man might say.”

“He did say it, my lord.” Brienne looked at him now. “Only, my lady isn’t dead, and so I will serve her however she wishes. And . . .you aren’t dead. And I must return to you your sword.”

Ned looked at the sword in his hand, turning it slowly to catch the distant firelight. He sighed. “This isn’t my sword, Brienne,” he said softly.

Brienne started to protest, and he interrupted her. “Oh, I believe you speak the truth, my lady. This steel was once part of Ice, and it belonged to the Starks. But this blade is not Ice.” He held the sword out to her. “You tell me this sword is called Oathkeeper. Use it then, to keep your oath. This steel should protect my wife and my daughter.” It was his turn to swallow now. “But this is not my sword. Take it, Lady Brienne.”

She hesitated, but then reached out and took the sword in her large hand. “If this is what you wish, Lord Stark, I would be honored to wield this blade in the service of your lady wife.”

“It is my wish,” he said softly. “Now go back to Catelyn, my lady.”

She turned to go without speaking again, but he stopped her. “Lady Brienne,” he called. She turned back to face him. “Thank you.”

She looked at him a moment longer, and then nodded and turned to walk away.

Lord Eddard Stark stood alone in the dark with his thoughts for a long time after that.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Brienne stood watching the two men spar.  Donnell Boden was a good swordsman.  She had realized that the first time she watched them three nights ago.  She wished she could ask him to spar with her, as she was out of practice, and her body felt stiff and awkward after her injuries.

She drew in her breath as Lord Eddard almost disarmed him with a clever twist of his blade, but Boden recovered and jumped away.  "Damn it, Donnell!" Lord Eddard cursed at him.  "Why didn't you take me down?  You can't keep giving me time to recover my balance!  No enemy will!"

Lord Eddard was right.  The correct move after escaping being disarmed would have been to press the advantage.  She felt vaguely guilty about watching them as they always went so far from camp.  She was certain this was something private.  But she could tell that Lady Catelyn didn't want her constantly at her side, and since she didn't actually speak to anyone else in their party, watching them gave her something to do.  She had discovered the two men practicing quite by accident when she had been walking the night after she tried to give Lord Eddard her sword.

She drew that sword now and attempted to mimic what she'd seen Lord Eddard do a moment before.  It was a good move if she could perfect it.  They were much higher up in the mountains now, and snow flurries were falling.  She had gotten cold standing there, but felt herself warming up as she repeated the maneuver several times.  She was so intent on getting it right that she didn't realize the men had come upon her until Lord Eddard spoke.

"Well, Donnell, it would appear we've had an audience."

Stunned, Brienne whirled around to face him and almost dropped her sword.  His face was as unreadable as ever, but she thought his voice sounded more amused than angry.

"My lord," she stammered.  "Forgive me.  I . . .I . . .just . ."

"You just about have that move right," he finished for her. "But not quite.  Here, let me show you."

He stepped up to her and placed his hand over hers on the hilt of Oathkeeper, moving her arm through the motions. She could see immediately what she had missed before.

She grinned.  "You are a good teacher, my lord," she said, forgetting in her excitement to be afraid of him.

"And you are a good pupil," he replied. "How long have you been watching us, my lady?"

"I . . .I am sorry, my lord. I know I should not have intruded. I . . .I . . ."

"It's all right, Brienne," Lord Stark told her.  He sighed. "I fear I have to learn everything new. For years I fought with two good legs and a greatsword." She noticed his eyes go to Oathkeeper as he said that. "Now I have but one good leg and a smaller blade. Donnell is good and patient enough to work with me."

"You fight very well, Lord Stark," she said quickly.

He shook his head. "And my wife keeps insisting you are infallibly honest," he said ruefully. "I have hopes that I am getting somewhat better, at any rate."

"Practice is everything, my lord," she said earnestly. "Ser Goodwin always said so."

"Ser Goodwin?" asked Lord Stark.

"Master-of-Arms at Evenfall when I was young.  He taught me my swordwork."

"Well, let's see what he taught you, then."

"My lord?" she asked.

He actually almost smiled at her. "My leg is quite finished for the evening.  But Donnell here is a young man.  Why not spar a round with him?"

"My lord?" Boden sputtered.  "But . . .she's . . .she's a . . ."

"A lady," Lord Stark finished for him. "A lady who knows how to use a sword. A lady who has sworn herself to protect my wife. Shouldn't we see how capable she is of doing that?"

"I would like that very much," Brienne put in.

"I don't . . ."

"Oh, come on, Donnell. Lady Brienne and I won't tell anyone if she beats you."

At that, the man turned bright red, but he did agree to spar with her. It felt wonderful to move against an opponent with a sword in her hand again. She could quickly tell that Boden was much better than she, but as he was going very softly for fear of hurting her, she kept pace with him easily, and ended up disarming him with the very move Lord Eddard had shown her.

At that, Lord Eddard actually laughed out loud. "Well done, my lady! It is time someone showed young Donnell that he should always do his best rather than hold back for fear of wounding his opponent's pride!" He looked meaningfully at Boden then, but the younger man just shook his head. "We had best go back before my lady wife sends men out searching for us."

As they approached the camp, Boden turned to join some other men, and Lord Stark stopped her before they continued on to find Lady Catelyn.

"You truly are a soldier, Lady Brienne. Did you have the chance to meet Lady Mormont when you were with my wife at Riverrun?"

She shook her head. "No, my lord. She was with your son, raiding in the west."

"You would like her, I think." He looked at her then, and Brienne got the impression he wanted to ask her something.

"My lord?" she said.

"I was simply wondering something, my lady. My wife is a remarkable woman, but she is no soldier. She despises war and weaponry. How is it you came to bind yourself to her?"

Brienne was silent a bit, not sure what to say to him. Finally, she simply told him the truth. "She understood me, my lord. She has courage. And she is good."

Lord Stark smiled then. "She indeed has courage, my lady. Far more than she knows. And the gods know she is good. But what did she understand about you?"

 _Can I really tell him that?_ she wondered. She swallowed hard and said it. "She guessed that I wanted to kill Stannis for what he did to Renly . . .she tried to tell me that she knew how I felt, and I told her no one knew." She stopped then and looked directly into Lord Stark's eyes. "She told me I was wrong, and I remember what she said next word for word."

She stopped then, but Lord Stark said softly, "Tell me, Brienne."

She swallowed again and looked away, letting herself hear Lady Catelyn's voice from that long ago day in another camp. "Every morning, when I wake, I remember that Ned is gone," she quoted. "I have no skill with swords, but that does not mean I do not dream of riding to King's Landing and wrapping my hands around Cersei Lannister's white throat and squeezing until her face turns black."

She had not been able to look at him while she said that, and he was so silent that she wondered if he was still there. She made herself look at him and found him staring off to their right with his face frozen white in the fading glow of the setting sun against the grey sky, and his eyes were filled with pain. She followed his gaze and saw the Lady Catelyn step away from a group of men to walk toward them.

"She understood, my lord," Brienne said, "but she would not have me throw my life away for the dead. She said it was better to fight for the living."

He nodded then, and without another word, left her side, walking forward to meet his wife. As they came together, she saw Lady Catelyn reach up to touch his face, a look of concern on her own. Lord Stark put his hands on her shoulders and ran them down over her arms as he said something to her. Then he released her and offered his arm to walk her back toward the men.

Watching them together, it hit her that he had once believed her to be dead as well. Brienne didn't know if it had been right or wrong to tell Lord Stark about Lady Catelyn's words to her, but she did know one thing. Lord Stark understood them all too well.

 

____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn Stark was vaguely irritated. Ned had left ages ago to speak with Lord Reed about something. She had seen Reed since, and he told her that Ned had gone to see Donnell Boden about something else. He'd been gone a long time, and now the sun was going down. Brienne had managed to disappear as well, but in truth she had been glad of that until dusk approached. She was overjoyed to have Brienne back with her, but the girl spoke to no one but Catelyn and almost never left her side.  Sometimes she felt a bit smothered by the responsibility of being the girl's sole companion. Brienne had taken to walking in the evenings, and while Catelyn cautioned her not to wander too far away alone, she was glad of the small period of time without her hovering.

Looking to the edge of the clearing where they had made camp for the evening, Catelyn saw three figures emerging from the trees. One immediately turned off to his left and joined a group on the far side of the clearing. The other two stopped.  One of them was clearly Ned, and she was almost certain the other was Brienne. When they made no move to come closer, she began walking toward them.

She had gone about halfway when Ned started coming toward her. As he approached, she noted that he had an odd expression on his face. He said nothing when he reached her, so she put a hand to his bearded cheek, and asked him, "Are you well, my love?"

He placed his hands on her shoulders. "I am well, he said. "And you are beautiful," he continued, running his hands down over her arms. "Sometimes, I forget how truly beautiful you are."

The sensation of his hands on her arms made her shiver in a very pleasant way, but he still looked odd to her. He stared at her a moment, and then let go of her to offer her his arm.

She smiled up at him as they walked toward a group of men. "Well, perhaps, if you didn't stay gone so long, you would not forget what I look like," she teased.

Immediately, she regretted her words because his eyes clouded and his expression became pained. "I would have returned to you a thousand times over all those long days had I been able, my lady!" he said in a choked voice.

"Ned! What is wrong?" she asked him, alarmed. She stopped and turned him toward her.

He shook his head. "When Donnell told me you and Robb had been killed at that wedding, I cannot tell you how much rage I felt," he whispered harshly. "I dreamed a thousand terrible deaths for Walder Frey."

"And now he is dead," she whispered. "He is dead, Ned. You gained justice for our son, my love." She looked into his eyes, wanting to comfort him, but feeling she didn't truly understand what he was trying to say.

He shook his head again. "No, Cat. I wasn't thinking about justice. I was thinking of you lying dead somewhere. And I wanted to hurt Walder Frey. I wanted to watch him die slowly and painfully in front of me. It was a terrible place to be, and it did not occur to me that you . . .that you had been to that hell as well."

"Ned?" she said softly.

He looked into her eyes then. "Brienne told me. She told me that you dreamed of choking the life from Cersei Lannister with your own hands."

"Oh." She didn't know what else to say.  She couldn't imagine why Brienne had found it necessary to tell Ned about that, but she couldn't deny it. "She had taken you from me," she said softly."And I could never have you back." She felt that crushing pain and loss threatening to overtake her again, and she put her arms around him, not caring for propriety in the face of her need to remind herself that he lived. "But I do have you back, Ned, and you have me, my love. All that is over."

"I just can't stand it, Cat," he said. "That you were taken to that place of dark, vengeful dreams. I would never wish that for you. I could kill the woman right now with my bare hands for ever causing you to feel that!"

She pulled back from him then to look at his face, which indeed looked like vengeance incarnate at the moment. "But I am not supposed to mind your being assaulted by vengeful dreams? There is no difference, my love. I would not have you suffer so, either."

"There is a difference!"

He had almost shouted it. His voice had gotten loud enough that the closest men had  turned to look at them. She grabbed his arm. "Come with me, my lord," she said urgently and led him into the shelter of the trees.

The sun was gone now, and the twilight washed the color from his face as he looked at her intently. "There is a difference," he said more quietly. "I have killed more men than I can count. I have slain them in battles and executed them on blocks. I have killed to protect myself, to protect others, to punish wrong, or simply to remove an obstacle to a battle objective. I know death and killing well." He paused and cupped her face in his hands. "You are not a killer, Cat."

His words went through her like a crossbow bolt, and she could not stop the tears which suddenly filled her eyes and spilled down the red scars on her cheeks. "You're wrong about that, Ned," she said flatly. "I am a killer."

"No, Cat."

"Yes," she said. "I have killed men since we parted at King's Landing. Some I led to their deaths and some died by my hand. I am a killer."

"Catelyn," he said, coming to her. "I have heard about . . ."

"You have not heard it all!" she interrupted. "When I captured Tryion Lannister, six men died on this very road. They stood up for me at the inn, and volunteered to travel with me and to die. For what? For a lie told by Petyr Baelish?"

"Cat, you did not kill those men. They were slain by mountain clansmen," Ned said.

"I slit a man's throat perhaps two days' journey from here!" she cried. "Tell me I didn't kill him!"

Now Ned just looked at her silently. "Come here, he told her after a moment. He took her hand and led her to a large, fallen tree. He guided her to sit down upon it, and then sat beside her, never letting go of her hand. "Tell me about it, my love, if you wish to."

She nodded. "It was the first time the clansmen attacked us as we rode. We armed everyone as best we could, even the dwarf. There were so many of them, Ned. Ser Rodrik had given me a dagger and bid me stay hidden, but one of them found me and pulled me from my hiding place.  I slashed at him and ran, but there was nowhere to go save up against the mountainside. Another man came and then a third on horseback, and I was trapped with the rock face behind me.  I screamed and then . . ." She laughed bitterly then and looked at Ned. "It was Tyrion Lannister who came. He had an axe, and he felled one man quickly. The other went to stab him, and he knocked him back toward me. I just stepped up behind him and . . .slit his throat. Just like that. Like I'd done it a hundred times."

She fell silent then, and after a moment, Ned said, "I am very grateful that you thought to arm the dwarf." She made a sound that was half a laugh and half a sob, and he put his arms around her. "Cat, the man was going to kill you. You had no choice. You did no wrong."

She nodded slowly. "I know. Not that time. I haven't told you about the man I murdered."

"Cat," he said.

"I know you've heard it. Aegon Frey. Did they tell you I was mad?  That I didn't know what I was doing?"

"Catelyn, you are not mad," he said slowly.

"No, I am not," she said. She stood then and walked a few paces away before turning back to face him. It was darker now, and she could not quite make out the expression on his face. "And I was not then. Would you hear it, my lord?  Would you hear all of it?" She hesitated a moment, and felt her voice break slightly as she asked, "Would you hear about Robb?"

He didn't answer right away, but then she heard him sigh. "I would not make you tell it, my love. But if you wish to tell it, I would hear it."

She nodded. "I should have known what was happening. Everything was wrong there, Ned. The food was poor, the musicians were too many, too loud, and not any good. Roslin was crying as if she were at a funeral. She made Lysa look like a happy bride! Everything felt wrong. Then when they carried Edmure and Roslin out to bed them, far too many men remained in the hall. Dacey Mormont went to say something to Edwyn Frey, but when she touched his arm, he jerked away, and she went pale." She licked her lips and swallowed before continuing. "I went to Edwyn then, and by the time I got there, the musicians were playing that song. _The Rains of Castamere."_

Ned startled. Apparently no one had told him that detail. "I knew it before I reached him, and I wasn't truly surprised when I felt the mail beneath his shirt. I slapped him then, and split his lip, and he shoved me. Robb saw that." She gave Ned a small smile. "Your son didn't take insults to me any better than you do. He was angry and came toward Edwyn, but then he suddenly staggered sideways." She shook her head slowly, and the tears now flowed freely from her eyes. "I saw a quarrel sticking out of his side, just below his shoulder. Then I saw the second strike his leg, and he fell. I ran to him. Oh gods, Ned, I tried to reach him! I did! But then I took the quarrel in my back, and I fell as well." She stopped to breathe and looked toward Ned. She couldn't see much more than his outline in the darkening night, but he sat perfectly still, barely breathing as he listened to her speak.

"I was screaming his name. The Smalljon covered him with the table then. You heard me tell his father about that. Men were dying all around me. Robb was beneath his table, and I was lying on the floor. I couldn't get up. I saw Wendel Manderly shot through the neck and Ryman Frey put an axe in Dacey's stomach." She stopped and looked at Ned again suddenly. "I never told Maege that," she said quietly.

"Did she ask you about it?" Ned's voice was hoarse.

"No."

"Perhaps she doesn't want to hear it, then."

"Do you want to hear this, Ned?" she asked him through her tears.

"Gods, no! But . . .yes." When she didn't start speaking again right away, he said gently, "Go on, Cat."

"By then I was screaming for mercy, but no one heard or listened or cared. I saw northmen run in and I hoped  . . .but they were Bolton's." Her voice sounded dead to her when she said the hated man's name. "And old Walder sat there watching it all like he was at a mummer's farce or a tournament." She shook her head. "That's when I saw the dagger. It was on the floor by Jinglebell--Aegon. But the poor idiot didn't know what to do with a dagger. He was only hiding under a table. I decided I would kill Walder Frey. I was able to crawl to the dagger and get it in my hand and then . . .Robb got out from under his table top."

She looked at her husband. "I'd thought him dead, you see. But he was alive. And that changed everything. He had three arrows in him, but he managed to get to his knees. And then Walder Frey started laughing," she said, her voice going hard and bitter. "He was laughing and mocking our son while he knelt there bleeding."

She closed her eyes and she could feel herself back at the Twins. She could hear the drum, smell the blood, hear Lord Walder's hated laugh. "That's when I grabbed Jinglebell. I dragged him from under the table and put the dagger to his throat. I called out to Lord Walder and I  . . .begged him. I begged him, Ned! Begged him to let Robb go free. I told him to keep me hostage, keep Edmure. We would take no vengeance if only he let Robb live."

Now, she was crying in truth. No longer did she have just silent tears spilling down her cheeks. Sobs interrupted her words. "Robb spoke to me. He told me no. I told him to save himself. I begged him to get up and walk out--for me, for Jeyne. He kept saying Mother. He heard Grey Wind outside, and I told him to go to him."

Catelyn stopped speaking for several minutes as she forced herself to stop crying. Ned stood and started to come to her, but she put up her hand to stop him. "No," she whispered. "I can't stop crying if I let you hold me. I can't" He sat back down.

She managed to stop her sobs. "Lord Walder asked me why he should let Robb go." Now, Catelyn's voice was perfectly flat. "I pushed that dagger hard against Jinglebell's throat and told Walder I would trade his life for Robb's. I swore it on my honor as a Tully and a Stark. A son for a son." She shook her head. "But he said that was a grandson and he never was much use. And he laughed.

She stopped speaking again. She was back in the hall at the Twins, Jinglebell's head pressed up against her with her dagger at his throat. She was lost in the sound of Walder Frey's laughter.

 

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Ned Stark was so overwhelmed by the horror of Catelyn's tale that he didn't realize at first how long she had been silent. But after he called her name twice and got no response, he went to her and took her in his arms. She stared at something far away, and didn't seem to know he was there.

"Cat," he said desperately. "Cat, I am here. Please, love, please stay here with me." She remained silent. "Oh gods, Cat, please stay here with me." Now his heart raced. "Please, please, please," he begged.

He heard her draw in a sharp breath. She turned to look at him, and tears again began flowing from her eyes. "Ned?" she said, in a slightly dazed voice.

"I'm here, my love. I've got you. You are safe, Cat. You are safe." He murmured those words over and over into her hair and neck as he held her against him in the dark of the night surrounded by the trees.

"I'm safe," she finally whispered back. "But Robb isn't. Roose Bolton put a sword into his heart and he twisted it. Jaime Lannister sends his regards."

She pulled far enough back to look into Ned's face, although he could see little more of hers than a shine where her blue eyes were in the dark woods. "That's when I killed him. Jinglebell. Aegon. I knew what I was doing, Ned. I had sworn on my honor, and I killed him. His blood ran all down my arms and my dress, and perhaps I did go a bit mad then." She held her hands up to her face. "That's when I did this", she said softly. "I don't remember it very clearly. I know I was ready to die. I wanted to find you."

She laid her head on his chest, and he just held her for a long time. When she raised her head up again, she said quietly, "So you see, my love, I am a killer. I meant to kill that poor halfwit. What had that pitiful creature done to deserve death?"

"Nothing," Ned said softly. "But you did not do murder, Cat."

"I killed an innocent." She sounded half-dead herself, and it frightened him.

"Come sit with me again, my love." He led her back to sit on the tree and she did not resist. 

"Theon Greyjoy," he said then.

"Is a fiend in human form and will rot in all the hells for what he did to our sons," she finished.

"Yes," he told her. "But when he came to us, Theon Greyjoy was a little boy. An innocent who became a hostage. Had Balon Greyjoy attacked the Seven Kingdoms again, what was I to do with little Theon, Cat?"

She looked at him, but didn't answer.

"Threatening the life of hostages only works if the person being threatened knows you will actually take their lives," he said softly. "And I would have. I would have had no choice. It would have been an evil thing, perhaps, but it was what I had sworn to do."

She said nothing.

"You took a hostage, Cat. You are no different than anyone else who has ever done so. You swore on the man's life that it was to be traded for Robb's. You only kept your word."

"How can the death of an innocent person not be evil?" she protested. "Robb's death was evil! Doesn't that make Aegon's evil as well?"

He put his arms around her and said gently, "I don't know if the man's death was good or evil, Cat. That is for the gods to judge, not for me. I only know that it was not murder, and it was not done without honor." He hesitated a moment before continuing. "I have killed men who deserved life. I regret every one of their deaths, and I will carry them with me always as you will carry this. But I have not done murder, Cat. And neither have you."

She was silent for so long that he feared she had gone away again. "Cat?" he said finally, somewhat fearfully.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"For what, my love?

"You are the only one," she said. "Madwoman or murderess. I had to be one or the other. And I knew I was not truly mad." She reached up to touch his face in the darkness. "You believe I was not mad, and yet you do not name me murderess. You are the only one."

He raised his own hands to touch her face then. "I am the only one who matters. Because I know you, Catelyn Tully Stark. Family, duty, honor. You have never forgotten those things, my love."

"Winter is coming," she said softly. "I've learned never to forget that either."

"That is true," he told her. "Winter is coming. But you are a Stark now, my southron bride, and we Starks have been surviving winters for thousands of years."

Neither Lord nor Lady Stark seemed to take notice of the light snow falling on them or the chill in the air as he held her there in the woods.  Having heard all she had seen and done on the day of their son's death, Ned knew he could never take that burden from her. He only hoped he could perhaps help her carry it.

 


	23. Lingering Fears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fairly short chapter today--last stop before the Bloody Gate! That one's going to take a bit more time. :)

It had been snowing steadily for most of the day--large, white flakes that stuck to the ground, horses, and riders alike. Brienne had the absurd urge to stick out her tongue and attempt to catch one as it fell. Snowflakes such as these did not fall on the island of Tarth. It was cold, but not unbearably so. Lady Catelyn had obtained a variety of clothing items for her from the various men to augment her meager wardrobe. No one would call any of the ill-fitting garments fashionable on her, but they were warm.

A particularly fat flake drifted down right beside her face, and she couldn’t resist. She caught it quickly on her tongue and pulled it into her mouth as it melted. A bright laugh rang out beside her, and she turned to see Lady Catelyn smiling at her as she rode. Embarrassed, Brienne ducked her head.

“Oh, I’ve done that at least a thousand times, Brienne!” her lady told her. “I do not know why it is such a tempting thing, but it truly is,” she said, the laughter still audible in her voice.

Brienne raised her eyes to look at her, but Lady Catelyn must have seen the disbelief in them, for she frowned at her. “Surely, you don’t think me incapable of catching snowflakes,” she teased. “In Winterfell, we get snows even in the summer sometimes, and the children are all mad for catching the flakes on their tongues. They’ll actually make it a competition and drag their father and myself into it if we let them!”

The joy in her lady’s voice would have gladdened her heart more if Brienne didn’t know it would be quickly followed by the shadow in her eyes that always appeared when Lady Catelyn caught herself speaking of her children in the present tense. Sure enough, before Brienne could make any response, Lady Catelyn’s expression changed, and she looked away without saying anything more.

At least she seemed to be physically well now. The previous day, she had suffered some cramping in her belly which she had told Brienne was nothing, and quite normal for her with her moonblood, but she had seemed so much sadder and more silent than usual that Brienne feared perhaps something more was wrong. She had watched Lord Eddard closely, though, and hadn’t detected the darkening of his grey eyes she had come to recognize as concern for his lady wife.

It had been two days since her impromptu fencing lesson from Lord Eddard and practice bout with Donnell Boden. She knew the two men had gone to practice again last evening, but she didn’t feel comfortable inviting herself, so she had remained at Lady Catelyn’s side, attempting to help her as she mended clothes for the men. Lady Catelyn had invited that girl, Mya, to sit with them as well. She seemed nice enough, Brienne supposed, and at least she didn’t say anything about Brienne’s manner of dress, appearing to prefer breeches herself, but she talked mostly about mules, horses, or various nobles from the Vale whom Brienne did not know. Lady Catelyn knew them, however, so she and Mya had conversed while Brienne sat silently concentrating on her stitching and devoutly wishing she were with Lord Eddard and Boden.

Just then, she saw Lord Eddard and one of the Stone Crows riding toward them from the head of their column. “How do you fare, my ladies?” he called out, encompassing both Lady Catelyn and herself in his greeting.

She allowed Lady Catelyn to answer. “We do well, my lord.” She turned her face up to look at the sky, and her hood slipped off her head. “What do you think of this snow? Will it continue?”

Lord Stark pulled his horse up beside his wife’s and reached out to pull her hood back up, tucking a lock of auburn hair which had escaped her braid behind her ear. “It will,” he sighed. “Probably past nightfall, I think, and Mogga here agrees,” he said, indicating the clansman with him. “I fear we shall have to stop, for I would have tents set up for everyone tonight to give shelter from it, and I don’t want to be setting them up in the dark. And Mogga says there is a large sheltering rock face with a good amount of ground for camping in front of it just ahead. We will call a halt there.”

“Ned, we’re so close,” Lady Catelyn said softly.

“Yes, my lady,” he said gently. “Close enough that we shall reach the Bloody Gate within a day or two even with today’s shortened ride. I cannot sacrifice our safety for a few extra leagues.”

“No, of course not,” Lady Catelyn replied. “We shall stop at your word, my lord.”

He gave her one of his almost smiles, nodded to Brienne and turned back toward the front of the column. The clansman continued on to the rear, apparently to speak with the Stone Crow who always rode at the back of the party.

“I have no tent, my lady,” Brienne said once the men were gone.

“You shall share with Mya, Brienne,” Lady Catelyn said as if she had thought of this long before.

Brienne frowned a bit. She had always made her pallet on the ground not far from the Starks, with her sword beside her in case of need. She knew Lord Stark always had plenty men on watch. She had taken her turn at watch herself. But she still considered Lady Catelyn’s safety her personal responsibility and did not relish the prospect of sleeping far away from her.

“My place is by you, my lady,” she said.

Lady Catelyn looked down and twisted her mouth slightly, and Brienne saw a flicker of amusement in her blue eyes as she looked up again to speak. “I believe my lord husband would prefer if I shared my tent with him, child.”

Brienne blushed furiously at that and looked down. “I . . .I did not mean . . .I mean . .I know that . .” she stammered.

“I know, Brienne,” Lady Catelyn said kindly. “But I can’t allow you to stand outside our tent in the snow standing guard over us, and I fear Lord Stark would be most uncomfortable to have you inside it standing guard over us, so you’ll just have to trust him to keep me safe this night.”

Brienne nodded, still not looking at her. “Of course, my lady.” She knew perfectly well that Lord Stark would allow no harm to come to his wife. She simply couldn’t stop feeling responsible for her. She wasn’t sure what else she was supposed to do.

She knew one thing, though. As they had come nearer to the Bloody Gate, there had been discussion on how many people and which people should be sent up to confront Lord Baelish. Lady Catelyn was always included in those who would go. Even Lord Stark agreed with this, although he looked anything but happy about it. The one thing Brienne knew with certainty was that Lady Catelyn would not go up that mountain without her. She would not allow even the frosty-eyed Lord Stark to keep her from her duty to her lady then.

 

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Catelyn Stark watched as two men struggled to start a fire with the damp wood. At least they had a place to make their fires out of the snowfall. The shelter of the rock which jutted out above them as it rose from the ground provided a narrow strip of snow-free ground at its base. Some others already had managed to get their fires going, and she saw one successful man walk over to assist the hapless two she was watching.

Turning her eyes from the fires at the bottom of the cliff, she scanned the area around her, but did not see Ned or Brienne. Howland Reed was in conversation with Mya beside her tent, and Catelyn thought he was probably asking her yet again for every detail she knew about Petyr’s personnel at the Eyrie. She briefly considered joining them, but she didn’t feel like discussing potential scenarios for gaining access to the steps up the Giant’s Lance.

She didn’t feel like discussing anything really, and so she went inside her own tent. Once there, she pulled out the bundle of linen from its bag and began ripping some more strips to use for her unwelcome moonblood. She sighed. As relieved as she had been by its previous arrival, she now found the coming of her moonblood had once again become only a reminder that she may well be past the ability to bear any more children.

She had tried not to dwell on that possibility all through the past two days, but her thoughts kept returning to it. It seemed terribly cruel somehow to have awakened the morning after telling Ned all the terrible details of his first born son’s death only to find her shift stained with the proof that she still could not give him another.

_Gods, Catelyn Stark, stop doing this. You have lain together scarcely a handful of times! You know women who have borne children past forty, and you are not near forty yet!_

With a start, she realized she didn’t truly know how old she was. She had lost all track of time while at the Twins. Her name day had been several moons away at the time of Edmure’s wedding. Had it gone by yet? Was she still five and thirty, or was she six and thirty now? She shook her head. She knew that with so much unsettled in their lives--their daughters to get back, their home to reclaim--being with child now would only complicate matters in any event. Still, she couldn’t escape feeling that she didn’t have much more time. If any.

It occurred to her that Rickon’s name day had certainly passed. Had he lived, her baby would be five by now. She closed her eyes and imagined his sweet face, frozen in time for her at age three. He had seen his fourth name day, she knew. But she had not been there for it. The tears came then, but she couldn’t give herself to them. She would drown. She forcibly pushed thoughts of Rickon and any other babes away and walked back out of the tent.

Ned and Brienne were still gone, and she wondered what they were up to. The girl was rather terrified of Ned, and she didn’t blame her considering some of the looks he gave her! Yet, when he had asked if she could accompany him to speak with Donnell Boden about something, she had practically vaulted to his side. Catelyn sighed. She had been glad of any sign of increased trust between the two of them, but she hadn’t expected them to be away so long.

As they had stopped to make camp earlier than usual, there was still daylight left, but Catelyn felt out of sorts and on edge. She realized she could not keep her mind away from her worries and fears if she remained at the tent alone. Still having no inclination to make small talk with any of the men or even with Mya or Lord Reed, she decided to see if she could find her husband or Brienne.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Damn it!” Ned cursed as he fell backward into the snow once again. There couldn’t be more than a couple inches of snow on the ground, but it was playing havoc with his balance and movement. He was angry and frustrated. He was a northman, by gods! He’d been wielding swords in the snow since he had learned to walk!

“It’s very slick here, my lord,” Brienne said. “Perhaps we should find some ground more sheltered and dry.”

Ned glared at her. “Winter is coming, my lady,” he said coldly. “And I intend to go north from here, not south, so any fighting I do will be in the snow for years to come. Perhaps I should just get up off my arse, and you can try to knock me down again.”

The poor girl paled to a color similar to the snow, and Ned cursed himself. Unlike Donnell, the lass was at least willing to go all out with him when she sparred, but she wouldn’t be if he frightened her half to death.

“Lady Brienne,” he said in a more controlled voice, “I am not angry with you. I am very angry at my leg, at Jaime Lannister, and even at the damned horse who fell on me, but I am not angry at you.”

“That was almost an apology,” Donnell Boden said in a shocked tone from where he stood watching the two of them. He grinned at Brienne. “He never apologizes to me, my lady, and he’s said much worse to me, too!”

Now, Ned glared at Donnell. “It was a clarification.” Slowly he got to his feet. “Are you ready to go again, Lady Brienne?” he asked.

The huge girl nodded mutely, her blue eyes twice their normal size. She raised her sword and Ned did the same. After a few moments of thrusts and parries and dancing around each other, Ned growled, “Stop! Just stop!”

Brienne instantly stood still and lowered her sword, saying nothing.

Ned looked at her in frustration. “Now you’re fighting like Donnell, lass. If I want an easy win, I’ll put him back up here. He’s actually a better swordsman than you are. But he doesn’t ever really try to knock me down. You do. Or at least you did. I need you to do it again!”

“Yes, my lord,” she said softly. She started out tentatively again, but Ned slashed at her sword rather viciously, and she started to fight harder instinctively. He was breathing hard after a few minutes, but he was keeping his footing much better. It was a matter of remembering what the bad leg couldn’t do, and making up for it with the good one. That currently took too much time and thought. He had to keep doing this until it became instinctual, just like his footwork had always been before. He could not continue to fight like a cripple!

“Very nice, my lord,” came Donnell’s voice. The admiration sounded genuine for a change, so Ned surmised that he must truly be improving. Feeling more confident, he began to make some more complicated moves and succeeded in throwing Brienne off balance. She managed to keep her feet under her, however, and simply kept returning whatever Ned threw at her. Deciding to surprise her, Ned feinted to his left, and then lunged sharply at her from his right. She moved slightly to one side, and as he attempted to alter his direction mid-lunge, he lost his balance and landed in the snow again, this time on his face.

Before he could utter another curse, he heard a feminine gasp from somewhere behind him. He rolled onto his back to look toward the sound, and was appalled to see Catelyn standing there, hand over her mouth and blue eyes wide with concern. “Gods, Catelyn! What are you doing here?” he almost shouted.

She cringed just slightly at his words, but then took a few tentative steps toward him. “Are you hurt, Ned?” Her voice sounded fearful.

“No!” he shouted. “I am fine! Go back to the tent!”

She stood there staring at him as he struggled to rise from the snow, and the thought of what he must look like to her shamed him. “Go, Cat!” he said again. Once he was back on his feet, he turned to Brienne. “Escort Lady Stark back to our tent, Brienne,” he commanded her. He half expected her to refuse, and wait for some order from Catelyn, but she simply turned and walked to his wife.

“My lady,” she said softly. “We really should go now.”

Catelyn looked at Brienne and then back at him, and he saw the tears in her eyes. “Yes, Brienne,” she said in a voice that threatened to break, “We should definitely leave here.”

Ned put his face in his hands as Brienne led his wife away.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Lady Catelyn did not speak as they walked back toward the tents, but Brienne could see the tears in her eyes. The lady’s pain was difficult for her to see, but she was not sure what to say, so she did not speak either.

Finally, when they reached the shelter of the rock face, where fires had been built, Lady Catelyn stopped and turned toward her. She was shivering with cold as she asked softly, “What did I do to anger him so, Brienne?”

Brienne hesitated, shocked a bit at being asked the question. “He is not angry with you, my lady.” She took Lady Catelyn’s arm and led her close to the nearest fire. Two men sat by it drinking. “Pardon me sers,” Brienne said, swallowing hard. “Lady Stark needs to get warm, and I have need to speak with her privately. If you would excuse us a moment?”

The men first looked astonished, as she never spoke to any of them, and then one looked as if he might protest. The other was looking at Lady Stark, however, and he grabbed the first man’s arm. “Of course, milady,” he said simply. He pulled the other with him as they joined a group at another fire.

Lady Stark watched them walk away. “That wasn’t kind, Brienne. Those two worked long to make this fire,” she said in a distant voice.

“And they should be pleased to have done so for their lady’s service,” she answered.

Lady Catelyn made a small noise of disagreement, but she sat down on the ground near the fire and wrapped her arms around herself. “You did not answer me, Brienne. Why is my lord husband so angry with me? Do you know?”

Brienne sighed and sat down beside her. “I told you, my lady. He is not angry with you.” Brienne felt terribly uncomfortable discussing Lord Eddard with his wife, but she could not stand the look in her lady’s eyes. “He is angry at his leg,” she continued. “He had said so just before you came there. He does not like the way it hampers him when he fights, so he has been practicing with Donnell Boden.” She gave a small shrug. “And now me.”

Catelyn shook her head. “The leg will never be what it was. He knows that. Why must he risk injuring himself?”

Brienne stared at the fire then, because she couldn’t look at Lady Catelyn. She knew the answer to her lady’s question well, but how could she explain it to her? “He is a soldier,” she said simply. “It is his duty to protect and defend you and his men.” She paused briefly, but then pushed on. “He cannot accept not being able to do that, my lady, and so he trains. He cannot do otherwise.”

She heard Lady Catelyn let out her breath softly. “I understand that, Brienne, I do. But he is angry with me. I could see it in his eyes.”

Brienne shook her head. Lady Catelyn did not understand. She wasn’t a soldier. “Not anger, my lady,” she almost whispered. “Shame.” She forced herself to look up at her then, and saw shock in the lady’s blue eyes. “He would not have you see him fall . . .or fail.”

Lady Catelyn was silent a moment, and then she put her face in her hands. “Gods, what a fool he is!” she exclaimed. “And what a bigger fool am I!” Brienne feared she might be going to cry then, but she simply shook her head and then raised her face again. “I am going to my tent, Brienne, as my husband asked me to. When he returns, please send him to me.”

She stood then, but looked down at Brienne, as if considering what to say. In the end, she just pursed her lips together, murmured, “Thank you,” and walked away to her tent.

Brienne watched her go, and then sat by the fire awaiting the return of Lord Stark, hoping he wouldn’t be long. In fact, it was only a very short time before she saw Donnell Boden walking with him from the woods, and she rose to go meet them.

“Lady Catelyn is in your tent, my lord,” she told him as she approached. “She asked that I send you to her.”

Lord Eddard’s face was frozen, hard and expressionless, and he merely nodded. Donnell quickly mumbled something about seeking out food and wandered off.

Once he had gone, Lord Eddard looked away from her and asked in his cool, grey voice, “How is she, Brienne?”

“My lord?” Discussing Lord Stark’s feelings with his wife had been difficult. Discussing hers with him would be impossible.

“My wife,” he growled. “How is she?”

“She . . .she is well enough, my lord,” Brienne stammered. “She wants to see you,” she added quickly.

“Does she?” he said quietly, but Brienne did not think he was truly asking her. He looked at her then, and said formally, “I thank you for seeing her back here, my lady.” Then he turned and went to his tent.

She watched him go and then went to find some food herself. She didn’t think she could do anything more for either Lord or Lady Stark and so she left them in each other’s keeping for the present, and hoped that all would be well.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn sat brushing out her hair by the light of a small lantern, and the sight of her pierced his heart. It was fairly cold in the tent, although warmer than outside, and she had a fur wrapped around her. It kept slipping from her cloaked shoulders as she moved the brush.

Ned walked to her. “Allow me, my lady,” he said softly. She surrendered the brush to his hand, and he pulled the fur up securely around her shoulders, and she hugged it to her as he began stroking the brush through her long hair, which glowed red in the lantern’s light.

“I know it is early yet,” she said. “But in truth, my head is warmer with it down.”

“I would have it down all the time, as well you know.”

She gave a tiny chuckle at that, and they were both silent for a bit as he continued to brush her hair. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Cat . . .”

At almost the same time, she turned to face him, and said, “Ned . . .”

He gently put a finger to her lips. “I would speak, my lady.”

She nodded, and he put down the brush, pulling her from her stool to the pallet laid in the center of the tent where they could sit together. “My lady, I must beg your pardon. I had no cause to treat you so shamefully. No cause to speak to you so.”

She swallowed. “No,” she said softly. “You didn’t.” She looked at him intently then. “Why did you?”

He clenched his jaw. He was not made for this, for speaking of things he preferred not even to think about, but he had promised her no secrets. “I know well that I am no longer a whole man,” he said between clenched teeth, “and you know it as well. But I could not abide your seeing my weakness like that . . .” He couldn’t say anything more. He realized his hand was clenched into a fist so tight, it was shaking.

“Not a whole man?” she said incredulously, putting her hand over his clenched fist. “Ned, you are the finest man that . . .”

“I cannot defeat a hulking awkward girl with a sword!” he spat out. “I am not as much good to you as your lady knight!” He stood then to walk away from her, but could only go a step in the confines of their small tent.

She stood as well and put her hand on his back. “I watched you cut your way through countless men to reach me at the Twins, my lord,” she said softly. “It was your knife at the Kingslayer’s throat when his man grabbed me.”

He bent his head. “I fear I will fail you,” he whispered. “I am not the man I was, Cat.”

She took him by the shoulders and turned him toward her. “You are not the swordsman, you were, perhaps. But there were always better swordsmen. You said so yourself. You have defeated many better swordsmen, my love.” He started to speak, but now she laid a finger on his lips. “As to the man you are, Eddard Stark, you cannot be anything other than who you always have been.” Tears now filled her eyes. “You are the bravest, most honorable, greatest man I have ever known. There are none like you, my love. None. And I have no fear of your failing me.”

He put took her hands in his. “I cannot let harm come to you,” he said fervently. “I cannot lose you again.”

“You won’t.” She brought her lips to his then, and at the contact, he felt his entire body shiver with desire for her. He put his arms around her and deepened the kiss as he pulled her tightly against him, feeling the length of her body against his through the layers of clothing between them. His cock stiffened, and she must have felt it, for she shuddered and pulled him even closer against her before breaking off the kiss and gasping for air. “My lord,” she panted. “I can’t . . .my moonblood . . .”

He tried to keep the disappointment from his face, but she must have seen it for her face fell. “I am sorry, my lord,” she murmured. “Perhaps, it is only too soon. Perhaps, once we are back at Winterfell . . .”

 _Back at Winterfell?_ She looked desperate, and she made no sense. Looking at her, he slowly realized the reason for her distress. _Gods, Cat!_

He put his hands on her face to turn her eyes to his. “My lady, you mistake me,” he said raggedly as his breathing was still rough with desire for her. “My sorrow is only that I cannot lay you down and bed you this very moment. I want you very badly, Cat. I have no thought of babes, my love.”

“But . . .”

“Gods, Cat! How often must I say it? I want no more children! I want only you!”

“I cannot help it, my lord,” she said in a small voice. “I worry that I may fail you, as well.”

“Never!” he said, and pulled her against him again, simply holding her.

As both of them began to breathe more slowly, he held her back so she could look at him, again. “Cat, I was with you when you brought all our children into the world, save Robb. I would never call what you did easy, my love, for I held you and saw how hard you worked to bring our babes safely. Yet, everyone called them easy births, and you never suffered more than an upset belly when you carried any of the children. And you were so beautiful with each of them inside you. In truth, you spoiled me, and I became convinced that no harm could come to you, in spite of what I know of the perils of childbirth. I would have gladly had you bear me a dozen babes for as much joy as I had in them and in you.” He swallowed. “I was young and foolish. But now, my love, while a babe might be a wonderful thing, the thought of you carrying another frightens me. I cannot lose you, Cat. You are more to me than any number of unborn babes.”

More tears spilled from her eyes then, and he held her close once more. “You will not lose me,” she assured him again. She kissed him again and ran her hand down his chest and belly below his waist where she brushed it across the firm bulge in his breeches.

He gasped and pulled away from her. “Cat, you are going to kill me.”

The smile she gave him then was positively wicked. “No,” she said. “I have something other than killing you in mind, my lord.”

With that, she knelt before him and he felt her hands undoing the laces of his breeches. Realizing what she was about, he felt dizzy as he looked down at the mass of auburn hair tumbling forward onto his belly as she bent her mouth to him. “Oh gods, Cat,” he breathed as she took him in her mouth, and he buried his fingers in her beautiful hair. The feel of her tongue and her lips on his cock drove him quickly beyond the brink, and he cried out her name as his body jerked, and she held him there with her hands. Sinking down beside her then, he pulled her close and held her as his heart slowly settled. Kissing the top of her head, he chuckled. “I fear you are going to kill me, my lady.”

She laughed then, and pulled away to stand up. “Well, perhaps we will starve. The sun is down now, and neither of us has eaten.” She moved to the washbasin and cleaned her hands. “Stay, my love, and I will bring us something.”

Before he could respond, she was gone from the tent. He lay back on the pallet and considered the events of the day. He would protect her. If he had to spar a hundred hours with Donnell or Brienne or anyone else, he would do it. He would try to be the man she believed him to be.

She returned relatively quickly and as they sat together eating their evening meal, they were both quiet, almost shy with each other after everything that had been said and done. As she set the dishes aside and began to undress for sleep, she said quietly, “The snow has almost stopped falling.”

“That is good. We shall travel more easily on the morrow if the weather stays fair.”

“You truly think we may reach the Bloody Gate tomorrow?” she asked him.

“If the weather holds, we should be there before sundown.” He sighed. "And we shall see what greeting we receive from young Waynwood.”

“Mya believes Ser Donnel will be inclined to help us.” Catelyn remembered Donnel Waynwood, Lady Anya’s second son, from her trip to the Eyrie with Tyrion Lannister. Mya had told them he had been named Knight of the Gate when her Uncle Brynden had resigned the post to accompany her back to Riverrun.

“Well, whatever his inclinations are, we will go up to the Eyrie, Cat,” Ned said, turning back the furs to make room for her to lie down beside him. “We will have our daughter back, my lady. I promise you that.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I believe you, my lord.” She nestled against him then. “I love you, Ned.”

 _I know_ , he thought. _Please, gods, let me be worthy of her_. Aloud, he only said, “Sleep well, my love,” and he kissed her gently. Then he held her as she fell asleep, and he turned his thoughts toward the hope of recovering his daughter, endeavoring to banish the lingering fear of failing mother and daughter both.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to all of you for reading. I appreciate every reader and and every comment! :)


	24. The Eyrie

Catelyn Stark felt her entire body tense as she recognized the place where Ser Donnel Waynwood had met her party near the end of her last terrible journey to the Eyrie. It struck her that nearly two years must have passed since then, and she couldn’t decide if it felt like it should be far less or far more. She knew they would easily make the Bloody Gate by evening, for the sun was still high, and while it was certainly cold, the sky was clear, and no new snow fell. The horses walked easily through the soft white blanket on the ground from yesterday‘s snowfall.

She heard Ned call a halt and saw him turn his horse back in her direction. They had said very little to each other since waking this morning. Yesterday’s hurts and fears were still fresh, and neither wished to discuss them on this day. He had kissed her tenderly before leaving their tent, however, and had simply looked at her for a long moment. She took comfort in the love and strength she saw in his grey eyes and prayed to the gods he had been able to see the same in her own.

Now, as he approached her, she saw him motion to Mya and Lord Reed to join him. “My lady,” he called to her. “Would you accompany us, please?” He turned his horse off the road then, and she gave hers a slight kick to follow after him. Brienne, of course, followed her without waiting to be asked.

Ned was dismounting when she reached him, and he held out his arms to help her off her horse. “I would speak with all of you,” he said, “as we will be at the Bloody Gate within hours.” He sighed. “Waynwood will undoubtedly recognize Catelyn, but I would prefer not to reveal ourselves in front of all his men right away if possible. I would rather know how much assistance we can expect from him first.”

“His mother despises Lord Baelish,” said Mya. “I cannot imagine him passing up a chance to be rid of him.”

Ned frowned at that. “We hardly comprise a conquering army, Mya. And I have no intention of calling any more men to arms against the Eyrie while the man holds my daughter there. Sansa’s safety comes first. If Baelish keeps as few men in the actual Eyrie as you say, then if we can just get in, we should be able to use Littlefinger’s surprise that my lady wife and I are not as dead as he supposes against him. You have said that any actual Arryn men will not defend him very diligently once it is clear who we are. Do you stand by that?”

The girl nodded. “Ser Lothor is his only true man. Well, him and Oswell Kettleblack, but I think Kettleblack’s gone off somewhere on a ship unless he’s returned while I’ve been gone. The others won’t put up much resistance, I don’t think. Some of the older guardsmen may even know you, my lord.”

Ned nodded. “The problem will be getting all the way up the mountain and inside without him suspecting who we are. The Stone Crows will turn back at the Bloody Gate?”

Mya nodded. “They are paid for their services there. Lord Baelish doesn’t allow them to enter the Vale as it would offend the other lords.”

“Good,” Ned said. “They undoubtedly know who we are if they have ears at all. Our names have been spoken freely by the men, and while these mountain clans concern themselves little with what occurs in the rest of the realm, they should recognize the name Stark all right. They know nothing of Sansa, however, as Lord Reed has kept one of his men always close to each of them to be certain she is never mentioned in their presence.”

Catelyn hadn’t realized Ned had taken that particular precaution. He had cautioned her to never speak of their daughter within the clansmen’s hearing, but now she realized he had been far more careful than she had even known.

“If they tell Waynwood our names, it is no great added difficulty as we cannot hope to pass through to the Gates of the Moon without his discovering our identities anyway,” Ned was continuing. “As long as they turn back from the Bloody Gate with no further communication with anyone else.”

“They should,” Mya shrugged. “They’ll have their money which is all they truly want.”

“My lady,” Ned said, turning to Catelyn. “I would have you keep your hood up and well over your face when we encounter anyone.”

She smiled at him. “That’s an easy thing to ask of me, my lord. It’s quite cold enough that I have no wish to take it down.”

“Lady Brienne,” he said then. “You will not move from my lady wife’s side for the remainder of our journey.”

“I will not, my lord,” the tall girl said seriously. “You need not worry on that account.”

Ned nodded at her. “Our Donnell will ride at the head of the column with Mogga and Hugor. I left him with them now. He’s gotten rather used to being my voice when we approach new people. Mya and I will follow just behind them.” Looking again at Catelyn, he said, “I would prefer you in the center of the column, my lady.” Brienne nodded before Catelyn could make any response, and finally Ned turned to Howland Reed. “You shall ride at the rear with our friend, Romm, Lord Reed, and see that he does nothing untoward.”

Lord Reed nodded. “I believe the horses are quite rested now, my lord,” he said.

“Indeed,” Ned said. “Let us be on our way.” He made no move to remount though, even as Reed and Mya did so and rode back to their places in the column. Catelyn and Brienne waited there with him, although Brienne did turn away and make herself rather obviously busy with her horse’s bridle.

Ned took Catelyn’s hand and asked her, “Are you well, my lady?”

“Well enough,” she replied. “And you, my lord?”

He smiled at her. “I am always well when I am with you.”

She felt her heart turn a small flip within her chest at his smile and his words, and she embraced him briefly, raising on her toes to kiss his bearded cheek before drawing back to a more respectable distance. “You shall never be without me, my love,” she said softly.

Then his hands were on her waist as he helped her back onto her horse. “Guard her well, Brienne,” he said rather sternly, before mounting his own animal. He smiled once more at her before turning his horse to trot back to the head of the column. _A smile for courage,_ she thought.

In less than two hours, two score men bearing the sky-blue and white banners of House Arryn rode to meet them. From her place in the center of the column, Catelyn heard Mya call out clearly in front, “Ser Donnel! Well met!”

“Mya Stone!” declared the stocky young man. “The girl who slipped past all the Lords Declarant! It is good to see you haven’t perished. Lord Baelish and Lord Nestor feared the worst since you have been gone so long!”

Catelyn heard Mya laugh, and then the voices at the head of the column lowered and she could no longer hear the words. Instinctively, she started to nose her horse forward, but a large hand immediately came down over hers on the reins.

“Lord Stark wants you to stay here, my lady.”

Catelyn felt a momentary flash of irritation. “And are you sworn to Lord Stark or to myself, Brienne?” she hissed.

She regretted her words immediately as she saw the hurt in the young woman’s eyes. “I am yours, my lady,” Brienne said softly. “And I shall do as you command. But I would prefer to keep you safe, and your lord husband would do the same.”

Catelyn sighed. “I know, Brienne. We shall both both abide by Lord Stark’s wishes.” She frowned toward the front of the column. “For now.”

Then Catelyn Stark pulled the fur trim of her hood tighter around her face and settled in her saddle to wait.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The stocky, brown haired young man whom Mya hailed couldn’t be too many years past twenty, Ned thought. He recalled Anya Waynwood’s second son vaguely as a small boy, but had certainly not seen him in well over fifteen years.

“You come with a great deal of company, Mya,” Waynwood was saying now.

“I have the honor of presenting Ser Donnell Boden to you, ser,” Mya said. Donnell was no knight, but Mya was playing this for all it was worth. “I had the good fortune of meeting him in Saltpans, and he and his companions had business with Lord Baelish. I knew I could offer them safe conduct with our friends here,” She indicated the two Stone Crows who rode just ahead of her with Donnell, “so I waited with them until they were prepared for the journey.”

Waynwood nodded. “Ser Donnell,” he said courteously to Boden. “I am pleased to meet you ser, and I must say I approve of your name.” He laughed then. “Alyn,” he called to a man behind him. “Bring the payment for Hugor and Mogga, please.”

“You would not have us go to your Bloody Gate?” Hugor asked.

“We have guests at the Bloody Gate just now, Hugor. I doubt they would be pleased to see you there. No offense.”

Ned thought the tone of the young knight’s voice held quite a lot of offense, but the Stone Crow merely scowled and turned to say something quietly to Mogga. While the two clansmen conferred, Ned wondered who was at the Bloody Gate and what their presence might mean to his plans.

“Romm is with us, too,” Hugor said now. “He needs paid as well.”

“There is more than enough,” Waynwood said, nodding at the man Alyn to hand Hugor a heavy looking little bag.

“Maybe there is more if we tell Littlefinger the names of these,” said Mogga suddenly. “This man is not the leader,” he continued, pointing at Donnell. Turning to point at Ned, he added, “He is. And he bears a dead man’s name.”

Waynwood betrayed no surprise at this news. He looked at Ned with the barest flicker of interest. “We are well aware of his name,” he said to Mogga coldly. “And if you truly have Lord Baelish’s best interests at heart, you will not speak it publicly. The Lord Protector’s business with this man is no concern of yours.”

Mogga scowled, but Hugor simply weighed the little bag in his hand and said, “We go then. Lord Baelish knows how to find us if he has need.” The two men rode down the length of the column and met their companion at the back. Then all three continued down the High Road away from the Bloody Gate.

Ned’s head was spinning. Could Baelish have heard of their coming? Everything had depended upon surprising him. Lost in his worry, he was startled to hear Donnel Waynwood’s voice just at his ear, and looked up to see that the man had pulled up directly beside him. As he met Ned’s eyes, the young man’s face did register a momentary look of disbelief before he hissed, “Keep your hood well up, Lord Stark. None here know who you are save Alyn and myself. We need to get safely inside the Bloody Gate.”

For the next three hours, Ned rode in complete silence, listening to Donnell and Donnel exchange meaningless courtesies and idle talk about the Vale. Mya occasionally offered a comment, asking if Ser Waynwood knew who had been caring for her mules or whether or not Myranda Royce was in residence at the Gates of the Moon, and when precisely the Lords Declarant had left the foot of the Giant’s Lance.

“They left not too long after you did, Mya, in truth,” Waynwood said. “Mother said that Lyn Corbray actually drew his sword on Littlefinger after they’d eaten with him, which put them all in a terrible position of course. The upshot of it all was that they’d give him a year to put the Vale to rights, and if he doesn’t, he’ll step down as Lord Protector.”

Ned gave a snort in spite of himself. “Littlefinger lies as often as most men breathe,” he muttered, remembering Varys’s words from so long ago.

Waynwood heard him and laughed. “My lady mother is inclined to agree with you, I think, although she’s in a rather difficult spot at the moment. And the gentleman who is currently my guest most certainly shares your sentiments.”

Before Ned could ask any more about this guest, the path narrowed abruptly, and the battlements of the Bloody Gate rose before them. As they climbed the narrow path, Ser Donnel suddenly rode ahead and turned back to call out to them. “Who would pass the Bloody Gate?”

Mya answered, “Mya Stone, with Ser Donnell Boden and his companions. May we enter the Vale?”

“In the name of Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, True Warden of the East, I bid you enter freely, and charge you to keep his peace,” responded Waynwood.

Ceremony observed, Waynwood then led them up beneath the shadow of the Bloody Gate. Beyond it, stretched the Vale of Arryn with the mountains on either side. He hadn’t seen the place in years, but Ned found that the vista had the same impact on him it had in his youth, and he paused at first in simple awe of the place. Then he spotted Alyssa’s Tears tumbling from high on the Giant’s Lance, and he paused longer, knowing that he was looking toward his daughter.

Ned was aware that others in their company were riding around him, being led to stable their horses. They were mixing with Waynwood’s men freely, and Ned hoped fervently they all remembered his instructions not to speak of Sansa, ever. He felt a soft touch on his arm, then.

“My lord?”

He turned to see his wife on her mount beside him. She turned to gaze where he had been looking and whispered softly, “She’s there, isn’t she?”

He nodded, unable to say anything at the moment.

Then Waynwood approached them on foot. “My lord, he said, if you would care to dismount, my men can . . .” He stopped then, staring at Catelyn. Her hood remained up, but she was looking directly at him so her blue eyes were clearly visible as well as a few strands of her fiery hair. “Lady Stark,” Waynwood whispered. “It is all true, then.” He shook his head. Turning back to Ned, he said, “My men are good and loyal soldiers, but I would still prefer to have you inside quickly. Bring your lady and follow me, please.”

Ned dismounted carefully and found to his great pleasure that the bad leg was not too sore after this day’s ride. He helped Catelyn down, gave her his arm, and turned to follow young Waynwood into the keep.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Climbing down from that horse, turning her back on the Giant’s Lance, and walking into the keep was one of the most difficult things Catelyn Stark had ever done. Every part of her screamed to get back on the horse and gallop for the Gates of the Moon as quickly as she could go. She was so close. So close. _I was even closer to Arya, but she is still_ _gone_. The thought came unbidden. _I was in the same room as Robb, but I couldn’t reach him._ She clutched Ned’s arm more tightly. He looked at her then, questioning, but she shook her head. _We will reach Sansa,_ she told herself firmly. _We must._

“Right in here,” Ser Donnel was saying as he led them to a doorway about two-thirds of the way down the corridor. Then speaking to someone behind them, he said, “I’m sorry, ser, but I don’t know . . I mean, um, my lady?”

The poor man had ended his inquiry on a rather confused and embarrassed note, and Catelyn turned to see that Brienne had followed them silently. She smiled. “Lady Brienne of Tarth, Ser Donnel. She comes with me.”

“Well . . .” he hesitated.

“Lady Brienne accompanies my lady wife,” Ned said in his lord’s voice. It worked as well on Donnel Waynwood as it did on most people, as he simply nodded then and opened the door.

Inside was a fairly small room with a fireplace at each end, both laid with sizable fires. The only piece furniture was a long table with about eight chairs around it. Only a single man was seated there at the moment, though, and he rose as they entered.

As soon as she saw the tall man with his grey hair and heavily lined face, Catelyn threw back her hood and went to him with her hands outstretched in greeting. “Lord Yohn!” she cried.

The Lord of Runestone smiled broadly as he took her hands, and looked at her in wonderment, although Catelyn did not miss the frown as he took in her scars. “It is indeed good to see you, my lady,” his deep voice still tinged with disbelief.

“My Lord Royce,” Ned said, having removed his own hood and stepped up beside her. “It is very good to find you here as well.”

Bronze Yohn stared at Ned and shook his head slowly. “In truth, I feared Brynden Tully had lost his wits. But that grim face of yours still seems firmly attached to the rest of you, Lord Stark.” He smiled at Ned, then. “It is very good to see you as well, my friend, although you are not so fair to look upon as your lady wife.”

In spite of the seriousness of the situation, that made Catelyn smile. Bronze Yohn had always complimented her excessively, and she had secretly been convinced that he did it at least in part just to make Ned growl. Today, however, Ned’s mind was much too preoccupied to rise to the bait, and he merely took a seat at the table, indicating that the others should do the same.

“What did Brynden put in his letter, Yohn?” Ned asked.

Royce frowned. “Not a lot, to be truthful. We had already received word from his nephew Lord Edmure that a group of northmen had taken the Twins and lifted the siege at Riverrun.” He looked hard at Ned. “That was you, I take it?”

Ned nodded. “I had help. What did Brynden say?” he repeated.

“He said that the two of you lived---something about you being spirited out of the Black Cells and across the Narrow Sea and Lady Catelyn being held captive at the Twins after the Red Wedding.” He waited then, as if expecting some elaboration on these tales.

Ned nodded again. “All that is true, my lord. I fear it is a long tale. Suffice it to say that I was held prisoner in Pentos for several moons. I eventually escaped and made my way to White Harbor and eventually the Neck where I joined forces with Howland Reed, Maege Mormont and Galbart Glover. We discovered my lady was alive at the Twins, and went to get her.”

Lord Royce chuckled at that. “Just walked right in and took her, I’m sure.” He shook his head. “I’d have loved to have been there for that. I can’t imagine a better reason to storm a castle than to rescue a beautiful lady.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Catelyn started to say, as Ned said again, “What else did Brynden put in his letter?”

Royce shook his head and looked at Catelyn. “You’d think after years of marriage to such a charming lady, he’d have learned better conversation.” Turning back to Ned, he answered, “He said Petyr Baelish is not to be trusted, that he should under no circumstances be allowed to discover the two of you live, and that you were riding to the Vale on a matter of great importance. It was all rather mysterious, to be truthful. I decided to ride here to young Donnel and see if any ghosts would come galloping up the High Road or if the Blackfish had simply taken to drinking excessively since leaving the Vale.”

“Petyr Baelish has our daughter,” Catelyn said flatly.

“Your daughter?” Royce said, shocked. But the only girl he brought here with him is . . .” he paused then, and looked Ned and Catelyn in turn.

“Alayne Stone,” said Ned coldly. “Mya told us the name he uses. Littlefinger is claiming my daughter, Sansa, the heir to Winterfell, as his own bastard.”

“Gods!” Bronze Yohn exclaimed. “Gods!” He looked at Catelyn closely then. “I saw her,” he said. “I spoke to her. I even asked her if I knew her!” He shook his head. “Her hair is the wrong color, but she has your eyes, my lady. I thought the little Lady Sansa had your hair as well.”

“She does. They’ve been dying it.” Catelyn’s heart felt like it was going to explode. _Bronze Yohn had spoken to Sansa. Why hadn’t she said anything? Why didn’t she tell him who she was? Oh gods, how frightened she must be! Of everyone!_

Now Donnel Waynwood spoke for the first time. “So Petyr Baelish holds the title of Lord of Harrenhall, Lord Protector of the Vale, and he controls the true heir to Winterfell?” He shook his head. “And Lady Sansa is your heir, correct? She is older than your daughter that the Lannisters gave to the Bolton bastard.”

Catelyn thought for a moment that Yohn Royce was going to hit the young man for his thoughtless words, but Ned very quickly said, “Bolton does not have any daughter of mine. He was given an imposter. We believe Arya may have escaped by ship, possibly going as far as Essos.”

Bronze Royce’s expression was grim. “That’s a hard journey for a young girl,” he said, “but a better fate than marriage to Ramsay Snow, if even half of what one hears of the man is true.”

Catelyn spared a thought for poor Jeyne Poole and shuddered. “It is true,” she whispered. “But Lord Yohn, we must find a way into the Eyrie to get Sansa away from Petyr.”

“I certainly am not welcome there,” Royce said. “If we tell the other lords whom he actually holds there, they will all rally to our cause, though.”

“And do what?” Ned asked. “A host is useless against the Eyrie for they cannot get to it. And laying siege to it only starves my daughter. And I do not know what Littlefinger would do to her if threatened.”

“He’ll agree to see my mother,” Donnel Waynwood said softly.

“What?” Ned asked.

Ser Waynwood looked at Catelyn. “You could be my mother,” he said thoughtfully.

Catelyn and the two grey eyed lords looked at him blankly and the young man laughed. “Baelish has propositioned my lady mother, my lords. He wants her ward to wed his bastard daughter.”

Ned sputtered at that, and Bronze Yohn bellowed, “Lady Anya would never consent to give Harry a bastard bride.”

“Not ordinarily,” Ser Donnel agreed, “but I fear Ironoaks is heavily indebted, and he’s offering an unbelievable dowry.”

“But why?” Catelyn started.

“Because Robert Arryn is a very sick little boy,” Yohn Royce said. “If he dies, Harry the Heir is suddenly Lord of the Vale. It would seem that Petyr Baelish has designs on ruling half of Westeros through your little girl, Lady Stark.”

“Poor Mother,” said Waynwood. “If she only knew, she’d be offering up me or my brother to Baelish instead of hesitating to sell Harry!”

Catelyn’s mind whirled in an attempt to process all this information until it came back to Donnel Waynwood’s earlier statement. “What did you mean that I could be your mother?”

“Oh,” he said. “You need to get up to the Eyrie, right? If my lady mother were to appear at the Gates of the Moon and ask for an audience with Lord Baelish to discuss this proposal, he’d allow her up. You look nothing like my lady mother, of course. But you are a lady. I have one of her green cloaks here. From a distance, any lady in green cloak on a mule could be my lady mother. Mya could escort you and your party up, and no one would stop you.”

Yohn Royce nodded thoughtfully. “That could work. He’d expect Lady Waynwood to travel with at least a small contingent of men, so we could take enough to deal with the household guard once we are inside. “And this time, I won’t drink any of the man’s damn wine,” he said grimly.

“You intend to come with us?” Ned asked.

Bronze Yohn Royce smiled then. “Did I not just say that I couldn’t imagine a better reason to storm a castle?”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

It had been decided that they should spend the night at the Bloody Gate so that they could arrive at theGates of the Moon early enough to deal with Nestor Royce and still have time to make the ascent to the Eyrie by nightfall. Ned and Catelyn had been given a small private bedchamber with an even smaller adjoining room for Brienne. Ned smiled thinking about the consternation on the faces of the men at the keep about his lady’s personal bodyguard. True to her word, the young woman had not allowed Catelyn to be more than three paces away from her until he had firmly bid her good night and closed the door between their chambers.

Sighing, he looked at Catelyn who sat pale and silent on the edge of the bed. “My lady?” he said softly.

“He’s planning to marry her to someone,” she said just as softly. “Do you suppose that means that he hasn’t . . he isn’t . .” she couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I do not know what it means, my love.” He sat beside her. “I only know that this time tomorrow, we will have her away from him.” In truth, Ned preferred not to think too long on what Littlefinger may or may not be doing with his daughter. The man’s eyes on his wife in King’s Landing had been quite bad enough. His desire to possess her had been all over his face. _Damn the man!_

He stood up then and walked quickly to the door and back.

“You’re pacing, Ned,” she said softly.

“I want it to be morning.”

“Pacing will not make the morrow arrive more quickly, my love.”

“No.” He stopped walking at looked at her again, wondering what, if any, he should tell her of Royce’s last comments. After he had bid good night to Catelyn, Bronze Yohn had asked Ned to stay just a moment, and had told him what little he knew of his daughter’s time at the Eyrie.

He had personally seen her only that once, but she had appeared completely devoted to her “father” then, the man had said. Gossip among household staff between the Eyrie and the Gates of the Moon apparently held that “father” and “daughter” were very close, and that Littlefinger actually had his bastard girl running a great deal of the household.

Ned felt he had learned enough about Littlefinger to know that the man trusted no one, so if he did not trust Sansa, then he must believe he controlled her well enough that she would do his bidding without fail. If the man had no use for trust, he certainly believed in control, and the thought of his daughter in Littlefinger’s hands caused Ned’s blood to run cold.

“What’s wrong, Ned?”

Her voice shocked him out of his thoughts and he looked at her. “He’s controlling her, Cat,” he said simply.

She nodded. “Of course, he is.” She swallowed hard and then stood up and came to take his hands. “She’s easy for him to control. She was in the hands of the Lannisters for a long time between your arrest and his taking her away. I cannot imagine what she suffered at their hands, but whatever Petyr says or does, he’ll be able to remind her that he is her rescuer.” She put her hands on his face. “She thinks she has no one else, Ned.”

He nodded, feeling vaguely sick at the thought of his little girl feeling dependent on Petyr Baelish. “She finds out differently tomorrow,” he said darkly.

“You’re scowling,” she said, smoothing the lines in his forehead with her fingers. “Whatever has been done to her, my love, she is going to be hurt. She is going to be frightened. You will need to be patient with her--just as you have been with me.”

“Of course, I will,” he said. “And Baelish will pay dearly for any hurt she’s suffered.”

Catelyn sighed. “You look like a wrathful spirit just now. And I don’t blame you. But she won’t understand, Ned. If she looks at that face, she’ll fear that you’re angry with her, disappointed in her.”

“But that’s ridiculous, Cat! Of course, she won’t think . . .” he stopped then, as he looked into his wife’s eyes and began to see something clearly for the first time. “You mean that you . . .oh gods, Cat! I have never been angry at you for any of it! I have never blamed you! I never could! You know that!” he was babbling then and he hated that, so he simply stopped speaking and implored her with his eyes to see the truth there.

“I do know it, Ned. I do,” she said softly. “But even knowing that your anger is always for the ones who hurt me and never for myself, it still sometimes hurts to see it.” She bit her lip then before continuing. “And I am much older than three and ten.”

He nodded. “I will be careful of her,” he said shortly, unable to put any more words to it.

She smiled at him. “I know you will. Now let’s go to bed, my love.”

He started to protest.

“Oh, neither of us will sleep tonight, I know.” Her lip trembled just slightly then, and he realized anew just how frightened she was. “But I would rather hold each other than lie here alone and watch you wear a groove in the floor.”

He kissed her forehead. “As you wish, my lady,” he told her.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Lord Nestor Royce’s reaction when Catelyn removed the hood of Anya Waynwood’s green cloak was possibly the most explosive response to her resurrection yet. The man had been eating a midmorning meal when they arrived, and he had declined to get up to meet them when he’d been informed that his cousin had arrived escorting Lady Waynwood. Undeterred, Bronze Yohn had simply strode into the dining hall of the Gates of the Moon with Catelyn in his wake, and bellowed, “Nestor, you fool, you’ll want to have a look at the lady I’ve with me!”

Taking that as her cue, she had lowered the hood and looked up at the massive barrel chested man who proceeded to choke on the large bite of turkey he had just bitten off and then to spew large chunks of meat across the table.

“I see you recognize Lady Stark,” Bronze Yohn said drily. “Might I also present her husband, Lord Eddard Stark, whom you may recall as well.”

As Ned stepped out from behind Brienne and Donnell Boden, what little color Nestor Royce’s face still had drained away.

“My lord, my lady!” he stammered. “How is this possible? This is a miracle!”

“Yes, yes, a miracle, no doubt,” his cousin said dismissively. “But what Lord and Lady Stark would like from you is their daughter.”

“Their . . daughter? What daughter?” The man’s confusion was real, and Catelyn knew that whatever loyalty Petyr had bought from him by granting his family a hereditary title of Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, it did not extend to knowledge of Sansa’s true identity.

“Petyr Baelish stole my daughter, Sansa,” Ned said coldly. “He took her from King’s Landing, dyed her hair, and claimed her as his own natural child.”

Nestor Royce blinked stupidly a couple times before saying, “Alayne? You mean Alayne Stone? She’s not your daughter. I’ve met her.”

“She is my daughter,” Ned said even more coldly, “And your having met her does not change that fact. Although if you have met her, I encourage you to look closely at my lady wife’s face and then tell me you do not believe the girl you know as Alayne Stone is her daughter.”

Lord Nestor did stare at her then, and Catelyn knew that uncomfortable fraction of time when his eyes invariably focused on her scars, but then he looked at her eyes for a long moment and muttered, “Gods!” under his breath. He took a large gulp of ale and sighed. “Dyed her hair you say? Is it truly that color?” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of Catelyn’s hair.

“Yes,” she said quickly. “It’s a memorable shade, I fear. And Petyr must have thought it too memorable, especially when Lysa was with them. Her hair was only slightly darker than mine and Sansa’s.”

When Bronze Yohn had told them about Littlefinger’s conferring the perpetual title on Lord Nestor and his descendents the night before, he had sighed deeply. “My cousin is not without honor, Lord Stark,” he had said, “But he is an ambitious man who has always resented being considered the lesser part of our house. Littlefinger played him well when he rewarded him with a position he, in truth, had given good and loyal service to earn. Now he stands to lose a lot if Littlefinger falls.”

Catelyn thought about Lord Nestor’s honor and moved forward to speak with him before the men could make him angry. “Lord Nestor,” she said. “I beseech you for your help. I realize that Lord Baelish has conferred on you and your heirs the title of Keeper of the Gates. And I do hope he means to honor it, for you certainly deserve it. Lord Arryn always knew the value of your service. He often mentioned it to my lord husband.” She gave Ned a significant look.

“Yes,” he said. “Certainly.” She caught the look of amusement in his eyes, but was certain no one else could see past his impassive face.

“But I fear he will betray you,” she said then with as much genuine concern as she could muster.

“What?” Lord Nestor sputtered. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“Why indeed?” she said. “Why would he lie to me about the attempted murder of my son? Why would he betray my lord husband to the Lannisters? Why would he kidnap my daughter and keep her for his own purposes?” She shook her head sadly. “He was raised at Riverrun, you know. As close as a brother to me. And yet he has done all these things to me and my family for no reason I can discern. I cannot imagine he would hesitate to play you false as well.”

“He truly did all these things?” Lord Nestor honestly sounded shocked. “You have proof?”

“I stand before you to testify that it was Littlefinger who held the knife to my throat as Cersei Lannister called for my arrest,” Ned said shortly. “And my daughter is in the Eyrie. Once I have retrieved her, I shall be happy to properly introduce you.”

Nestor Royce swallowed hard. He wasn’t at all happy about this turn of events. Catelyn could see that plainly. But she could also see that they had him. “House Stark and House Tully will forever be grateful to you for your assistance today, Lord Nestor,” she said with all the courtesy she possessed. “Your young Lord Robert is my nephew, you know. He belongs in the Vale, of course, as Jon Arryn’s heir, but I certainly intend to make sure he is suitably cared for and that he knows to treat well all those who provided good and leal service.”

Nestor Royce sighed and nodded. “What would you have me do?”

Bronze Yohn smiled at his cousin. “Send up a bird, Nestor. Ask the Lord Protector if Lady Anya Waynwood and her party might come up to the Eyrie to discuss his recent business proposition.”

“Waynwood? Business proposition?”

“Just do it, Nestor. And make no mention of myself or Lord and Lady Stark.”

As Lord Nestor Royce went to send a bird up the mountain, Ned pulled Catelyn close to him. “You were brilliant, my lady,” he said softly.

Lord Yohn, who still stood beside her heard him, however, and laughed. “And to think I’ve envied you all these years just for her figure and face, Stark! You are indeed a rare treasure, my lady.” He bent deeply to kiss her hand, and, flushed with the success of their meeting with Lord Nestor, Catelyn laughed as well. She laughed even harder when she looked up to find Ned’s face set in a scowl.

Hardly an hour later, Lord Nestor Royce received word that the Lord Protector of the Vale would be most pleased to meet with Lady Anya, and would happily host her party overnight in the Eyrie.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Mya is back, Sweetrobin. Isn’t that wonderful news?” Alayne Stone asked the little Lord of the Eyrie as she tried to coax him to eat his midday meal.

“I don’t like Mya,” he said petulantly. “She’s stinky like the mules.”

Alayne sighed. “Well, Mya is better at getting those mules up here than anyone else, so that means more good things for you to eat, now doesn’t it?”

That got Robert Arryn’s attention. “Sweet cakes? Even lemoncakes like we both like?”

Alayne actually smiled at that. “Yes, my Sweetrobin, even lemoncakes. Although I doubt Mya will be coming up today, so you must have another bite of your porridge now.”

Robert made a face, but he did take another bite.

“Actually,” said a dry, cultured voice from behind her, “Mya will be coming up the mountain today. But she won’t be bringing sweet cakes, I fear. She will be bringing visitors.”

“Visitors?” Alayne felt a wave of panic at the mention of visitors to the Eyrie. “Who is coming, Father?”

“Lady Waynwood, my sweetling,” said Petyr Baelish as he walked to Alayne and kissed her hair. He pulled back and ran his fingers along the scalp, frowning. “Too much red is showing, Alayne.”

“I know, Father,” she told him. “But I used the last of the color when the Lords Declarant came. I cannot do anything about the red until Mya brings the new color you sent her for. Do you think she’ll bring it today?”

“I certainly hope not. I hardly need Anya Waynwood wondering why we need hair coloring hauled up to the Eyrie.”

“She’s old,” Robert put in. “I don’t like her.”

Petyr actually smiled at little Robert then, which surprised Alayne because Petyr rarely smiled at the boy. “Well, you needn’t see her then. She is coming to speak to me of a particular business matter which need not concern the Lord of the Eyrie.”

“That’s me!” shouted Robert.

“Indeed it is,” Petyr agreed. “And the Lord of the Eyrie is far too important to waste his evening listening to old Anya Waynwood prattle on.”

That pleased Robert enough that he ate another bite of porridge without being coaxed. “Good! Alayne and I will play in my room and she can read me stories.”

“Well, I shall need Alayne for just a bit when Lady Waynwood arrives, but I promise she shall come and read to you after that,” Petyr told him.

For a moment, Robert looked like he might protest, but Petyr gave him a very stern look, and he simply nodded.

“Now, Maddy and Gretchel can help you finish up with your meal, young Robert. I have need of Alayne.” Without waiting for Robert to reply, Petyr gave Alayne his arm and led her from the dining hall to his solar.

“I will be leaving soon, Alayne,” he said as they walked.

“How long will you be gone, Father?” she asked. She didn’t like it when he was gone because Robert invariably behaved far worse. Her father was the only person he was the least bit afraid of.

Petyr sighed. “Several weeks, I fear. I must attend Ser Lyonel’s wedding.”

“To the merchant’s daughter? The match you arranged?”

“Yes, Alayne,” He smiled at her, pleased that she had remembered. “Why is it important I attend?”

“Because the lords loyal to you will be there; those with Bronze Yohn will not. You need to show your supporters that you are there for them.”

He smiled again. “Indeed,” he said. “And if my meeting with Lady Waynwood goes well today, she may well accompany me to this wedding feast, and the Lord of Runestone will find himself even more isolated.”

“But why would Lady Waynwood change her allegiance?”

“Why does anyone change their allegiance, Alayne?” her father asked patiently.

“To gain something they need,” she said thoughtfully.

“A fine answer,” Petyr said.

“But, Father,” Alayne asked, “If a person changes their allegiance to gain what they need, what will prevent them from changing it again when they need something else?”

“Why, nothing, Alayne!” Petyr laughed with delight then and turned to kiss her on the mouth. The kiss lasted too long, and she felt the same shameful discomfort these kisses always caused, but she smiled dutifully at him when he pulled away from her. “That, my daughter, is why you trust no one, and always make it your business to know precisely what people need. And to have it whenever possible.”

“What does Lady Waynwood need, Father?” she asked.

“Money,” her father answered. “She needs a great deal of money rather badly. But I shall not give it to her for anything less than what I need of her, sweetling.”

“And what is that, Father?”

He smiled at her rather enigmatically then. “I shall not tell you that until it comes to fruition, I think, Alayne. But you should be very pleased.” He ruffled her hair then before seating himself at his desk. “Now, I need you to plan a nice wine to serve Lady Anya and perhaps a light meal as she‘ll likely arrive after dark and be hungry. She’ll take the baskets once she gets to Sky, so there’s no need to meet the mules. I’ll have Lothor escort her men inside, and you can await Lady Waynwood with me here. Now, go and see if you can style your hair to better mask the red, sweetling. As fond as I am of your true color, it won’t do for Lady Waynwood to notice it.”

As Alayne walked back to her room to address the problem of her hair, she twirled a dark chestnut strand around her finger. _Brown is my true color,_ she thought. _Red was Sansa Stark’s hair. I am Alayne Stone._

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The mules’ progress was slow, but steady, and Ned kept his eyes on his wife’s green cloaked back on the mule just ahead of him. The idea of having her confront Baelish made his stomach turn, but he couldn’t imagine any greater shock to the man than Catelyn’s face, and if he were foolish and egotistical enough to believe even briefly that she had come to him because she wanted to, it could buy them time for his men to secure Baelish’s.

Mya and Bronze Yohn said that Lady Anya would be expected to ride up in the basket from Sky, and Catelyn confessed she had done the same when she came previously. Sansa would either be sent to escort Lady Waynwood from the baskets to Littlefinger or would be waiting with him to greet her. Ned hoped his daughter would be sent to the baskets as they could then secure her right away and there would be no need to send Catelyn to Baelish.

The plan was for Reed, Brienne, and himself to ride up in the baskets with Catelyn--Brienne and Reed going first, to be in position to handle whomever did await them, and Catelyn and himself after. Donnell, Bronze Yohn, and five other trusted men would climb the stairs with Mya. Ned and and his little group would linger at Sky long enough to give the men a chance at an arrival time near theirs.

Stone was the only way castle remotely well garrisoned, and Mya had smiled warmly and refused their offer of refreshment when they dismounted to change mules, stating that Lady Waynwood was fearful of being on the mountain after dark, and wished to keep going right away. They had kept Catelyn well surrounded by their own men, and had her on her second mule and headed up toward Snow before anyone from Stone had a chance to look at her twice in her hooded green cloak. She sat very stooped on her mule, both to hide her height and to give the appearance of older age.

Snow was no more than a stable and a timber keep with only a few men present. Mya had predicted they would not have been told specifically who was coming up the mountain. Nor would they care. The men here simply exchanged the mules again, figuring that if Mya led the party, and they had been allowed past Stone, all was well. No one asked any questions except for one young man who was very interested in Mya’s adventures on the High Road and seemed very happy to have her back. She chatted away with him, keeping his attention focused on her as the others filed by without comment. Then with a smile and a wave, she moved back to the front of their little procession before the trail became too difficult to make a pass.

“Sky will be a different matter,” she said grimly, as she rode abreast of Ned.

He nodded. There would be no more than a handful of men at Sky, but they would have to be quietly taken prisoner without sending any word up to the Eyrie in order for Ned’s group to take control of the winches. No one helping Catelyn into the basket would believe she was the aged Anya Waynwood. Catelyn had closed her eyes and let him lead her across the high saddle above Snow without hesitating, and Mya had smiled broadly at her then.

Upon reaching Sky, they discovered six men, all drinking some conconction designed to keep them warm. They stood in a circle around a small fire, and Mya went to join them, talking and laughing as Ned’s men then slowly integrated themselves into the circle and on his signal, each quickly subdued and disarmed the surprised man next to him. In truth, the men didn’t seem terribly upset by the turn of events as soon as they realized they weren’t to be killed, and Ned began to realize how little these people did love Littlefinger. Mya, who knew all the men, apologized profusely, and promised to set them free as soon as possible.

After showing Ned how to send a message up stating who would be coming up in the baskets, Mya left with Donnell and Bronze Yohn and their five. Ned waited at Sky with Catelyn, Reed, and Brienne, and the two men who were to work the winch and remain to guard the men of Sky until word came they could be released. After a time he had one of the men write out a message that Lady Waynwood and three of her companions would be riding up. It was getting dark on the mountain by the time the response came to send them up.

As he and Catelyn watched the basket carrying Brienne and Lord Reed move up and away from them, he pulled her to him. “Are you sure you wish to do this, my lady?”

She looked at him. “We have no choice, Ned.”

“You have a choice, my love. I will confront Baelish if you’d rather.”

“And have him send up an alarm instantly.” She shook her head. “I can do this, Ned.” Her voice was steady.

He nodded. When it was their turn to ride in the basket, and they were out of sight of others’ eyes, they held tight to each other all the way up. He let go of her only as the basket banged against the wall, being pulled inward by someone inside the Eyrie.

As he stepped from the basket, Ned realized it had been Brienne who had hauled them inside, and he saw with some amusement that four men and a serving girl were bound together on the floor, but he was disappointed to see that Sansa was not there.

“Which of you is to take Lady Anya to Lord Baelish?” he asked courteously.

“I . . .I am, my lord,” said the girl.

Ned nodded. “Well, no harm is going to come to you, lass. All you have to do is take us to Lord Baelish, announce Lady Waynwood, and you will be safe. We must keep you bound for a bit, so you don’t raise an alarm, but you will not be harmed. Do you understand?”

The girl nodded, her eyes staring from him to Catelyn as if still wondering when Lady Waynwood was going to appear.

“Put your hood up, my lady,” he said to his wife, before pulling up his own. “Lead on, young lady,” he said to the girl as Lord Reed helped her up and took her by the arm.

“This way,” she said.

“Where does Lord Baelish await us, lass?” Ned asked.

“The Lord’s solar,” she said.

Ned smiled. “I know the way, child. I lived here for quite a few years, so I will know if you take a wrong turn.”

She nodded, and they started toward the staircase.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Alayne had watched the little party earlier on the bits of the path she could see from her balcony. They were only little splotches of color on mules from this height. She could recognize Mya simply because she had watched her make the climb so often before. The only other figure who could be recognized was Lady Waynwood, and that was only because of the vivid green cloak she remembered from before. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been able to even tell she was a woman at this distance. She had gotten cold eventually, and, after dressing, had gone to make sure Gretchel and Maddy had brought the food and wine she requested to her father’s solar.

Her father was there when she arrived. He was looking over the food and wine the girls had carried in with approval. “You did well, Alyane,” he said. He then came to peer closely at her hair. She had twisted it up on top and let the ends fall loosely. She had encircled her head with a thick ribbon which matched her russet dress to cover the red which peeked through at her forehead. It was perhaps a more formal style than one expected of a baseborn girl, but she couldn’t figure any other way to cover the red.

He nodded at her. “I cannot see the red unless I specifically look for it. Well done.”

Just then, a man from the basement came to say that Lady Anya and three of her companions would be arriving in the baskets and that several other men were climbing the steps with Mya.

“Maddy, why don’t you go to the basement and greet Lady Waynwood for me. Bring her and her companions here, please.”

Maddy nodded.

“You don’t want me to go, Father?” Alayne asked.

“No,” he said. “Gretchel, you may go look after Lord Robert now. Alayne will serve us here.”

Once the girls left, he turned to her. “You have done an elegant job with your hair, sweetling, but I’d still prefer Lady Waynwood not get to examine you all the way from the basement to here. Now come give your father a kiss.”

Alayne moved to kiss him on the cheek, but he caught her face and held it. “Now, come, Alayne. Is that any way to show affection for the father who is working on such a lovely surprise for you?” He kissed her mouth then and one of his hands brushed up the side of her bodice rubbing against her breast. Alayne closed her eyes and pretended she was somewhere else until he released her.

“What surprise, Father?” she asked then.

“Now, if I told you it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?” he said with a smile. “Go ahead and pour me a glass of wine if you would, Alayne. And you may have a small one yourself, as it will be a bit before they get the old woman hauled up.”

As she poured, he cautioned her, “Only a little, Alayne. Never fail to keep your wits.” He smiled at her again. “Ah yes, sweetling, with your mother’s beauty and my sharp wits, no one shall resist you.”

She sipped her wine. She didn’t like it when he spoke of her mother. He had loved her a great deal, she knew that. He always said she loved him as well, but she had seen her mother with her father. Her real father. _I am Alayne Stone,_ she told herself automatically. _Petyr Baelish is my father._ But she had seen her mother look at Lord Eddard Stark and she didn’t like to think of her looking at Petyr the same way. _Lady Catelyn Stark,_ she thought. _That is my mother’s name. I am Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn._

Shocked at herself, she put the wine down, wondering if the small amount she had taken had caused her to think about Sansa Stark. No, she decided. It wasn’t the wine. It was Petyr mentioning her mother. Catelyn Stark was Sansa’s mother, not Alayne Stone’s.

She sat quietly and watched Petyr marking in a ledger at his desk while he took occasional sips from his wineglass. After awhile, she heard Maddy’s voice at the door. “Lady Anya Waynwood, milord,” she yelled. Alayne wondered why she said it so loud and squeaky.

“Come sit close to me, Alayne,” Peter said, and she moved to his side. “Show her in, Maddy.”

The door opened and a lady in a green cloak and hood walked in, closely followed by a hooded man with a grey beard and a noticeable limp. Behind him came a small man, even shorter than Petyr, and a very tall---was that a woman dressed like a man? Alayne was so thunderstruck by the strange woman’s appearance, she didn’t notice anything else until she heard her father gasp.

She looked at him and was shocked to see that his face had lost all color, and the hand that held his wine glass actually shook. She had never seen him like this.

Then she heard a voice she hadn’t heard in years, but that went straight into her heart, say softly, “Hello, Petyr.”

She looked away from Petyr Baelish then. The very tall woman and the two men remained back near the doorway, but the woman in green had moved to the center of the room and removed her hood. Alayne couldn’t quite breathe. The woman’s face had scars upon it that weren’t there before, but it was her face all the same. Alayne blinked tears out of her eyes, and thought she should do something, but couldn’t think what.

Petyr grabbed her arm then, and gripped it tightly. “Cat,” he whispered.

She knew better than to move or even speak with him holding her arm like that, but as she looked at the auburn hair and blue eyes of the woman who was now looking at her, Alayne Stone disappeared.

 _Mother,_ thought Sansa Stark.


	25. Reunion

Catelyn’s heart was pounding as they walked up the stairs and through the corridors of the Eyrie. They passed no one, which seemed to support Mya’s contention that the castle was very lightly staffed. Catelyn prayed that Bronze Yohn and the other men would arrive quickly.

Ned and the young woman stopped outside a closed door, and Ned silently motioned for Reed and Brienne to bind her again, hands and feet. As they did that, Catelyn pulled her husband aside. “You must be still and silent, Ned,” she whispered. “No matter what he says or does.”

His eyes darkened at that, but he said nothing, and she continued. “He will likely touch me, my love. Or Sansa.” His hands tightened reflexively then. “Ned!,” she whispered more urgently. “Unless either of us is actually being harmed, you must not give yourself away! We must give Bronze Yohn and Donnell time!” She put her hands to his face and looked at him, allowing her eyes to plead with him. She felt his jaw clench beneath her fingers, but he gave a tiny stiff nod.

“Courage, my lady,” he whispered to her then, and she nodded back as she drew the green hood more tightly around her face.

Ned nodded to the serving girl who was being supported by Brienne, and she screeched at the door, “Lady Anya Waynwood, milord!” Brienne gently set the poor child down in an alcove off to the left as Petyr Baelish’s voice bid them enter from behind the door. The sound of it sent a cold shiver down Catelyn’s spine, but she pushed open the door and walked into the Lord’s solar with Ned following immediately.

She managed not to gasp at the beautiful dark haired maiden sitting too close to Petyr behind the large desk. She was aware that Petyr rose in greeting as she entered, mostly because the girl beside him did, too. _Oh, gods, she’s as tall as I am!_ It was difficult to look at the girl clearly without revealing her face, but Catelyn could plainly see it was her daughter. Sansa was older and more beautiful than ever, but she was undeniably her own sweet girl, and Catelyn forcibly stopped herself from crying out with joy at the mere sight of her.

Petyr made some sort of movement, and Catelyn forced her attention back to him. The frown on his face clearly stated he knew something was amiss as he stared at her. Cloak or no, she was simply too tall and too agile to be Anya Waynwood. Without further thought or hestitation, she threw back her hood and looked him directly in the eyes.

His reaction was immediate. He gasped as if he had been run through with a sword, and the color drained from his face just as if he were bleeding out. He began shaking so badly that she had the absurd urge to go and remove the wineglass he held from his hand, lest he spill it all over the desk.

Instead, she stayed rooted to her spot in the center of the room and spoke, rather shocked to hear her voice come out softly, but evenly, with no audible tremor. “Hello, Petyr.”

Sansa made a tiny sound then, and as Catelyn turned her eyes back toward her daughter, Petyr grabbed the child’s arm and whispered, “Cat” in a harsh rasp of a voice. She saw recognition in Sansa’s blue eyes, mingled with fear, disbelief, hope, and a gradually dawning joy that caused Catelyn to feel her heart would actually burst open. She remained acutely aware of Ned, strung tighter than any bowstring, behind her near the doorway, and knew his eyes were fixed on Petyr’s fingers digging into the flesh of Sansa’s arm.

“Petyr, you are hurting my daughter’s arm,” she said coolly, again surprised at the calmness of her voice, when calm was the last thing she felt.

“Your . . .your daughter,” he stammered, as if confused by the word, not taking his hand from Sansa’s arm.

“Yes, my daughter,” she said, taking a step toward the desk. “Surely you don’t believe a simple brown hair rinse would prevent me from recognizing my own child.” She heard something like a tiny, half-swallowed sob escape from Sansa, and her cool resolve threatened to crumble. She kept her eyes on Petyr Baelish.

“Let go of her, Petyr.”

Baelish continued to stare at her in disbelief, but he dropped Sansa’s arm. Catelyn could actually feel Ned relax marginally, and she silently thanked the gods. She forced herself to smile at Petyr then. “Thank you for getting Sansa out of King’s Landing, Petyr,” she told him.

He seemed to recover himself a bit then for he smiled back at her, “Cat,” he said. “I cannot believe you are standing here. How is this possible?” As he looked at her, she saw the expression on his face slowly changing from complete shock to something her husband would not like at all. _Be still, Ned_ , she thought desperately.

“I assure you I am not a ghost,” she said lightly, “although it was a near thing, and I have the scars to prove it.” She glanced at Sansa and saw that she was inching very slowly away from Petyr while his attention was focused on Catelyn. _Good girl,_ she thought. “I am sorry for the deception, Petyr, but I have heard so many strange tales. I didn’t truly believe them, of course, but I had to see you and Sansa for myself before I could risk being open.” She arranged her features into a portrait of feminine distress. “I have found so few real friends. There is no one I could trust. I had to come here myself.”

The desire and avarice in his expression was so blatant after she made that statement, she wondered how she could have been blind to it for so long. Turning again toward Sansa, she saw that her daughter was now more than an arm’s length from Littlefinger.

She held her arms out. “Come here, my sweetling!” she called to her. “I have gone far too long without holding you.”

Sansa gave Petyr a frightened look which chilled Catelyn’s blood, but after the slightest hesitation, she scooted around the desk and flung herself into her mother’s arms. The feel of her warm, solid, living daughter was almost more than Catelyn could take and she felt a sob escape her own lips as she clutched Sansa tightly to her. She wasn’t quite her height yet, she realized, holding her close, but almost. She would certainly be taller than Catelyn within a year.

Sansa cried softly against Catelyn’s neck, whispering, “Mother,” almost incoherently, and Catelyn forced herself to focus on the danger here. She could feel the two of them pinned between the gazes of two men, the one who loved them and the one who would own them, and she put her mouth close to Sansa’s ear, on the side where Littlefinger could not see.

“We are not safe yet, child, but we will be,” she whispered. Sansa nodded almost imperceptibly. She looked up to see Petyr now moving around the desk toward her much more slowly than Sansa had. She released her daughter from her arms and stepped toward Petyr as if to greet him, effectively putting Sansa behind her. She held her hands out to grasp Littlefinger’s as she was not entirely sure Ned would remain still much longer if the fool man tried to embrace her.

He held both of her hands in his, running his thumbs over the backs of hers. Looking directly at her, he asked slowly, “Why have you come here, Cat?”

She decided to give him the truth. “To find my daughter, of course. And to find you.” She squeezed his hands more tightly, as if in affection, but, in truth it was to prevent him from running them up her arms. “I was nearly killed at the Twins by the Freys when my son was murdered at their Red Wedding.”

“Everyone believed you dead. I believed you dead,” Petyr said. He cocked his head, and continued to regard her carefully. “But why are you not with the northmen? Word arrived that northmen had taken the Twins and driven the Lannisters from Riverrun. Why are you not there?”

“My daughter is not there!” She turned and walked away from him then, allowing some of the tears she had held back to escape her eyes, hopeful they would help obscure the lies she next told him. Keeping her back to him, she said, “I am not trusted by the northmen or even my own brother.” She could see Ned clearly while facing this direction, and noticed his right hand clenching and unclenching near his sword. _Be still, my love. Just a little longer._ She prayed fervently to the Warrior that Donnell and Bronze Yohn were in the Eyrie and taking control of the guards even then.

“Why would anyone mistrust you, Cat?” Petyr said in tones of deep sympathy and disbelief. She felt him place his hands on her shoulders and felt his breath on the back of her neck. She flashed a warning look at Ned which she hoped he could see beneath that hood of his before whirling back around to face Littlefinger.

Her spin had effectively knocked his hands away from her shoulders and she grabbed them in her own again. “I freed the Kingslayer!” she cried. “My husband and all my sons were dead and I set Jaime Lannister free because he promised he’d send my daughters to me!” She made no attempt to control the tension and fear in her voice now, hoping that Littlefinger would mistake the cause of it.

He did. “Oh, my poor Cat,” he soothed, putting his arms around her. “Always too trusting, by far. So they have made you to blame for their own failures, have they?” His hands moved up and down on her back. “You were right to come here. I will keep you safe. Better those northern savages blame your dear departed husband for their woes. He bungled one thing after another, the fool.” _Oh, gods!_

She felt, rather than saw Ned begin to move toward them, but then Howland Reed’s voice called out clearly, “My lady!”

She spun around again, out of Littlefinger’s arms, and Ned stopped.

“My lady,” said Reed. “Should we go into the hall and make certain you and Lord Baelish are not disturbed?”

Catelyn silently thanked the man for intervening. “The two of you go,” she said, indicating him and Brienne. “Guard the door. Kinnet can stay,” she finished, making up the name on the spot.

“Who are your companions, my sweet? You have no need for guards here, Cat,” Petyr was saying. “I will keep you safe.”

She couldn‘t have him asking her questions. “By dyeing my hair and changing my name?” she challenged him. “I would trust you, Petyr, but no one else. And if you are so secure here, why is Sansa disguised, and how did my poor sister come to be murdered in her own home?”

She thought she saw a brief moment of panic, but then he turned slightly to stare hard at Sansa. “The Lannisters want your daughter dead, Cat. She cannot be Sansa Stark now. As for Lysa,” he tutted and shook his head. “That was a tragedy. A mad singer, blind with jealousy, threw her out the Moon Door. My poor daughter saw the whole thing. Didn’t you, sweetling?” He held his arms out toward Sansa.

Catelyn started to correct the man as to whose daughter Sansa was when she realized that the girl was walking slowly toward Petyr, looking at him fearfully, and nodding. Quickly, she reached out, and took her hand. “Sansa, what’s wrong?”

Sansa looked at her, but her eyes were far away. “I saw the whole thing, my lady” she said slowly. “Marillion pushed her.”

Something was wrong with her daughter. Something that had to do with Petyr. “Come here, Sansa,” she said, but the girl just stood there between Petyr and herself as if frozen.

A shout came from somewhere outside the room then, followed by the unmistakable sound of swords. Startled, Littlefinger looked away from Sansa, and suspicion narrowed his eyes as they met Catelyn’s. “Cat,” he said slowly. “What exactly have you done here?”

“I have come for my daughter.”

He actually laughed then. “Oh, my foolish, sweet Cat! You plan to take her away? I fear you cannot. I would prefer you to stay here of your own choosing, but you will both stay either way. Whatever your little friends are doing out there will fail, my sweet Cat. You know that you have always belonged with me. Sansa knows it, too.”

She stayed perfectly still as he smiled and brought his face close to hers. He touched her hair with one hand and drew the index finger of his other down the front of her bodice. The sounds outside were louder now, and she swallowed and forced herself to keep looking in his eyes. She needed him focused only on her. “You will truly keep us both safe, Petyr?” she whispered.

He smiled at her. “But, of course, Cat. You can trust me.”

There was a sudden flurry of movement from beside them, and he was suddenly jerked back from her. Ned gripped the man tightly against him with his left arm, and his right hand held the point of a dagger beneath Littlefinger’s chin. “I don’t think she can, my lord,” he said coldly. “But she can certainly trust me.”

Held as he was, Littlefinger could not see Ned’s face, but he recognized the voice. Catelyn smiled as she watched all the color drain from Baelish’s face for the second time. “You recall my lord husband, don’t you Petyr?”

Now, Catelyn heard Sansa gasp, and when she turned to look at her, she was alarmed to see that she looked as pale as Baelish. She stared wide-eyed at her father with his knife to Littlefinger’s throat and began to sway. Catelyn moved quickly, and caught her just as she started to fall.

“Sansa!” Ned cried out.

“She’s fine, Ned,” Catelyn assured him. “She’s only fainted.” She pulled her daughter over to a small chaise at the edge of the room and reclined her on it. “Shall I check outside?” she asked her husband.

“No, I can’t be sure what’s going on out there, and I wouldn’t have you injured.”

“What’s going on out there is my guardsmen coming to arrest you, Stark,” Baelish said. “How are you alive anyway?”

Ned laughed bitterly. “Apparently, I’m harder to kill than you thought.” Looking at Catelyn, he said, “There is rope at my waist, my lady. There. Bind his feet.”

As she moved to do what Ned had asked, she was surprised to hear Petyr laughing. “You do realize this gains you nothing. My guards will be here momentarily.”

Ned jerked Petyr’s hands roughly behind him and thrust his dagger into Catelyn’s hand, as he pulled the end of the rope she had wound around the man’s ankles up to his wrists and began to bind them tightly together. Catelyn held the point of the dagger at Petyr’s chest as Ned worked.

“Now, Cat. This is disappointing,” Petyr said. “Why must you always choose these foolish Starks? I would have given you the world, you know. Now, I fear I must leave you to your fate and content myself with my lovely Alayne. She is even lovelier than you, you know.

Ned grabbed the dagger back from Catelyn and shoved Littlefinger roughly into a chair. “If there is a guard left alive here who is actually loyal to you, Baelish, I shall happily drive this dagger through your neck should he come to arrest me,” Ned said matter-of-factly.

“The oh, so honorable Eddard Stark murder me in cold blood?” Baelish laughed. “I think not.”

“You sold me to the Lannisters. You plotted my death. You set Catelyn against Tyrion Lannister for some reason of your own. You undoubtedly had something to do with Lysa Arryn’s death. You have kidnapped my daughter and slandered my lady wife.” Ned’s voice was ice. “I could kill you this very moment and call it justice, not murder.”

Baelish actually looked frightened then as he looked at Ned’s eyes, but he spoke with bravado. “Slander my darling Cat? Never! I have only the greatest reverence for her beauty when I tell of how she spread her legs for me at Riverrun.”

Ned’s right fist exploded into Littlefinger’s face. Catelyn saw his head snap back, and then he was still. Her husband calmly put his fingers on the man’s neck.

“Ned,” Catelyn whispered. “What have you done?”

“What I’ve wanted to do since I walked into the room. He isn’t dead, Catelyn, merely quiet for once.” He looked up at her then. “I will see him dead, though. Publicly executed for his crimes.”

She nodded grimly.

Ned then left Littlefinger and walked to Sansa’s supine form. He knelt beside her and traced her face with his hand. “Gods, she looks like you,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. He then put his forehead down on her shoulder and his own shoulders shook briefly. Catelyn’s eyes filled with tears of joy at the sight of the two of them together, and she walked to put her hand on Ned’s shoulder.

Sansa stirred then, and opened her eyes, blinking. “Sansa, sweetling,” Catelyn said softly. “You are well. We are here.”

Sansa’s blue eyes looked at her in wonder. “Mother?” she said. “Are you truly here?”

“Yes, my love. We are both here.” Catelyn looked down at Ned, whose eyes were fixed on Sansa’s face as he knelt beside her, and Sansa followed her gaze. She gasped slightly as she met Ned’s eyes.

“Sansa,” he whispered. “You are safe, my daughter.”

“Father,” she said. Then troubled tears filled her eyes, and she pressed her lips together tightly. “Father,” she repeated softly. “Do you . . .do you hate me?”

Ned’s face seemed to shatter. “Hate you? Gods, no, Sansa! Why ever would you think such a thing? I could never hate you, child. I love you with all my heart.”

Sansa burst into sobs then and threw her arms around her father’s neck. Ned gathered the girl in his arms and held her tightly. Catelyn let her own tears fall freely then as she fell to her own knees and put her arms around her husband and child.

A short time later, Catelyn was vaguely aware of people entering the room. “Take Baelish to the sky cells. He appears to be having a nap,” she heard Bronze Yohn’s amused voice say. Then after a moment, she heard him say more quietly. “Stand guard outside, my lady, and see that no one disturbs the Starks.”

“Yes, my lord.” Brienne’s voice, sounding somewhat choked.

After that, Catelyn was aware only of Ned and Sansa, and how none of the three of them wished to be the first to let go. They remained there, holding one another, for a very long time.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Time seemed to have stopped for Ned Stark as he knelt on the floor holding his wife and daughter, but eventually the pain in his leg pushed itself into his awareness, and he knew he must move from that position. He gently pulled Sansa’s arms from his neck, and braced himself with his own arms. Catelyn moved to help him stand as Sansa watched with wide, watery eyes. She seemed to surmise he had some difficulty, for she moved to one end of the chaise and patted the place beside her.

“Here, Father,”

 _Father._ Just hearing the word from his daughter’s lips made him feel a joy he had no words for. Gratefully, he sank down beside her, and Catelyn immediately stretched out his leg and began massaging all around the knee.

“That’s the leg the horse fell on,” Sansa said softly. “In King’s Landing.”

Ned nodded, grimacing as Cat’s hands pressed on a particularly tender spot. “It festered and never healed properly,” he said. Looking at his child’s distraught face, he added quicky, “But I am quite all right, Sansa. Your mother has taken very good care of me.” He smiled at both of his blue-eyed ladies, marveling at their likeness and wishing he could remove the dark color from his daughter’s hair.

Sansa was looking back and forth between the two of them, as if not quite believing them possible. Then she bowed her head and asked in a very small voice, “Robb . . .and Bran and Rickon . . .are they . . .are they really . . .?” The hope he could hear in her hesitant question broke Ned’s heart.

“I am afraid your brothers are truly gone, sweetling,” he said gently, and she nodded, not looking up. “We know that your sister escaped from King’s Landing,” he added. “She came as far as Saltpans and may have taken ship there.”

“Arya’s alive?” she looked up at that.

Ned nodded. “And we shall find her. Just as we found you.”

She looked at Catelyn then. “Tyrion . . .Tyrion said you were murdered,” she whispered. She reached out and touched the scars on her mother’s face. “Did the Freys do that to you?”

Ned saw the pain in Catelyn’s eyes as she struggled to find a way to explain her scars to her child. He answered for her. “Yes, Sansa,” he said firmly. “Your mother’s wounds are all gifts from the Freys.” He took his wife’s hands and looked at her face. The Freys were responsible for everything she had done there. “It’s true, Cat,” he said softly.

She nodded slightly and looked to Sansa. “But I am quite well now, Sansa. The marks no longer hurt me.” She bit her lip, and Ned knew she wished to ask what hurts their daughter bore, but would not do so yet.

“Joffrey showed me your head,” Sansa’s voice came quietly again, trembling as she spoke. “He held it up on the steps of the Great Sept, with great empty eye sockets and all dripping with tar.”

“Oh, Sansa,” Catelyn whispered.

“It was not mine, child,” Ned said. “It was never mine.”

Sansa continued as if she hadn’t heard them. “I screamed and screamed. I couldn’t stop. The Hound carried me into the Sept and still I screamed. They locked my in my room then. I don’t know how many days . . .until Joffrey came.”

She paused then, but neither Ned nor Catelyn could find words to speak. “I hate Joffrey,” Sansa finally said. “I was glad when he died.”

Ned still didn’t know what to say, but Catelyn did. “Sansa,” she said firmly, “Joffrey was an evil person, and he fully believed he held your father’s head. Don’t ever doubt that. He planned to kill your father, and would have done so had he not been tricked. You are not wrong to hate him.”

Sansa looked hard at Catelyn for what seemed like a long time before she said flatly, without looking away, “I hate a lot of people, Mother.”

Ned’s heart broke into even more pieces as he heard those words from his gentle daughter who had always believed in people’s goodness and songs and the honor of gallant knights.

“So do I, Sansa,” Catelyn told her without hesitation. “But in this room, now, are two people that I love beyond measure, and that matters more than all my hate.”

Sansa’s eyes lost that hard look then, and her face broke into that of the child he remembered as she began to cry. “I do love you, Mother!” she sobbed, and Catelyn gathered her into her arms.

“I know, sweetling,” she whispered, softly patting Sansa’s back; and Ned sat there watching her soothe and comfort their daughter with the same touches, words, and soft murmurs he had seen her use a thousand times for scraped knees, wounded feelings, and broken hearts.

He would have sat there watching them forever, his heart full, but for a knock on the door.

“My lady?” came Brienne’s tentative voice.

He laid a hand on Catelyn’s back, letting her know she should stay with Sansa, and went to open the door. Brienne stood there with a rather distressed looking thin, balding man.

“My lord,” she started. “I am sorry, but . . .”

“Lord Stark!” the man cried. It is indeed you! I had not dared to believe!”

“Maester Colemon,” Ned greeted him. “It is good to see you, as well.”

“I am sorry to intrude, my lord,” Colemon said hesitantly. “It’s just that . .well, Lord Robert is quite wroth. He had been promised that Lady Alayne would attend him, and he’s already had one rather bad shaking spell. I hesitate to use any more sweetsleep and . . .”

“I will go to him, Maester Colemon,” came a calm feminine voice from behind Ned.

Ned turned to see his daughter walking toward them. Her face was tearstained, but her manner was composed. Dark hair notwithstanding, her resemblance to her mother was now even more pronounced.

“I am sorry, Lady Alayne, but the boy will not . . .”

“Lady Sansa,” she interrupted. “My name is Sansa Stark, Maester Colemon. I would prefer that you call me by it now.” Turning to Ned, she said, “I am sorry, Father, but Sweetrobin is . . .difficult . . .and sometimes I am the only one who calms him. It is late, and you and Mother must be hungry. There is food here. I had it prepared for Lady Waynwood.” She smiled at that. “I will have a chamber prepared for you, and others for . . .well, whoever else you brought here.” She shook her head, as if she still did not quite believe the night’s events. “I will find you once Sweetrobin is asleep. We still have so much to say.” Her lip trembled a bit then, and she let her lady of the manor demeanor slip just long enough to tip-toe and kiss his cheek. “I cannot believe you are here,” she whispered.

Then, with a swish of skirts, she was gone, following Maester Colemon down the corridor, leaving Ned reflecting with some surprise that his daughter could now reach his cheek as easily as her mother did. He didn’t realize Brienne still stood there, until she spoke again.

“My lord? Lord Royce and Donnell Boden greatly desire to speak with you if you are ready.”

Ned sighed heavily. All he wanted was to shut himself away with Catelyn and Sansa and not think of anything else this night, but he knew that was not possible. “Bring them here, Brienne,” he said wearily. “My daughter has had food and drink prepared. We can at least eat while we talk.”

Once Brienne left to find the men, he returned to Catelyn who had not moved from the chaise. “Are you well, my love?” he asked, sitting beside her.

In a gesture reminiscent of Sansa’s, she flung her arms around him then. “Oh gods, Ned, I was so scared! Did you see the way she looked at him? She’s been badly frightened. I couldn’t stand him touching her!”

Ned held her close. “You were so very brave, my love. And we’ve got her now. Petyr Baelish shan’t touch either of you ever again.”

She pulled back to look at him and wiped at her tears with the back of her hand. “I should not be such a mess when Bronze Yohn and the others arrive. Did you see our little girl just now? She puts me to shame.”

Ned smiled at her and and kissed her damp eyelashes. “I saw her. I saw you in her, Cat. Your courage, your poise, your strength. She is a testament to you, my lady.”

“That’s funny,” she said, smiling back at him.

“Why?”

"Oh, she looks like me, to be sure, although she’s much prettier.” She raised a hand to stop Ned’s protest. “But when that maester came in search of her, she pulled herself from my arms, dried her tears, and squared her shoulders with a rather large sigh. And as I watched her commit herself to what she had to do rather than what she wanted to do, I saw you, Eddard Stark.”

Before he could respond to that, there were voices and footsteps in the hall, so he simply got to his feet and offered his hand to help her rise.

Bronze Yohn Royce and Donnell Boden entered with Brienne and two men behind them. These were introduced as captains in the Eyrie‘s household guard. Apparently, Littlefinger’s man Brune had been sent to meet the men walking up from Sky, and they had surprised and subdued him rather quickly. After that, very little resistance had been offered, and as of now, the guards were taking orders from Ned’s men.

“Lord Stark,” Donnell said with a large smile. “The castle is yours.”

Ned shook his head. “The castle is Robert Arryn’s, Donnell. I want only my daughter.”

“Well,” boomed Yohn Royce, “as Robert Arryn happens to be eight years old and your nephew, at the moment you have his castle, too. What you intend to do with it is one of the things we need to discuss.”

Ned sighed. “I intend to see young Robert properly fostered here in the Vale. Winter is coming, and the Eyrie should be closed soon in any case. Lord Nestor will remain in the Gates of the Moon with his household and those from the Eyrie. Gods willing, Lord Robert will grow stronger as he grows older, and when summer returns, he shall return to the Eyrie with good men to guide him.”

“And what plans do you have for yourself, Lord Stark?” Royce asked.

“Winterfell,” Ned said. “If I am able. Until I receive communication from my goodbrother at Riverrun and Lord Olyvar Frey at the Twins, I don’t know how things stand there, or how many northmen or river lords could go north with me. I cannot leave the riverlands without adequate defense if they remain under threat.” He sighed. “I plan to remain at the Eyrie for a time and to keep Maester Colemon rather busy with ravens so that I might better make my own plans.”

“Whatever those plans are, when you call the lords of the Vale, we shall come,” Bronze Yohn said firmly.

Ned smiled. “I thank you, my friend. But it is not my place to call the banners for House Arryn.”

“No, but as I intend to foster young Robert myself, I believe I can get the other lords to agree that it is my place. We have sat idle in this conflict long enough, Ned, and I confess that I am far more inclined to help you right the wrongs in the north than involve myself in the Lannister mess to the south.”

“Riding with me is involving yourself in it, Yohn. While I have no plans to ride south now, I will never swear fealty to Tommen. He is no Baratheon and no king, only a child born of incest and a puppet for the Lannisters. Bolton has become a Lannister man, and I shall drive his men from Winterfell and take his head for the murder of my son. As long as Tommen sits the Iron Throne, riding with me is treason.”

“Well, if it’s treason we’re planning, let’s do it on a full stomach,” the Lord of Runestone said with a smile, and he walked to the table which had been laid with food and drink. Snatching up a small loaf of bread, he took a large bite of it and looked at the others. “Shall we?”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn stifled a yawn as she and Brienne followed the guardsman down a corridor. She had eaten a little at Ned’s insistence, but had no real appetite for food. She wanted only to be with her daughter. Her mind had wandered dreadfully while the men talked in the Lord’s solar, and when Ned had asked one of the guardsmen to fetch Maester Colemon to them in order to write out letters to the lords of the Vale and to Edmure and Olyvar, she had asked if he would take her to find Sansa as well. The gods only knew how long the men would stay up. She knew Ned had slept very little in the past two days and she worried for him, but she also knew there was nothing she could do about it. He would not rest until he was finished.

As they rounded a corner, Catelyn saw her daughter walking toward them and felt her heart leap yet again when Sansa called out, “Mother!” and actually ran to meet her. “I am so sorry, Mother,” she said as Catelyn pulled her into another embrace. “Sweetrobin was being dreadful, and I just couldn’t . . .”

“It is no matter, child,” Catelyn said, holding her at arm’s length just to look at her. “I cannot believe I have you with me again. I have missed you so terribly for so long.”

“I missed you every day,” Sansa said, her lip trembling. “So much has happened, Mother.”

“Yes,” Catelyn said, nodding. “And I will hear all you wish to tell me, sweetling, and I will tell you all you wish to hear. But not tonight. Tonight, I only want to have the joy of looking at you once again.”

“I would like the same,” Sansa said with a smile. “But where is Father?”

“Still holed up in that solar with Bronze Yohn and the others. We’ll be lucky to see him before dawn, I fear.”

Sansa looked disappointed, and Catelyn quickly added, “It isn’t where he wishes to be, sweetling, you must know that.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, when you take a castle that doesn’t belong to you, there is much to be discussed.”

Sansa frowned then, and her face wore a calculating look Catelyn could not recall ever having seen there. “I should go to him,” she said. “I know quite a lot about the Vale and its lords, Mother. Petyr told me a great deal about his plans. I know who can be relied upon to keep their word, who is susceptible to blackmail or bribery, and which men will act rashly or cautiously.”

Catelyn looked thoughtfully at her daughter. “Well, your father has no intention of blackmailing or bribing anyone, and I am certain Yohn Royce knows the Vale lords quite well. Your father will certainly hear whatever you have to say, but he can hear it tomorrow. I may have to give my husband up to politics and strategy tonight, but I will not give up the daughter I only just got back.”

Sansa looked for a moment as if she might argue, but then she smiled and said, “Yes, Mother.”

Catelyn laughed out loud then and hugged her again. “Now, is there a room for us? I confess I am beyond tired.”

“I’ve put you and Father in the Maiden’s Tower next to me, if that’s all right. I didn’t want you far away,” she said, sounding like a little girl again.

“That is perfect. Would there be a room there for Lady Brienne?” Suddenly, she realized that in her absorption with her daughter, she hadn’t even introduced Brienne. She turned to find the tall young woman standing several paces behind her, giving her privacy with Sansa. The guardsman was gone.

“Come here, Brienne,” she called. “Sansa, please forgive your mother her appalling lack of courtesy. This is Lady Brienne of Tarth, who is sworn to my service.”

“Your service?” Sansa asked, as Brienne went down on one knee in front of her.

“Lady Sansa,” said Brienne, “I am very glad to make your acquaintance.”

“I am pleased to meet you, too,” Sansa said with a puzzled expression. “Your service, Mother?” she repeated.

Catelyn laughed. “It is a long story, sweetling. Take us to our rooms, and I shall at least tell you this one tonight. Your sister would love it!”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Sansa Stark leaned her head back as her mother brushed her hair. _My mother!_ She kept wanting to pinch herself at the thought. Her very own lady mother was alive and brushing out her hair. If she closed her eyes and only listened to the sound of her mother’s voice, she could almost pretend they were in Winterfell, and that the last two years had never happened.

But when she opened her eyes, she saw the dark brown locks of Alayne Stone in her looking glass and the terrible red marks on her mother’s face and neck. She swallowed hard and wondered how she could ever tell her lady mother what she had done. Even worse was the the thought of telling her father. He had said he could never hate her, but once he knew how she had betrayed him . . .

“Sansa?” her mother asked. “What troubles you?”

“Nothing,” she lied.

Her mother laid the brush down on the table, and turned Sansa to look at her. “I know you are troubled, my sweet child, but you needn’t speak of it if you do not wish.” She led Sansa to the bed and pulled her down to sit beside her. “I have seen things and done things, and had things done to me since you left Winterfell, Sansa, that I would strike from my memory if I could, and I have no doubt that you have some of the same.”

Sansa stared at her mother, wondering what terrible things she could ever have done. Certainly nothing like she had done. Mother would never betray Father. “It was terrible in King’s Landing,” she whispered. “After Father was arrested.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mother asked gently.

Sansa shook her head. She couldn’t. Not now. Not yet. She couldn’t disappoint her mother so soon after getting her back.

“That’s all right, Sansa. You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. But you can always tell me anything when you do want to. Do you understand that?”

She nodded. _But will you still love me when you know I helped Petyr lie about killing your sister?_

She had been looking down, and her mother put her hand under her chin and raised her face to look at her. Sansa tried to look just at her eyes and not at the scars. She hated those scars. They weren’t really so terrible looking--her mother’s face was still beautiful. They were terrible because they meant her mother had been hurt. Sansa was glad her own scars didn’t show because she didn’t know if she would be brave enough to show her hurts on her face like her lady mother did.

“Sansa,” her mother said. “Nothing that happened to you in King’s Landing or here was your fault. You are not to blame for any of it. Your father and I love you, and nothing will change that.”

_But what if it is my fault? Will you hate me then?_

“Did you love Petyr a great deal, Mother?” _Because I think you hate him now._

The shock on her mother’s face plainly showed that whatever she had expected Sansa to say, it was not that. “Petyr and I were children together,” she said. “He was rather like a little brother to me, annoying at times-- like Bran or Rickon could be to you--but he could be sweet as well. I suppose I did love him then, but I fear I did not truly know him.”

 “I don’t mean only when you were little,” she said. She now blushed deeply and could not look at her lady mother. “I mean when you . . .I mean, you did stop loving him, right? After you were married to Father?”

Her mother was quiet for a long moment, and then her voice shook as she asked, “What has that man been telling you, Sansa?”

“Nothing! I mean, only that you loved each other, and how he would have married you so it was all right and . . .”

Her mother stood up suddenly, exclaiming, “Gods be good! To speak such filth to my own daughter!”

Her lady mother looked as angry as she had ever seen her, and Sansa was afraid she had said too much, but then her mother put her face in her hands for a moment. When she looked up again, she no longer looked angry, only very sad. She came to sit beside Sansa again and took her hands.

“I am not angry at you, Sansa,” she said softly. “I told you that you could tell me anything, and you can ask me anything as well.” She sighed. “ I fear Petyr Baelish told you a lie. He did fancy himself in love with me in the years before I married your father. He has told other people that I lay with him as a wife lies with her husband. Is that what he told you?”

Sansa nodded.

“That is a lie, Sansa. I never loved Petyr Baelish in that way. I came to your father’s bed a maiden, and while I did not love him when we wed, I came to love him very much. Your father is the only man who has ever been in my heart, sweetling. Do you understand?”

Sansa nodded again. She knew her mother would not lie to her. But if she had never loved Petyr, would she hate Sansa even more once she knew how often she had lied for him? She knew she had to tell her parents the things she had done, but she simply couldn’t do it yet.

“Mother,” she asked, suddenly feeling very small. “Would you stay in my room tonight?”

Her mother smiled the way that had always made Sansa feel that everything would be all right. She knew now that some things would never be all right, but that smile made her feel a little safer just the same.

“Of course, I will, sweetling.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The sun was close to rising when Ned Stark finally trudged sleepily to the chamber he had been assigned only to find it empty. Concerned, he wandered into the next room, surprising a slumbering Brienne. Once she put down her sword, she informed him that she and the Lady Catelyn had accompanied Lady Sansa to her chamber, where the three of them had sat and talked until Lady Catelyn dismissed Brienne and stayed herself to help Lady Sansa prepare for bed.

 _She wanted to brush her hair,_ Ned thought with a smile. Catelyn liked brushing the girls’ hair almost as much as he liked brushing hers, and while Arya had always fought her, Sansa had loved having it done.

He had Brienne show him the way to Sansa’s room. No one answered when he knocked softly, so he quietly opened the door and went in. Lying in the bed, he saw his wife and his daughter snuggled up together, Catelyn’s arm protectively over Sansa.

He silently thanked the gods for the two of them and prayed for the wisdom and strength to keep them safe and get them home. He prayed for Arya, that he might soon see her wrapped safely in her mother’s arms as well. He then simply stood and watched the two of them sleep until he was almost asleep standing there himself.

He then walked back to his own chamber, going over things to be accomplished the next day--foremost of which was questioning Petyr Baelish about a number of things. Just the thought of the man made his fist clench, and the image of his fingers clutching Sansa’s arm and running through Catelyn’s hair made his blood boil. As he undressed and climbed into bed, he forced all thoughts of Littlefinger aside, and fell asleep with a far more pleasing image in his mind---Catelyn sleeping with her arm curved around their Sansa.


	26. Sharing Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, our characters do a lot of reflecting on the past in this chapter, and as their past was written by George RR Martin, I shall again give him credit for events and quotes which I have taken from A Game of Thrones, A Clash of Kings, A Sword of Storms, and A Feast for Crows. All this belongs, of course, to Mr. Martin.

Catelyn Stark woke slowly to the realization that pale sunlight was streaming through a window. As she stretched, and her arm touched the sleeping girl beside her, the memory of yesterday’s events suddenly flooded her mind, and joy so intense it was almost unbearable filled her heart. She raised herself on one elbow to better look at her sleeping daughter.

Sansa looked so much younger as she slept. Catelyn could easily imagine they were at Winterfell, and the child had crawled between Ned and herself during a storm which frightened her. The image was so vivid, Catelyn actually caught herself looking across Sansa for Ned and the other children. A truly bad storm had rarely brought only one of them to her bed when they were small. The absence of her other four sent a stab of pain into her heart as intense as the joy of Sansa’s presence. She closed her eyes and wondered if she would ever feel joy without pain again.

Pushing aside such thoughts, she sat up and wondered if she should check on Ned. Surely, he had discovered where she slept. After their one uncomfortable night apart on the High Road, she felt a little guilty about leaving him alone to sleep, but she rather doubted he had come to bed until very late in any event. He would understand Sansa’s need to have her mother close to her.

She looked down upon her sleeping daughter and frowned slightly, remembering Sansa’s face when she had offered to help her undress for bed the previous night. The child had actually looked frightened, and Catelyn had quickly changed the topic of conversation. After going to her own room to get her nightshift, she had returned to find Sansa already dressed in a long-sleeved nightshift and under the covers of the bed. She remembered how reluctant she, herself, had been to undress in front of Ned the first night after he had taken her from the Twins and wondered what wounds her daughter now felt compelled to hide from her. She resolved to dress in front of Sansa and allow her to see the big scar on her back from the crossbow wound. Perhaps that would make the child more comfortable about sharing her own hurts.

Lost in her thoughts, Catelyn didn’t hear the door open behind her, but she did hear a child’s voice say hesitantly, “Mother?” As she turned toward the sound, the child screamed, “Mother!” and Catelyn found herself looking at a small, skinny boy with long, brown hair rushing at her.

As soon as the child saw her face, he stopped, a horrified expression appearing on his own face. “You’re not my mother!” he screamed. “You’re horrible! Your face is all ugly and horrible!!” He stood there two paces from the bed, with his arms shaking and his face turning red.

“Robert Arryn!” came Sansa’s horrified cry as she leaped out of the bed toward the shaking child. “Hush right now! You are not to say such awful things to my lady mother!” She knelt on the floor, holding the boy’s arms.

“She’s not Mother!” he screamed again. “Mother’s face is soft and white! I want my mother!! Make this horrible lady fly!”

Sansa slapped him hard across the face. “Do not say that!” she yelled fiercely.

Catelyn had been shocked into silence by her nephew’s appearance and his words, but Sansa’s slap seemed to strike her. “Sansa!” she cried. “Do not strike that child again!”

Sansa looked at her then, eyes filling with tears. “But he’s always so horrible, Mother! And he shouldn’t be horrible to you. He shouldn’t!”

Before Catelyn could respond, Ned appeared in the doorway, closely followed by Brienne. “Catelyn! Sansa!” he shouted. “What is the matter?” He wasn’t even dressed, but Catelyn saw that he had his sword. Brienne was fully dressed and had her sword drawn as well. Robert Arryn took one look at the two of them, and his eyes rolled upward and he fell to the floor, still shaking.

“Call Maester Colemon!” Sansa said urgently, as she attempted to cradle the boy’s head while avoiding being pummeled by his flailing arms. Brienne left at once.

Ned looked about wildly. His hair was uncombed, and he had obviously come directly from his bed.

“We are both well, my lord,” Catelyn said quickly, rising from the bed to go to him. She put a hand on his sword arm, and he slowly relaxed it. “Little Lord Arryn had a shock, I’m afraid, and it’s caused him to have a shaking fit.”

Even as she held the child’s head protectively, Sansa shook her own violently, and Catelyn realized she was crying. “He said horrible things to Mother, Father! Horrible things!”

Ned was breathing hard, but seemed to be coming to the conclusion that his family was not in any danger. Catelyn touched his face softly, “I am unharmed, my love. Sansa is unharmed. We are safe,” she whispered.

She then turned and knelt beside her daughter. “The child’s words do me no harm, Sansa. How can I help you with him?”

Sansa shook her head again. “I am sorry, Mother.”

“For what, child? You have done nothing wrong. Here, let me hold his arms, and they will not beat at you so.”

The two of them held the little Lord of the Eyrie there on the floor while Ned looked on, and by the time Brienne returned with the maester, his shaking had slowed and he seemed to be falling into a deep sleep.

Sansa brushed the hair from his face. “Take him and give him sweetsleep, Maester Colemon,” she ordered.

“I cannot, Lady Ala . . .Sansa,” he said gravely. “He has already had far too much, and he sleeps now in any case.”

“Petyr says you are a frightened old woman!” she snapped.

“Sansa!” Catelyn said sharply.

Sansa looked as if her mother had struck her. She then took a deep breath. “Very well,” she said. “Put him back in his bed, but if he wakes agitated, at least give him some dreamwine.”

“Yes, my lady,” the maester said.

Catelyn got to her feet. “Brienne,” she said, “Please carry Lord Robert to his bedchamber for Maester Colemon.”

“Yes, my lady,” said Brienne, and she lifted the child as easily as if he were a doll. Indeed, he did not look to be any bigger than he was when Catelyn had seen him about two years before.

As Brienne and Colemon left with the child, Catelyn went again to her husband, who looked terrible. “Ned,” she said. “Please sit down before you fall down.”

“I am not about to fall, my lady,” he said, but he sat down anyway, in a chair by the bed.

Sansa remained seated on the floor with her head down, and Catelyn sat down on the bed. “Sansa,” she said softly. “Come here, sweetling.”

Wordlessly, her daughter came and sat beside her, and Catelyn put her arms around her. “It’s all right, Sansa,” she said.

“I am so sorry, Mother. I am so sorry,” she said against her mother’s chest. She pulled back a little and looked at Catelyn. “I know I shouldn’t have hit Sweetrobin. I . . .I never did before, I promise. It’s just that . . . You are so beautiful, Mother, and he shouldn’t say such awful things, and . . .”

“Shh,” Catelyn whispered, pulling her close again. “Hush, my love. No one is angry with you.” She rocked her silently for a few moments and was aware of Ned’s worried gaze on both of them. Finally she sat Sansa up straight again.

“Sansa,” she said, looking at her. “You have suffered so much. If you didn’t have sadness and anger, I would worry more about you. But you must try not to direct that anger at a child such as Sweetrobin.”

“But he said . . .”

“I know what he said. I heard him, Sansa.” She sighed. “I have heard worse, child, from men grown. You needn’t protect me Sansa. I am your mother, and it is my place to protect you.”

Sansa nodded. “I just don’t want . . .”

“You don’t want me hurt,” Catelyn finished for her. “And I love you for it, my sweetling.” She kissed her daughter’s forehead. “But the marks on my face aren’t going anywhere, and you can’t strike everyone who makes a rude comment about them, can you?"

Ned snorted at that, and she gave him a dark look. “Little Robert’s just a child who’s lost his own mother, Sansa,” she continued. “When he came into the bedroom, he saw me from behind.” She pulled her hair over her shoulder then. “My hair is very like Lysa’s. Imagine what he thought. And then imagine how he felt when I turned around.”

“You’re prettier than Lysa,” Sansa muttered.

“Sansa,” Catelyn said in exasperation, but Ned laughed out loud. She gave her husband a warning look. “You are not being helpful, my lord,” she said.

Ned shrugged. “She only speaks the truth, my lady,” he said innocently.

At that, Sansa gave her father a smile, her first of the morning. Catelyn reconsidered that perhaps Ned was being helpful after all.

She tried her best to give both of them a disapproving look, but smiled in spite of herself. “Be that as it may,” she said with dignity, “you do understand what a shock my appearance must have been to the little boy, don’t you?”

Sansa nodded. “And Sweetrobin is terrible about faces anyway. He can’t abide anyone with a mole. He isn’t fond of anyone with too many wrinkles.” She made a wry face. “In truth, for such a scrawny little boy, he is terribly intolerant of imperfection in anyone else’s appearance.”

Catelyn saw Ned duck his head to hide the amusement in his eyes, and she looked away from him, biting her own lip. She knew they were both recalling a little girl who had once put a rather high premium on perfect appearances herself.

“Well,” she said, looking at Ned once more after she felt she could do so without laughing. “It’s back to bed for you, my lord.”

“It’s morning, Cat,” he said. “There are things to be done.”

“Not by you,” she said. “How long have you been abed?” When he hesitated, she added, “And do not lie, Eddard Stark.”

“About an hour, I suppose.”

“You cannot possibly function on one hour’s sleep. Particularly when I know you got little more than that the previous night as well. To bed with you!”

“Will you join me, my lady?” he asked suggestively.

Sansa gasped, and Ned’s face went white. He’d obviously momentarily forgotten her presence.

Catelyn merely laughed. “Now I know you are asleep where you sit, my lord. You wouldn’t make such a statement in front of anyone, much less your own daughter, were you in control of yourself.”

She stood then, and turned to Sansa. “Sansa, I am taking your father to bed.” When her daughter’s eyes widened comically, she suppressed a smile. “To sleep,” she clarified. “He needs more sleep. Where shall you be, sweetling? Once I am dressed, I shall come find you.”

Sansa had started blushing profusely when her mother had said “to sleep,” and Catelyn recognized her own tendency for the cheeks to color easily. That particular fiery Tully trait could not be concealed by a hair rinse.

“I shall dress and go to the dining hall, Mother. I want to be certain there is adequate breakfast for all. I fear it shall be meager fare as we haven’t been bringing large amounts up. We planned on removing to the Gates of the Moon soon. Winter is coming.”

Realizing she had uttered their house words, Sansa looked at her father and blushed again when he smiled at her. “Indeed it is, child, but a Stark of Winterfell need not fear it,” he said. He rose tiredly, and allowed Catelyn to take his arm. “I suppose I must allow your mother to escort me back to my bed, daughter. She does not easily take no for an answer.”

Catelyn shook her head at him and then squeezed Sansa’s hand in farewell. “I will come to you very shortly, sweetling. I am so, so glad of you, Sansa.”

Ned grew serious at that. He reached out to embrace their daughter. “As am I, Sansa. Since Mya Stone came to us, your mother and I have lived for the hope of finding you. You are very precious to us, child.”

Catelyn saw an odd, pained expression flit briefly across Sansa’s face at his words. Then she returned his embrace fiercely. “I had no hope of ever seeing either of you again, and I am so glad to have you back!” she cried.

Catelyn allowed the two of them to simply stand there together for a few moments before she gently touched Ned’s arm. He nodded, and the two of them left Sansa’s room together.

As they walked the short distance to their own rooms, he actually leaned into her, and Catelyn realized how truly exhausted he was.

“I cannot sleep long, Cat,” he said. “Maester Colemon is to send an army of ravens today, and I have to question Baelish.”

“No,” she said quietly.

“No?” his voice held a warning note, but he stopped speaking as they reached the door to their own chamber and found Brienne standing there.

“My lady,” she said, nodding to Catelyn. “My lord,” to Ned. “Lord Arryn is safely abed. What would you have me do now?”

Ned sighed heavily, but before could say anything rude to the young woman out of his exhaustion and his irritation, Catelyn said, “I would have you go to the dining hall, Brienne.”

“The dining hall?”

“Yes. My daughter is going there to preside over breakfast. I would like you to get something to eat and to watch over her until I join her in a bit.”

Brienne nodded. “Yes, my lady,” she said and headed immediately down the hall.

As he watched her go, Ned said, “Were you just trying to get rid of her, or do you honestly believe Sansa needs a guard in the dining hall of the Eyrie?”

Opening the door and entering their chamber, Catelyn sighed. “Well, I confess I did want her to leave for a bit, but while Sansa may not need guarded in the dining hall here, we will not be here forever. I would have her become accustomed to Brienne’s presence because I can think of no one who would protect her more diligently when we do have need of it.”

Sinking down to sit on the bed, Ned said, “What is it Royce called you? A rare treasure, that’s it. My wife is both beautiful and intelligent.”

She smirked at him and gave him a slight push back onto the bed. “and my husband is still going to sleep.”

He pulled his legs up onto the bed and allowed her to cover him, but he grabbed her hand. “Seriously, Catelyn, you must wake me in a couple of hours.”

“No.”

His eyes darkened and he started to protest, but she sat on the side of the bed and covered his mouth with her hand. “Maester Colemon will send out his army of ravens while you sleep. You finished all the letters overnight, did you not?”

As she did not move her hand, he merely nodded, the look in his eyes somewhere between irritation and amusement.

“Well then, he hardly needs your assistance to send them. And it is rather unlikely you will receive replies today. As for Petyr . . .”

Ned scowled at the name, and she shook her head at him. “As for Petyr,” she repeated. “He is spending a very uncomfortable day in a sky cell. He isn’t going anywhere, my love. Let him languish a bit while you rest. He is clever, and the gods know he is an accomplished liar. I would have you well rested when you question him. Today or tomorrow--what matter does it make? You have already said we will linger here until you have a definite plan concerning Winterfell.”

He reached up and removed her hand from his mouth, kissing it as he did so. “I concede defeat, my lady, but I beg a concession from you.”

“What concession?”

“Lie with me, Cat.”

“Ned,” she said in an exasperated voice as she looked at his exhausted form, his eyes half closed already as he regarded her.

He laughed. “To sleep, my love. Lie with me til I fall asleep. As much as I may wish it otherwise, I confess I am too tired to use this bed for anything else.”

She smiled at him then and lay down beside him, allowing him to pull her close. “Sansa can wait a bit for me. I did send her Brienne.”

“Do you think she is all right, Cat?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she said honestly. “She is not all right. But I believe she can be, my love. I have to believe we all can be.”

His arms tightened around her then and he spoke no more. Before long, the even sounds of his breathing let her know he slept.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“I know we haven’t any lemons,” Sansa said irritably. “But whatever fruit we do have, please put it out with this morning’s meal. I will send a bird to the Gates to have them send more food. We can’t let just let people go hungry.” In truth, there were only about a dozen extra people in the Eyrie, but Sansa felt she should provide a certain level of hospitality for her parents and their men. And woman.

As the kitchen girl scurried away, Sansa looked at the large woman seated alone at a table. Her mother had told her last night about meeting Brienne of Tarth, the odd events of Renly Baratheon’s death, and the Lady Brienne’s subsequent vow of service to her mother and the mission to trade Jaime Lannister for herself and Arya. She hadn’t known about that. No one had told her what her mother had tried to do for her. Of course, she had been married to Tyrion before the Kingslayer’s return to King‘s Landing, so it hadn’t really mattered.

She looked at the woman now. She was freakishly large. Sansa knew her mother was taller than most women, and she was almost that tall now herself, but Brienne of Tarth towered over the two of them. She was even a little taller than Father! She was also ugly. It wasn’t a kind thing to think, she knew, but it was true. And she had a terrible wound to one side of her face which was in the process of scarring. It looked positively frightening. Well, it would have been frightening if that sort of thing still had the power to frighten Sansa. She spared a thought for Sandor Clegane and her inability to look at his burned, scarred face. She wondered if the man would laugh at the way she stared at Lady Brienne’s face now.

As if she felt Sansa’s eyes on her, Lady Brienne looked up. Sansa met her gaze and walked over to speak to her. To do anything else would be terribly rude once she had been caught looking, and she knew her lady mother truly cared about this odd woman. She couldn’t be rude to her.

“How is your breakfast, Lady Brienne?” she asked courteously as she approached. “I fear it is poor fare. I have ordered to have better food sent up from the Gates of the Moon, so we should dine better on the morrow.”

“It is fine, Lady Sansa,” the woman said.

Sansa noticed she seemed to be looking at a spot above her eyes. Self-consciously, she put a hand to her forehead. “Is something amiss, Lady Brienne?” she asked.

“No,” Lady Brienne stammered. “I just . . . I mean I can see . . .” She paused and looked down. “You do have your lady mother’s hair,” she said quietly. “I can see it just there at the front, where it’s pulled back.”

Sansa smiled. “Yes. I suppose it looks odd, having that thin strip of red around the front, but I decided I didn’t want to hide it today. I want to be Sansa Stark today.”

Lady Brienne looked up at her then, somewhat quizzically. “But you have always been Sansa Stark. That is who you are, my lady.”

Sansa shook her head and sat down across from Brienne. “No. I mean, I suppose I have always been Sansa Stark deep down, but I’ve been Alayne Stone for so long now, that I feel like she’s a completely different person. That I’m a different person when I’m Alayne.”

Brienne just looked at her.

Sansa sighed. “I suppose that doesn’t make any sense. Petyr always told me I had to be Alayne even when I was alone, so that I would never accidentally forget and be Sansa when anyone was around.” She gave a tiny shrug. “So now I’m afraid I’ll accidentally be Alayne. I thought if I could show even this tiny bit of Sansa . . .” She touched the small strip of red at the front of her hair. “It might help me remember her.”

“I feel like someone else in a dress,” Brienne said. “I have tried to feel at ease in skirts and lace, but I know how ridiculous I look, and I feel like a fool.” She looked at Sansa carefully. “I don’t believe that is exactly what you mean, but I know better who I am when I hold a sword. If you know better who you are with the red in your hair, that is somewhat the same at least.”

Sansa wasn’t sure that it was the same at all, but this woman was listening to her and trying to understand. That was something she could appreciate. She smiled at Lady Brienne. “My lady mother thinks very highly of you. I haven’t truly had a chance to thank you for how you’ve been searching for me.”

Brienne shrugged. “That was your lady mother’s doing. The Lady Catelyn is a great and gracious lady, and I am honored to serve her.”

Sansa regarded Lady Brienne carefully. “Yes,” she said, “My mother has always been a gracious lady, but . . .” she hesitated, not wishing to be discourteous.

“But what, my lady?” Brienne asked, in that serious voice of hers.

“Well, she would have locked my sister in her room for a fortnight for doing half of the things you do! And yet she seems to approve of you completely. Arya would have kittens if she knew it!”

At that, Lady Brienne laughed. “She told me of your sister once.” Then the woman suddenly looked very sad.

“What is it, Lady Brienne?” Sansa asked with concern.

The lady smiled sadly. “Only that she spoke of your sister, and you, when she told me of your little brothers’ deaths. She was so sad then. That was the day she decided to send me with the Kingslayer to trade for you.”

Sansa was quiet for a moment. “What did she say of us?” she asked after a bit. “Of Arya and me?”

Brienne thought a moment. “She said your father’s visitors were likely to mistake your sister for a stableboy in the yard, that she was half a boy and a half a wolf pup, and if you forbid her anything it would become her heart’s desire.”

Tears filled Sansa’s eyes even as she laughed. “That’s Arya all right. Mother was forever trying to make her a lady, but she wanted a sword.”

“It isn’t easy to be a lady with a sword,” Brienne said quietly. “You do not truly belong anywhere. I believe your lady mother wished to protect your sister from such a fate. I believe she understood her better than you think.”

Sansa was quiet again, wondering if this odd woman could be right about that. “What did she say about me?” she asked quietly.

“That you were a lady at three. That you tried to please people and loved tales of knightly valor. She said you would be more beautiful than she ever was and talked of how she loved to brush your hair.”

Sansa almost cried out when Brienne said the last. “She brushed my hair last night,” she whispered. “I had forgotten how much I loved her to brush my hair.” She shook her head. “But I will never be as beautiful as my lady mother.”

Brienne shook her head at that. “You are very beautiful, Lady Sansa. Your lady mother spoke truly about that.” Sansa didn’t hear any jealousy in the woman’s voice. She had often had other girls tell her she was pretty, but usually there was an envious or at least wistful undertone to their compliments.

“Thank you,” she said. “I . . .I am sorry for your injury,” she said softly. “Did that happen while you were searching for me?”

“I have had several injuries, but if you mean this,” Lady Brienne touched the ugly, puckered indentation in her cheek, “it concerns me little. Your lady mother’s scars are far more terrible to my mind.”

Now Sansa was angry. First Sweetrobin and now her mother’s own sworn lady? “How can you say such a thing?” she demanded. “My mother is beautiful! Those little red lines can’t change that! Your scar will be hideous!” That was a terrible thing to say, she knew, but she couldn’t stop herself.

Lady Brienne did not seem angry though. “Lady Catelyn is beautiful,” she agreed. “That is why it is so terrible. To mar someone so lovely,” she shook her head. “It isn’t right. As soon as I saw her, I offered my sword to kill those who had hurt her, but apparently your lord father has already done that.”

Sansa looked at her for a long time. “I am sorry, Lady Brienne, for what I said about your scar.”

“Don’t be. It will be a dreadful mark. But since my face was never anything to look at before, it hardly matters.”

“Oh, don’t say such things!” Sansa said, suddenly feeling very mean and not liking herself for any of her thoughts about the woman’s appearance.

“Why not say things that are true?” Lady Brienne asked. “When I was a girl, I loved the tales of knightly valor, same as you, and once I imagined myself the lady in the stories. As I grew, I learned that I would never be the lady in such a tale, so I fancied myself the knight.”

“Perhaps it is better to be the knight,” Sansa said so softly, she wasn’t sure Brienne would hear. “It is no great joy to be the lady.”

Brienne did hear, though. “Perhaps not, my lady,” she said. “But I cannot truly be a knight, either.” She smiled then, even if it was a little sadly. “In my service to your mother, I at least can find honor, and for that I shall always be grateful.”

Sansa decided she liked this woman, even if she didn’t quite understand her. She understood honor well enough, and Lady Brienne of Tarth seemed to understand it as well. She had met so few people with true honor, she had almost begun to believe none existed save her own family members. “I am glad you serve my lady mother,” she declared. “I look forward to knowing you better.”

“I am happy to hear that, Sansa,” came her mother’s voice from behind her. The Lady Catelyn wore a simple light blue dress and had her hair pulled back in a single braid without any adornment, and yet managed to look as elegant as anyone Sansa had ever seen. Sansa felt ashamed that she had ever compared her mother unfavorably with Cersei Lannister, holding the queen’s fancy wardrobe and hairstyles as superior to the simple northern styles her mother had adopted over years at Winterfell.

“Mother,” she said, rising to greet her. The intense pleasure she got from simply saying that word had not diminished at all. “Did you get Father to bed?” She was proud of herself for asking that question without any blush.

Her mother smiled. “It would not surprise me if your father sleeps until tomorrow morning,” she said. “He has pushed himself far too hard.” Her smile grew even warmer. “But I confess he had good reason.” She took Sansa’s hand and squeezed it.

“Have you had breakfast, Mother?” Sansa asked. “There isn’t much, but . . .”

Lady Catelyn waved dismissively, “Oh, I shall find something. Are you and the Lady Brienne having an enjoyable conversation?”

“We are,” Sansa said with a smile. “Lady Brienne was telling me what you’d told her about Arya and me”

“Lady Brienne seems to enjoy telling my family members things I’ve said,” her mother said wryly.

Brienne looked distressed for a moment, but seemed to relax when she realized Mother was smiling. “If you have no further need of me right now, my lady, I would like to go to the practice yard.”

“Of course you may, Brienne. Perhaps I’ll regale Sansa with tales of things you’ve said to me.” Sansa could hear the laughter in her mother’s voice.

Once Brienne had left, however, her mother‘s voice became serious.. “Sansa,” she said, “If I get a plate of food, is there somewhere else we may go to eat it? I would prefer to have some privacy with my daughter.”

Sansa nodded. “Come with me, Mother.”

The little sitting room off her chambers was one of Sansa’s favorite places in the Eyrie. The view from the window was breathtaking, and the morning light always bathed the room in a pleasant glow. They sat in relative silence as her mother broke her fast, but once Lady Catelyn finished her last bite, she looked up at her daughter and said simply, “How badly has Petyr abused you, Sansa?”

Sansa was shocked for a moment. Petyr had never raised a hand to her. She almost felt compelled to defend him, but then she realized what her mother was asking.

“He never . . .never took me to bed,” she said, looking at her feet.

Her mother sighed. “I am glad of it. I am almost certain he took Lysa to bed when we were at Riverrun, and I feared he would do the same with you.”

Sansa nodded. “She told me he did.” She stopped suddenly then, not ready to tell her mother precisely when her sister had told her that. Or what had happened afterward.

“She loved him,” her mother said sadly, “to her great misfortune.” She looked at Sansa carefully. “You were afraid of him, Sansa, last night in the solar. What did he do to make you fear him?”

Sansa swallowed hard. She wasn’t sure how to answer. “He . . .he killed the man who brought me to him in King’s Landing. He said that a bag of dragons buys a man’s silence for a while, but a well-placed quarrel buys it forever.” She looked at her mother then, but saw no shock or condemnation in her eyes. She continued. “Then he told me all about how he arranged Joff’s death. He and the Queen of Thorns. And all about how you loved him.” She looked at her mother again. “I know that part was a lie,” she said quickly. “But that’s the problem with Petyr. It’s hard to know the lies from the truth.”

“It is,” said her mother softly. “He told me a lie that caused me to take Tyrion Lannister captive. The cost of that folly will never be paid. Do not blame yourself for believing him Sansa.” She hesitated then. “But there is something you still aren’t telling me, child,” she pushed gently.

She couldn’t tell her about Lysa’s death. She couldn’t. “He likes to kiss me,” she blurted out. “And touch me.” She shuddered at the memory. “He kissed me first when Lady Lysa was still alive, and once she died . . .” She could feel tears stinging her eyes. “He would call me daughter, and ask me to come kiss my father, but it wasn’t like a father‘s kisses. The way he kissed me was wrong for a father. I knew that.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Sansa. You are not to blame.” Her mother sounded so certain. Sansa wished she could believe her.

“I didn’t really try to stop him. I just pretended I was somewhere else if he kissed me for very long.” She hesitated and swallowed. “Sometimes, he would say your name instead of mine.”

“Oh, Sansa,” her mother said softly.

“He always stopped, though. He said I had to keep my maidenhead. That was important to him.”

A confused look appeared on her mother’s face. “Mother?” she asked, wondering if her mother was somehow angry with her after all.

“Your maidenhead?” she asked. “Sansa, sweetling, did the Lannisters not wed you to the Imp?”

“Oh!” she said, realizing the reason for her mother’s confusion. Blushing profusely, she said, “Tyrion never bedded me. He told me he wanted to on our wedding night, and I could see that . . .that . . .he did.” She stopped for a moment, embarrassed and horrified at recalling that vision of Tyrion Lannister naked in her bedchamber. “But he said he would not do it until I wanted him to . . .even if I never wanted him,” she finished quickly.

“You are a maiden still?” her mother asked. “Truly?”

Sansa nodded.

“He was never cruel to you, child?”

“No,” Sansa said softly. “He was kind. He even stopped the Kingsguard from beating me once.” Her mother jumped at that, but Sansa went on. “He didn’t want to marry me, but Lord Tywin made him. He told me at least he wasn’t Joffrey, and I think he tried to make me feel safe, but I never did, Mother, I never did!” She looked at her mother, praying she could understand. “He was a Lannister and I hated them all! He was an ugly little dwarf and I didn’t want him in my bed, I didn’t want to be his wife! I was never safe there! I just wanted to get away!” She was crying now, and knew that she sounded hysterical.

Somehow she was in her mother’s arms then, crying harder than she had in a long time. Her mother didn’t say anything at all. She just held onto her while she sobbed, and Sansa thought she might never stop crying. Eventually, though, the sobs began to slow and she found herself quiet and feeling rather empty as her mother held her and combed her fingers through her hair.

“Am I terrible?” she whispered finally.

“No, child.”

“But Tyrion never harmed me,” she said quietly. “He never harmed Joffrey either, but when Petyr told me he would be blamed and executed for Joff’s death . . .I was glad I wouldn’t sleep in a bed with him anymore.” She spoke the last in little more than a whisper.

Her mother took a deep breath and raised her up to look at her. “Sansa,” she said. “You did no harm to Tyrion Lannister. You never wished him harm. That was all Petyr’s doing. You were only a young girl who felt relief at escaping a place which held nothing but terrors for you. There is no blame in that.”

“Perhaps,” Sansa said, looking back at her mother--her kind, beautiful mother who wanted only make her feel better. She wasn’t sure she deserved to feel better. “There is blame in other things, though.”

“Not for you, Sansa. There is blame enough for many people, sweetling, but not . . .”

“I lied to you,” Sansa interrupted.

Her mother stopped speaking and simply looked at her.

“In Petyr’s solar,” Sansa said, trying hard to brave Alayne Stone instead of scared Sansa Stark. She had to tell her mother the truth. “I lied to you. I told you Marillion pushed your sister.”

Her mother grew very still then. “Did Petyr kill Lysa, Sansa?”

Sansa nodded. “Because of me,” she said.

“No, Sansa,” her mother started to say.

“Yes! She saw him kiss me! I didn’t want him to, Mother, I swear! But she said I . . .enticed him. That I was wanton like you and I was trying to take him from her like you did.”

Her mother stared at her, shocked at her words, but she said softly, “I believe you, Sansa. You were not to blame.”

“We were in the High Hall,” Sansa continued. “She had that awful singer there, and she made him sing when she opened the Moon Door, and . . .”

“Lysa opened the Moon Door?” her mother asked sharply, a horrified expression on her face.

Sansa nodded again. “I was so scared. She held me and made me look over the edge and Marillion was singing, and I thought she was going to push me out . . .” Sansa started trembling then, just as she had when her aunt had held her over that nothingness.

Her mother pulled her back into her arms. “You are safe, Sansa. No one can harm you. I’ve got you, sweetling, I’ve got you.”

After a moment, the trembling slowed, and Sansa took a deep breath. She pulled free of her mother’s arms and sat back from her a little. “Then Petyr came in. He kept telling her to let go of me and she went on and on about how she loved him and how you never did anything for him, but she did everything for him. She said she gave him her maiden’s gift, and that she only drank what her father gave her, and that she made Lord Arryn bring him to court, and that she cried in his wine, and she wrote you a letter---all kinds of things that made no sense that she did for Petyr.” Sansa shook her head. “Finally, he asked her for a kiss, and she let go of me and ran to him.” She swallowed hard then and forced herself to look her mother in the eyes. “He kissed her then, and told her he had only ever loved one woman. She asked him to swear it, and he said Only Cat. And then he pushed her out.”

Her mother sat as still as if she were made of stone and said nothing. After several long minutes had passed, Sansa said, “Mother?” When she got no response, she began to tremble again. _Oh gods, she hates me now! It is my fault her sister is dead!_

Then tears appeared in her mother’s eyes. “I am sorry, Sansa,” she said softly.

“Mother?” She asked confused. “You did nothing.”

“You are right, child,” her mother said, sounding older and more tired than Sansa had ever heard her. “I thought only about myself, so wrapped up in my betrothal and my dreams that I saw nothing and did nothing, and I allowed my sister to come to this pass.”

Sansa couldn’t stand the grief in her mother’s voice. “I am sorry, Mother! I didn’t mean for her to die! Truly, I just . . .”

“Sansa!” Her mother’s voice cut into her words before she could become completely hysterical, and her mother took her hand. “I grieve my sister’s death. Even more, I grieve the life she had. But child, what I grieve most is that she nearly killed you. You are blameless here, Sansa. She was angry with me, not you. And make no mistake, had it been a matter of your life, I would have pushed her out that door myself.”

Her mother’s voice held anger as well as grief, but Sansa realized then that the anger was not for her. “Petyr didn’t need to kill her,” she said in a small voice. “I was already safe away from the door when he did it.”

Her mother nodded. “He murdered her. He never wanted her, Sansa. And he had gotten all he needed from her. He had no further use for Lysa.”

“A piece with no value,” Sansa said suddenly. “That’s what Joffrey was, too.”

“What?” her mother asked.

“It’s all a game for Petyr. A game of thrones. And everyone is a player or a piece. Although some of the pieces think they are players. That’s what he said. He had no true motive to kill Lady Lysa or Joffrey, but as they had no value to him, he had no reason to keep them either. He could sacrifice those pieces to get others to move as he wished.”

Her mother looked at her for a long time. Then she said, “Sansa, I would not speak any more on this right now. We need some relief from it, child. But when your father wakes, we must tell him these things.”

Sansa’s eyes must have betrayed her apprehension at that, for her mother smiled at her gently. “I will be with you, sweetling, and your father will feel as I do. None of this is your fault. But those things your aunt said to you that day; I fear there is more sense in them than you knew, and your father will need to hear them before he speaks with Littlefinger.”

Sansa nodded. “I suppose I should check on Sweetrobin.” She sighed. “There are times when he is almost sweet, you know. Mostly he’s just sad and spoiled and . . .pathetic.”

Her mother smiled sadly. “Bronze Yohn intends to foster him. Would that he had been able to do so years ago. We can only hope the boy isn’t too far gone.”

Bronze Yohn’s name reminded her of something. “Mother, do you recall when Lord Royce stopped at Winterfell on his way to take his son Ser Waymar to the Wall?”

“Yes, I do.” Her mother smiled. “That was quite an enjoyable time.”

“You danced with Lord Royce at least six times at the feast we held.”

Her mother laughed. “At least. He dances well.”

“But Father didn’t fear you were enticing him, did he?”

“ Enticing? Of course not! Sansa, what is this about?” her mother asked her, puzzled.

“Something Lady Lysa said,” Sansa replied quietly.

Her mother sighed. “It would seem my sister said quite a lot to you. What was it, child?”

“She spoke of a feast where you danced six times with Petyr, but wouldn’t let him kiss you. She said you enticed him with your dances and your smiles, and then just broke his heart. I told her you wouldn’t do that, and it made her angry.”

Her mother chuckled at that. “My brave girl, defending her mother again.” She paused. “But you wonder about it all the same, don’t you? The dancing, smiling, and kisses? I’m not angry with you,” she said quickly as Sansa started to protest. “Sansa, you went from a child to a maiden flowered without me there. I wasn’t with you to answer your questions--and all young maidens have questions, sweetling.”

Sansa recalled Cersei Lannister’s words to her after her flowering. _Love is poison,_ she had said. _A sweet poison, but it will kill you all the same_. Then while Stannis attacked the city, Cersei had spoken of seduction and admonished Sansa to learn to use the weapon between her legs. Sansa knew her mother’s words would have been very different.

“As to the dancing, Sansa,” her mother was continuing, “I love to dance. You and I are alike in that. At Riverrun, there were few young men to dance with, and Petyr was always anxious to be my partner. He danced well, although not so well as Yohn Royce. Did you see me smile at Lord Royce when we danced, Sansa?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I smile when I’m happy child, and dancing makes me happy. Now, how many times have you seen me dance with your father?”

Sansa thought hard. She could remember her parents, close together on the dance floor, her father moving stiffly as her mother laughed at him, but only recalled them dancing a few times. Most often, her father sat at the high table, watching as other men spun her around. “Not many,” she said.

“Your father hates to dance,” her mother said. “He only does it to humor me. I don’t force him into it often, and he doesn’t mind that I dance without him.” Her lips twitched a bit. “Well, he says he doesn’t, anyway.”

Sansa waited for her to continue.

“Have you ever seen me smile at your father, Sansa?”

Sansa laughed at that. “Only every day at Winterfell!”

“And when I smiled at Lord Royce while we danced, did it look the same as the smiles I give your father?”

“No!” Sansa said immediately. “You don’t smile at anybody the same way you do at . . .oh.” She felt her cheeks color as she understood what her mother was telling her, and she dropped her eyes. When she looked back at her mother, she was amused to see a faint blush on her cheeks as well.

“A lady’s smile can say many things, Sansa. Your smiles are always charming, sweetling, and if some poor boy’s heart speeds up at the sight of them, you cannot help that. I would not have you become dour for fear of breaking hearts! It is only enticement, as my sister would say, if you intend your smile to say something you do not mean.”

Sansa nodded, and smiled a little herself. “And when you smile at Father . . .”

“Oh, I very definitely mean it,” her mother said with an expression on her face that suddenly made her seem barely more than a girl herself.

Sansa blushed once more, but grinned. “I have to go check on Sweetrobin now, Mother, but find me if Father wakes before I see you again.”

She left the chamber with a full heart. Having her mother back was like coming alive again. And even after telling her some of the dreadful things, Mother still loved her. Perhaps she might even forgive the terrible thing she had done in King’s Landing, when she had betrayed her father. _But Father won’t_ , she thought miserably. _How can he?_

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark idly twisted a strand of his wife’s hair around his finger as she ran her own finger along a scar on his chest. They had clung to each other the moment the door of their bedchamber had closed behind them, desperate for the physical contact, and yet their lovemaking had been slow and tender. Each of them had seemed to want to touch every part of the other, and they had kissed until they were breathless. Finally he had been unable to wait any longer and had pulled her on top of him, her hair falling down into his face as she guided him inside her, and they moved together until they both cried out and she collapsed onto his chest.

“What are you thinking, my love?” she asked him now.

“Coherent thought has not yet returned, my lady,” he said, with a smile in his voice.

She gave a small laugh that sounded almost like a purr and the sound made him glad. Then she stretched, raising her head off his chest and bringing her face to his. “It will, though,” she said seriously. “Ned, I am so sorry for all that has happened.”

“You are not to blame.” He had sat with her and Sansa most of the afternoon as they dissected Littlefinger’s treachery piece by piece.

“You never would have gone to King’s Landing if not for that letter!” she cried. “You were prepared to tell Robert no in spite of what I thought before that.”

He sat up. “You did not write that letter, Cat. You are not responsible for the actions of Petyr Baelish or your sister.”

“I am your only connection to them,” she insisted. “Had you any other wife . . .”

“I should be a most unhappy man,” he said, leaning to silence her by putting his mouth on hers.

“I still can’t believe it,” she said when he released her lips. “It all goes back to Petyr. From the very beginning.”

Ned sighed. He had awakened past midday, and Catelyn had told him that Sansa had spoken of things he needed to hear. The three of them had sat together here in their chambers and their daughter had repeated the tale she’d told her mother earlier. She looked so frightened as she spoke, Ned found himself wanting to strangle Petyr Baelish and Lysa Tully Arryn both with bare hands.

They had puzzled out most of what Lysa had babbled relatively quickly. Cat had been correct in her supposition that Lysa had gotten with child by Petyr Baelish as a girl, and that Hoster Tully had given her moon tea in order to end the pregnancy. The letter mentioned had to be the one warning Cat about the Lannisters murdering Jon Arryn, and there they had gotten stuck for a bit. Why would Littlefinger want the Starks warned about that?

Then Catelyn had reminded Sansa about the crying in the wine. None of them could make sense of it until Ned had asked Sansa if she could remember the woman’s precise words.

“Petyr had told her there was no need for tears,” she had said after thinking for a moment. “And she said that wasn’t what he said in King’s Landing. She kept sobbing about tears in Jon’s wine and that she did it for him, just like he said.”

Ned’s blood had run cold at his daughter’s words as he saw the truth for the first time. The Lannisters were guilty of many things, including the incest and Bran’s injuries, but not Jon Arryn’s death. Tears of Lys, he thought miserably. Jon Arryn had been murdered by his own lady wife at Petyr Baelish’s behest.

Catelyn had seen the change in his expression immediately and asked him what it was. He had told her the truth and watched her crumple to the floor at the knowledge of what her sister had done. She had been strong for so long, and Ned knew perfectly well she hadn’t slept much more than he had since before their ascent up the Giant’s Lance. She had cried in his arms while their daughter looked on helplessly, and when her tears were spent, he and Sansa had laid her on the bed and gone elsewhere to speak more.

He had listened as his sweet, gentle daughter coldly outlined Petyr Baelish’s plans for the Vale and his various dealings with different lords. It chilled him when she spoke almost admiringly of his cunning, and the way he manipulated events in King’s Landing, and his views on players and pieces. Baelish had been teaching her to play the game as well. Then she had looked up at him with her mother’s blue eyes and asked in a little girl voice if he would forgive her for helping Petyr with his lies. How could she not know he would forgive her anything?

After they talked for a long time, the two of them found Catelyn awake and wishing to go with them to the dining hall. Sansa had looked worried throughout their evening meal, and Catelyn had been silent and far away. He wasn’t at all certain how to reassure Sansa, and he feared that the depth of her sister’s treachery threatened to break Catelyn once more.

As if she were listening to his thoughts, Catelyn spoke now. “She really killed him,” she said softly. “Gods Ned! Look at all she’s done to us!”

He heard the anger in her voice and while he shared it, he knew that hating her sister would eat Catelyn alive. “She was more weak than evil, Cat. It made her an easy tool for Baelish to use.”

“A game piece,” she said bitterly. “We’re a game to him, Ned. I want him dead.”

“When you play the game of the thrones, you win or you die,” he said softly.

“What?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Something Cersei Lannister told me a long time ago. I never wanted to play this game, Catelyn.”

She reached up to touch his face, her fingers lightly following the line of his beard. “I know,” she whispered.

“Our daughter said Littlefinger told her I was a hopeless player, you know. He was right about that.”

“Do you think so?” she challenged him. “Then why is he in a sky cell waiting to die while you are here in my bed?”

He looked at the fierce expression on his wife’s face. She was angry and hurt, but she wouldn’t break today. He pushed thoughts of Littlefinger away until the morning. Right now, he kissed his wife deeply and moved himself above her, twisting his hands into her hair.

“I don’t know,” he said, as he moved his lips across her neck and down to her breasts, “but I have absolutely no intention of changing places with him.”

 


	27. The Legacy of Littlefinger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the usual nod to Mr. Martin, as our characters have a habit of quoting lines verbatim from his books! All these things are his and not mine. :)

“Why does he have to talk to Petyr at all?” Sansa asked, sounding rather more childish than she would have liked. “I told him everything yesterday.” _Not everything,_ a small voice whispered in her mind. “Does he really need Petyr to confess?”

Her mother sighed. “I doubt Petyr will confess to anything, sweetling. And no, that doesn’t really matter. Your very presence here convicts him, as do your words and those of your father.” Catelyn Stark frowned. “But he has to question him Sansa. I have no doubt that Petyr keeps secrets still, and your father would learn as many of them as he could before the man is executed.”

She and her mother were walking in the garden. The day was cold, but clear, and after breaking their fasts and watching her father leave them to question Petyr Baelish, neither had wanted to remain indoors. They were both bundled well enough that they were quite comfortable. Sheltered by the Eyrie’s high towers, the garden was free from wind, and snow lay evenly upon the ground. Sansa bent and scooped up a handful of snow. As she patted and rolled it into a ball, she said softly. “Petyr doesn’t tell his secrets until he chooses.” She looked up at her mother. “And he lies.”

Her mother nodded. “Yes. Your father and I have both had occasion to learn that to our sorrow, child. Still, Ned has to try.” She paused. “And I think he wants to confront him.”

“But what if Petyr tells him terrible things about me?” Sansa whispered, looking down at the snowball in her hands.

Her mother actually laughed then, but it was not a happy or pleasant sound. “I know quite well what terrible things he shall tell your father about me,” she said. “Your father will not heed Littlefinger’s lies, Sansa. And we have already told him that the man never bedded you.”

Sansa nodded. The surprise and relief on her father’s face when she and her mother had told him that she’d not been bedded by Petyr or Tyrion had been obvious. Of course, he would not want the shame of a dishonored daughter. They hadn’t told him how Petyr kissed her, though. Sansa had told her mother she would die if she had to speak of that to her father, and Catelyn had said she didn’t have to.

“But he can tell him things that are true, and Father will be ashamed of me,” she told her mother now.

Her lady mother stopped walking then and turned Sansa to face her. “Your father will never be ashamed of you,” she said firmly. Quietly, she added, “And he knows of Lord Baelish’s kisses, Sansa, if that is what you fear.”

Sansa’s eyes flew open wide. “You told him?” she cried. “Mother, how could you?”

“Because he could not face Petyr Baelish armed with anything less than the truth,” her mother said firmly. “Because you are right. Petyr will talk of tasting your lips and gods know what else, and your father will want to murder him where he stands for it.” Sansa watched as her mother closed her eyes and took a deep breath before continuing. “Your father knows that you did nothing, child. He does not blame you or love you less. He would tell you all this himself, but only if you go to him. He would not approach you for fear of hurting you.”

“You should not have told him!” Sansa said. “I trusted you! We could have told him all Petyr’s words are lies!” She could not stand the thought of her father feeling ashamed of her. “A lie is not bad if it is kindly meant.”

“Sansa,” her mother said sharply. “I will not lie to my lord husband. Do not ever ask it of me.” She swallowed. “I would have kept your confidence if I could, but I know Baelish well enough to know how he would speak of such things to your father. Far better he should hear it from me.”

Sansa turned away from her mother and flung her snowball across the garden. “And now, I’ll know he’s ashamed of me every time he looks at me. Gods, Mother!”

“He is not ashamed of you, Sansa. He has no reason to be.”

“Oh, because I’m not actually ruined at least? I suppose that is something, but . . .”

“No!” her mother actually shouted the word, and Sansa stopped speaking and turned back to stare at her in shock.”

“No,” her mother repeated softly. “That is not what I mean. Had Petyr Baelish taken you to bed, he would probably be dead already, but your father would not be ashamed of you. You would be no more to blame for that than you are for the man’s kisses.”

Sansa shook her head. She had been in King’s Landing long enough to know what was thought about women who were fondled and used by men, regardless of whether they’d had any choice in the matter. “You are wrong,” she said. “I know what men . . .”

“I am not speaking about men,” her mother interrupted. “I am speaking about only one man . . .your father. And I have reason to know I am not wrong.” Her mother turned away now, and walked to a stone bench. After knocking away the snow that lay upon it with her arm, the Lady Catelyn Stark slowly sat down and put a hand to her face. Sansa noticed that her mother’s long fingers trembled slightly in her glove. “Come sit by me, Sansa,” she said softly.

Sansa went to sit down beside her without saying anything, and her mother gripped her hand tightly. “Ruined,” she said softly, repeating Sansa’s word from a moment ago. “That is what Walder Frey said, just before your father took off his head.” She paused, remembering. “Your sons are dead, your daughters sold, and your wife . . .ruined.”

Her mother had been looking down at their twined hands while she spoke, but now she looked up at Sansa’s face. “I . . .I don’t understand,” Sansa said. “Did he mean your face?”

Her mother shook her head. “No, child. You know what he meant. I was kept at the Twins a long time, Sansa.”

A growing horror took hold of Sansa, chilling her in a way that the cold garden air could not. “No, mother,” she whispered.

“Walder Frey told me that I may think my son was too good for his daughters, but that I would yield my honor to his sons.” Her mother said it so flatly and without emotion that Sansa thought perhaps she was wrong about her meaning.

“But they didn’t . . . I mean, you weren’t . . .” she stammered.

“Raped,” her mother said in that same flat voice. “I was. Many times and by more than one man.”

“Oh, mother!” she said, and she flung herself, crying, into her mother’s arms.

“Hush now, child,” her mother said as she held her. “There, there, my sweetling.” Her voice sounded like Mother’s now--like Mother’s voice always sounded when she or Arya or one of the boys was hurt or upset. Suddenly it struck Sansa as terrible that Mother was comforting her, when Mother was the one who had been hurt.

“Mother,” she said, raising up and attempting to stop her tears, “I am so, so sorry that . . .”

“I know you are, sweetling,” her mother said sadly as she used her gloved finger to wipe Sansa’s face. “I would have kept this from you and prevented your hurt if I could, but I need you to know the man your father is.”

“Father?” Sansa asked. Stunned by her mother’s revelation, she’d almost forgotten what they had been discussing.

“Do you see shame in his eyes when he looks at me, Sansa?”

“No! Of course, I don’t!”

Her mother smiled at her then. “Nor do I. I had feared I would, child. I confess that. I didn’t know what he would see when he looked at me. Or if he would even be able to look at me.” She held Sansa’s face then to make certain she looked at her. “I need never have worried, sweetling. Your father’s anger was terrible, and the heads that decorated the wall of the Twins were placed there as much for what was done to me, I think, as for the Red Wedding itself. But that anger was never for me. And there was never any shame.”

“Truly, Mother?” she asked, but she had already seen enough of her parents to know the answer. Her father’s respect for her mother was obvious any time he looked at her or even spoke of her, and their love for each other seemed even more visible to Sansa now than it had been at Winterfell.

“Yes, sweetling. And if he refuses to blame me for what others have done, you must know he will refuse to blame you as well. You are his daughter, Sansa. He was with me when you were born and held you even before I did. No act of Petyr Baelish will ever change his love for you.”

Sansa smiled then, feeling both the truth of her mother’s words and the love behind them. For what felt like the millionth time in the past two days, she silently thanked the gods for sending her parents back to her. “Thank you, Mother,” she said. “But . . .are you truly well now?” She didn’t want to think about her lady mother suffering ever.

Her mother took time before answering, and bit her lower lip as she thought. That made Sansa smile again, as it was something her little sister did as well. Finally Lady Catelyn spoke, “When something so terrible happens to you, Sansa, you don’t ever forget it. I fear you have suffered things too terrible to forget as well, my precious girl. But they don’t have to defeat you. You can go on living and still be you. That’s what I have tried to do. I won’t tell you the pain is gone, but it is insignificant beside the joy I now have in you and your father.”

Sansa realized her mother was speaking to her as she would to a woman grown, and she nodded in understanding and appreciation.

Her mother stood, rubbing at a place on her back as if it pained her. “It’s time we go in, child. I fear the cold is not as kind to me as it once was, and it was never my friend,” she said with a laugh.

Sansa nodded and rose to take her mother’s arm. “Oh, look, another one!” she said, pointing to a flash of black wings against the blue of the sky as it headed toward one of the towers. It had been over a full day now since Father and Lord Royce had sent forth their ravens, and replies had begun to arrive from the nearest castles and holdfasts.

“Ah,” her mother said with a wry smile. “Yet another expression of shock and disbelief that two dead Starks and one missing Stark are holding court at the Eyrie!”

Sansa laughed. “Let’s go see who it’s from while we wait for Father to finish with Petyr.”

She felt much better as she walked arm in arm with her mother back inside the castle, but she couldn’t rid herself of one terrible doubt. _No act of Petyr Baelish will ever change_ _his love for you._ Once again she saw herself running to Cersei, begging her to stop her father from sending her away from King’s Landing. _I believe you, Mother. No act of Petyr’s will change Father’s love. But what about a terrible act all my own?_

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark walked slowly toward the Eyrie’s dungeon, his mind on the task ahead. Yohn Royce had suggested bringing Littlefinger up into the High Hall to be formally questioned in front of witnesses, and that certainly would be done when he was called up to answer the charges against him. But Ned wanted to speak to the man first. Royce had agreed to Ned’s private interrogation easily enough, but had taken the time to admonish him to toss the man’s body out into the sky if he found himself compelled to kill him. The Eyrie had a long history of its prisoners in the sky cells going mad and leaping into the blue. No one would question it.

Ned’s frown deepened at the memory as he walked. He didn’t intend to kill the man in his cell! He wanted the man dead, all right, but even more he wanted to know why. By having poor, deluded Lysa murder her husband, the man had set in motion a collision between House Stark and House Lannister that had been ripping the kingdom apart for two years now. His own family had almost been annihilated. Why? What did Littlefinger truly hope to gain from all the destruction he’d initiated?

His man, Lothor Brune, was held in one of these cells as well. He’d been wounded pretty badly by Yohn Royce on the night they’d taken the Eyrie, but was able to talk. His loyalty to Littlefinger was apparently not as strong as his desire to save his own skin, for he’d sung like a bird that first night to Royce and the others about all he’d done for Baelish and promised to do so again to anyone who’d listen in exchange for some mercy. Royce had told Ned what the man had said when they had that first long meeting in the solar, and Ned’s subsequent conversations with Sansa corroborated much of it. Royce was understandably livid at the depth of Baelish’s machinations throughout the Vale, and the ravens sent to the various Lords of the Vale had summoned them to the Eyrie to hear of his treachery in person and witness his execution.

Sansa had been very pale this morning. She appeared not to have slept at all, and Ned almost felt guilty for having taken Catelyn back to his own rooms after their evening meal. Perhaps his daughter needed her right now more than he did. The gods knew he had needed her last night, though. And she had needed him. Lysa’s betrayal had wounded her deeply.

Both of his ladies had spoken little at breakfast. Sansa had answered him readily enough as he questioned her again on some of the things she’d told him of Littlefinger, but she seemed almost afraid of something. He wished he could take that fear from her eyes. Cat had listened to the two of them without much comment, but when he’d risen to take his leave, she’d grabbed his hand.

“Just remember, he lies, my lord,” she had whispered vehemently at him, her blue eyes fixed on him intently.

“Of course, he lies, my lady,” he told her. “With Littlefinger, that is the one truth I am certain of.”

He had bent to kiss her hand then, and she had put her palm to his face as he rose. “Be careful, Ned.”

He had done his best to smile at her then, and left the two of them with a brief nod.

Now, he stood at the door to Baelish’s cell, and as the special guard Royce had assigned to it turned the key in the door, Ned realized his fists and his jaw were both clenched tightly. _Be careful, Ned,_ indeed. Perhaps neither his wife nor Yohn Royce had been off the mark in their concerns about him confronting this man.

The corridor along the cells was rather dark, and as the door opened the first thing Ned noticed was the light. The bright blaze of blue almost blinded him as he stepped just inside. The entire space couldn’t be more than seven or eight feet square, smaller even than the cell he’d been held in beneath the Red Keep, and it had only three walls. Opposite the doorway, the entire cell opened to the morning sky, and a blast of winter air hit Ned along with the light.

Littlefinger was crouched in a corner under a ragged fur, his body curled as far away from the blue expanse as possible, but he sat up when he recognized Ned.

“Why, Lord Stark,” he said, “What a disappointment. I had so hoped you would send your lady wife in your stead.” He was dirty and unkempt, but his voice held the same aristocratic, lightly mocking tone as always. “Or perhaps your lovely daughter.”

“My wife and daughter are none of your concern,” Ned said brusquely. “Why did you have Lysa kill Jon Arryn? And why did you have her write to Catelyn with lies?”

Littlefinger chuckled at that. “Oh, dear, dear. You have no subtlety at all, do you?” He shrugged then. “I have no idea what you are talking about. Cersei Lannister was responsible for Jon Arryn’s death. Your very own lady wife told me so, or have you forgotten how I kept Cat safely . . .tucked away . . .until your arrival in King‘s Landing?”

Ned clenched his fists but refused to rise to the bait. “Catelyn told you what she believed to be true. As we have learned you are the reason she believed it, I would like to know why.”

“And I would like to leave this cell, Stark, but I doubt you shall allow it. It seems neither of us shall obtain what we would like.”

At that, Ned strode the two paces to Littlefinger, grabbed the front of his filthy shirt, and jerked him to his feet. “Oh, I would be more than happy to assist you in leaving your cell, Baelish. Do not doubt that for a minute.” As he spoke, he turned so that his own back was against the wall with the doorway and Baelish was held with his back toward the sky.

As Littlefinger clutched at his arms, Ned saw a look of true panic flash across his face, and he let go of the man’s shirt. Off balance, the man fell flat and then crawled on his knees to press himself once again against the wall, curled up and shaking.

“So you are afraid to die, are you Petyr?” Ned said to the shaking man, thoughtfully. “Other people’s deaths are nothing to you. My own, my sons’, Robert’s, Joffrey’s, Lysa’s . . .the countless men, women, and children who have died since you began this thing . . .” He shook his head. “But the thought of being sacrificed yourself reduces you to this.” He nudged Littlefinger with the toe of his boot, and the man jerked away, hugging the wall still more tightly. “Or is it merely the idea of being removed from the game by such a hopeless player which galls you, my lord?”

Littlefinger rose to a sitting position once more. “You are a hopeless player, Stark,” he said, with some of the old mockery and bravado returning to his voice. “You have nothing to gain by coming here. Surely, my sweet Alayne has told you all you need to know for the thickskulled Lords of the Vale to send me out the Moon Door after my dear, departed wife.”

Ned refused to acknowledge the reference to Sansa’s false name. “I know you murdered your wife,” he said coldly.

“Ah, my sweet little girl did sing a pretty song for you, didn’t she? It would appear you presume to know lots of things now. What a pity you haven’t the intelligence to use any of your knowledge to true advantage.” Littlefinger smiled up at him. “Alayne . . .she might help you. Such an apt pupil, that girl. Her mind as quick as her lips are sweet.”

Ned jerked him up by the shirt front again, this time slamming him into the wall behind him. “Her name is Sansa,” he said in a voice of icy fury. “And you are not to speak of her again.”

Littlefinger’s eyes looked slightly unfocused after the back of his head hit the wall, but he still smiled. “She should have been my daughter,” he said hazily. “As Cat should have been my wife.” He grunted as Ned pushed him harder against the wall, but the pain seemed to clear his mind somewhat because he spoke more clearly then. “There is nothing of you in her, Stark. She is Cat to the bone. And had you only had the courtesy to remain dead, I could have made her completely mine.”

Rage clouded Ned’s vision, and he came very close to killing the man right there, but he forced himself to consider his unanswered questions. He pulled Littlefinger away from the wall far enough that the recoil of his head when he bloodied his lip didn’t send it into the wall again. He didn’t need the man unconscious.

“My death,” he said. “Why was that so important to you? I know you put Joffrey up to executing me against his mother’s wishes, so don’t bother denying it. Why? Couldn’t you have played your little game with me at the Wall?”

Baelish licked at the blood on his lip. “I have no answers for you, Stark,” he said quietly.

“Oh, I think you do.” Ned bent then and dragged the man toward the open side of the cell. He got down on his own knees as they approached the edge, not trusting the balance of his bad leg should Petyr make a move. But Petyr had now spent two nights in this cell and had developed a very healthy fear of the edge. He became almost paralyzed as Ned dragged him until his head hung over the edge staring down a sheer cliff face to Sky, 600 feet below. “Would you like to answer my question now?” he asked, as he held Petyr down against the rock ledge by his neck.

“Chaos,” Petyr gasped. “Your death guaranteed your boy would never put away his sword. Sending you to the Wall might have placated him.”

Ned pulled the man up and shoved him roughly back toward the back wall again. As Littlefinger lay there gasping, he asked, “And why would anyone want chaos?”

To his surprise, Littlefinger actually laughed. “Because, Lord Stark, chaos brings change. And when all the pieces are crashing into one another, the man who stays above the crash can take what he wants when they all fall down and shape that change to his benefit.”

“You were behind all of it, then,” Ned said between clenched teeth. “From the very beginning--Jon’s death, Lysa’s lying letter--that was all in the name of creating chaos? You set House Stark against House Lannister and actually worked to see both lose, didn’t you?”

Baelish shrugged again. “More or less. I didn’t actually start it, though. Jaime Lannister fucked his sister without any help from me, and old Jon Arryn was like a dog who wouldn’t let go of that particular bone. He painted the target on himself. I simply moved more quickly than our sweet queen. And the attack on your crippled boy, well, that was simply a gift I was happy to accept.”

“A gift,” Ned repeated. “You would call what happened to my son a gift.”

Baelish ignored the ice in Ned’s voice and replied, “For me? Certainly. Particularly as it was delivered to me by my own sweet Cat.” He smiled at Ned then. “We were together for several days before you arrived in Kings Landing, Lord Stark. Days for me to remind her how she trusted me, how she loved me. And love me, she did.”

Ned didn’t remember putting his hands around Petyr Baelish’s throat, but he became aware that the man was gasping, his eyes were bulging, and his face was turning an ugly purple color. He ripped his hands away from the man’s throat and turned away from him so violently, he came dangerously close to the edge of the sky cell himself.

“Gods damn you, Baelish!” he shouted. “Gods damn you to every hell! I should cut that lying tongue out of your head!”

Baelish was rubbing his neck hard, but even as Ned swore at him, he seemed to be laughing as he gasped for breath. “Oh gods, it’s too funny,” he finally said.

“What?” Ned asked, too stunned by the man’s reaction to being throttled to come up with anything else to say.

“You actually do love her,” Baelish said. “I thought it was simply your prickly northern pride and possessiveness and sense of honor that objected to my having had her first.” He laughed again. “I’ve known many a man to be ruled by his cock whether for one woman or many, but I thought you far too cold for such a thing.”

Ned forced his fury then to freeze very hard inside him. “You know nothing of cold,” he said in a deadly voice of ice. “And nothing of love. You talk of loving Catelyn, yet you lied to her, put her in harm’s way, and helped bring about the death of her children. You used her as any other piece in your game. For that, I could kill you slowly right now, and you might learn the meaning of cold.”

Littlefinger’s eyes widened slightly and for once he was silent.

“Tell me, Baelish, did you help Tywin Lannister plan that accursed wedding?”

Now, Baelish looked truly shocked. “No,” he whispered. “I would never have harmed Cat. Never. If I had known of it, I would have found a way to . . .”

“To take her away perhaps, as you did Sansa, and leave Robb to his fate?,” Ned asked coldly.

Littlefinger nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Robb Stark’s life meant nothing to me, and his death certainly led to more chaos in the north and along the Trident.”

“And Cat would have killed you with her bare hands for merely saying that,” Ned said.

“You’re wrong about that, Stark. Whatever I do or do not know about love, I know that Cat loved me long before she ever knew you. You cannot take that from me.”

 _Littlefinger lies as often as most men breathe._ Varys’s words came to Ned then, but as he looked at the man crumpled against the wall, he could almost swear he believed the words he spoke. _It is not true._ For a moment, he almost doubted himself. Catelyn had most assuredly been a maiden on their wedding night. But could she have loved this man? _NO!_ Baelish was deluded if he believed his own words.

Ned pushed Baelish down flat on his back and held him there with his left hand, and he pulled his dagger with his right hand and held it to his throat. “Have you anything else you’d like to tell me, Lord Baelish?” he said in a voice that was almost polite, save for the icy cold in it still.

“About your wife or your daughter?” Baelish spit back.

“About your game,” Ned said.

“Oh, it isn’t my game, Lord Stark. The game’s gone on forever. I’m merely one of the players. One of the better ones it’s true, but far from the only one. There are others, and they are all better than you.”

Ned nodded. “Probably,” he agreed. Then he pushed the point of his dagger into Littlefinger’s neck hard enough to draw blood. The man flinched, but did not make a sound. His eyes were wide with terror.

“They cut her throat, you know,” he said, almost conversationally, “At that wedding. And even if you didn’t plan it . . .” He now drew a shallow thin red line across the man’s neck with the tip of his blade. “She never would have been there had you not had Lysa Tully kill Jon Arryn. Other things may still have occurred, and other sins may have caused some of your precious chaos . . .” He held his dagger up for Baelish to see the red stain of his own blood on its blade. “But Catelyn and Robb would still be safe at Winterfell, as would our Bran and Rickon.”

He stood up then, and looked down at Petyr Baelish with eyes as cold as the frost which was forming at the outside edges of the cell. “You will die, Petyr. You will be brought before the Lords of the Vale, and you will follow your lady wife out the Moon Door. But there are worse things than death, my lord. Much worse. When you come before those lords, if you say one word, just one word, Petyr, about my wife or daughter, I will bring you back here. And you will learn the meaning of cold.”

Petyr Baelish neither moved nor spoke as Ned knocked on the door to have it opened and then followed the guard out of the cell.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn Stark paced her chambers wondering when Ned would return. He had gone to speak to Yohn Royce before going down to the dungeon, and Royce would undoubtedly stop him for a discussion after he finished questioning Petyr, but even with that, she had expected him back by now. She knew well enough that this interrogation was as much about Ned’s need to confront the man as it was about obtaining information, and she prayed her husband would keep his temper in check. She did not want the Lords of the Vale arriving at the Eyrie to find Littlefinger dead. Petyr did have some supporters and there was always a chance they could accuse Ned of murder. He was already a condemned traitor according to the Lannisters, after all.

The first raven which had returned to the Eyrie had come from nearby Heart’s Home, and Sansa had told them Lord Lyonel Corbray was one of Petyr’s staunchest supporters. Apparently, he was just about to marry the daughter of a very wealthy merchant, a match Sansa said Petyr had brokered. According to his rather unfriendly letter, he was putting his nuptials on hold to come to the Eyrie, speak with Lord Baelish, confront Lord Royce about going back on the agreement between Petyr and the Lords Declarant, and discover what was behind this nonsense of someone masquerading as Eddard Stark.

Two more ravens had arrived since, from Redfort and Ironoaks, and while both Lord Redfort and Lady Waynwood had expressed a certain amount of disbelief that Lord and Lady Stark were truly alive and in the Vale, their letters had a much more hopeful tone, and did seem rather optimistic about the fact that Petyr Baelish’s supposed daughter may truly be the captive Lady Sansa Stark. Catelyn sighed. She had nothing to occupy her mind except her worries, and she felt she might truly go mad waiting for Ned’s return.

After to seeking out Maester Colemon to see Lady Waynwood‘s letter, she had gone with Sansa briefly to see little Robert Arryn. The child had at least stopped demanding that she be made “to fly,” and he seemed to accept that she may be the aunt who had visited two years past, the scars on her face notwithstanding. He had a much more difficult time accepting that she was Sansa’s mother, or that Sansa was anyone other than Alayne, which he insisted upon calling her. Sansa had pulled Catelyn up beside her and told Robert to just look at the two of them together, having learned that the resemblance between the two of them was noticed immediately by everyone in the Eyrie. To her great disappointment, the child had said, “You don’t look like her, Alayne. You don’t have ugly red lines on your face and your hair is brown like mine. Stop being silly.”

What with her worry for Ned, the arrival of the ravens, and her painful conversation with Sansa earlier in the garden, Catelyn had reached the point of simply needing to be alone. She had left Sansa telling Sweetrobin once again how wonderful Runestone was, and how much he would love it there, and returned to her rooms. Now, she simply waited.

She was standing at the window when she heard the door open. Turning to see her husband enter, she gave a small cry and ran to embrace him. He put his arms around her and made a low chuckling sound against her hair.

“Did you fear I’d not return, my lady?”

“No,” she said against his chest. “I just . . .” She couldn’t put her fears into words so she stopped speaking.

He put a hand under her chin to turn her face up to his. “I didn’t kill him, Cat, if that is your worry.”

There was an odd expression on his face, and he seemed to search hers for something when he said that.

“I want him dead, my lord,” she said firmly. “But not by your hands with no one there to see. I would not have you unjustly accused.”

He continued to stare at her intently for another moment before saying, “I wanted to kill him.”

“I know,” she said simply, and before the words were completely formed, his lips were on hers. He held her so tightly against him she could barely breathe, and the kiss was not gentle. It was an act of possession. For an instant, the reflexive fear gripped her as her mind conjured other rough hands and mouths, but she forced herself to keep her eyes on his, so close to her own. This was her husband. She tightened her own grip around him and returned his kiss.

When they broke apart, his grey eyes looked like smoke. “You are mine, Catelyn Tully,” he said.

She shook her head slowly, and his eyes widened in surprise, and she felt his body tense.

“I am yours, my lord,” she said, “but my name is Catelyn Stark.”

He smiled at her then, one of his rare smiles that lit his entire face, and her heart jumped. Nothing was more beautiful to her than Ned’s smiles.

He kissed her again then, and she was sorely tempted to let him continue doing so, but she did want to know what Littlefinger had said, so when they next broke apart for breath, she put her hands on his chest. “What did he say?” she asked.

Ned sighed. “Nothing of consequence. He didn’t actually admit to killing Jon or having Lysa write to you, but then he told me why he did it, so it amounts to a confession all the same. I doubt he’ll ever repeat it to the esteemed lords of the Vale, but we have evidence in plenty from Sansa and Lothor Brune.”

“Why did he do it?”

“Because he could. Because he’s too small a man to topple any great house, but a clever enough man to goad them into toppling each other. He has the ambition of a Tywin Lannister, Cat, and he truly believed he could make everyone dance to his tune.” Ned let go of her and moved away slightly. “The gods know he had me dancing long enough,” he said bitterly.

“Myself as well,” she said quickly. “You would never have trusted him if not for me. He played me for a fool, my love.”

Ned made a slight non-committal sound, but said nothing.

“What did he say of Lysa?” she asked him.

He turned back to look at her then, and she saw sympathy in his eyes. “Very little, actually. I do not believe he ever thought of her at all, except how to use her.”

Tears came to Catelyn’s eyes then, and sympathy for her sister outweighed the anger she had felt since learning of Lysa’s crimes. “He never loved her at all,” she said softly. “Even when we were children. Even when he . . .Gods, Ned! Why did he ever take her to bed?”

“He’s hardly the first man to bed a woman he didn’t care for.” He was looking at her with that odd expression again.

“What else did he speak about?”

“He tried to speak about Sansa.”

She noticed his right hand curl into a fist as he said that, and she picked it up to look at it. He had a fresh cut across once knuckle. “I see what that got him,” she said drily. “Does he still have all his teeth?”

Ned shrugged. “He won’t need them much longer in any event.”

“What else did he say, Ned? I want to know.”

He sighed. “He spoke a lot about you. About keeping you in that brothel in King’s Landing, and his old insinuations about your days at Riverrun together--that he’d . . .”

Ned broke off, seemingly unable to even say it, so Catelyn finished the statement for him. “That he’d bedded me as well as Lysa. It’s a lie, Ned. You do know that don’t you?”

She had tried very hard to keep the pleading note out of her voice, but he must have seen something in her face because he put his arms around her again. “Cat,” he said gently, “I was . . .inexperienced . . .when we wed, but I was neither blind nor an idiot. I know very well you came a maiden to my bed.”

She actually blushed then, and he smiled as he brushed his fingers over the pink of her cheeks and spoke softly. “When Jory ripped that dress off you, and I saw that this” he tapped her cheek lightly, “delightful color spread far beyond your face, I knew I’d never seen anything quite so lovely.”

His eyes were a dark, smoky grey again, and Catelyn felt the heat in her cheeks spread down to her body, but she was no frightened maid now. She met his eyes and asked him boldly, “Would you care to see it again, my lord?”

With a wolfish grin, he began tugging at the laces of her dress, and Littlefinger was forgotten as she soon stood naked before him, and he kissed the pink skin of her neck and breasts, suckling her nipples until they stood up hard and firm, running his rough hands over the skin of her back and hips, lingering ever so slightly as his hand passed over her scar.

He pulled back from her then. “I cannot lose you,” he said, his breath coming raggedly.

“You won’t,” she whispered, and began undoing the laces of breeches as he pulled his shirt over his head.

They moved toward the bed, and he stumbled as he tried to get his boots off without letting go of her, and she laughed out loud. They fell onto the bed together, nothing between them, and she felt her pulse race at the feel of his hard length pressed against her.

“Please, Ned,” she whispered, not able to bear waiting even one moment more. She took him in her hand and guided him inside her, reveling in the way his body shivered with pleasure as she did. For a brief span of time, all worries were forgotten, and Catelyn Stark knew nothing but the sheer joy of belonging to her husband as his strong arms held her, and he moved inside her until she felt herself come apart and cry out his name. As she tightened around him, he cried out as well, and within two more thrusts had spilled himself within her.

He collapsed onto her then, and she kept her arms wrapped tightly around his back. He was still breathing heavily when he whispered into her ear, “You are mine, Catelyn Stark.”

She smiled and moved her hands up to his head, running them through his hair. “And you are mine, Eddard Stark,” she replied.

He rolled off her then, but pulled her tight against his side, and she lay her head on his chest as she had hundreds of times before. His hand went immediately to her hair as it had hundreds of times times before. “Completely, my lady,” he said softly. “Completely.”

Catelyn smiled contentedly. She could not truly forget all the things still to be dealt with, but she simply refused in this moment, to allow anything but the steady rhythm of her husband’s heartbeat into her mind.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark awoke with a start. His movement produced a soft feminine cry to his left as he jostled his still sleeping wife. Memory came to him and he stilled himself with a smile, not wanting to disturb her further. By the angle of the light coming from the window, it was past midday, meaning they had slept for two or three hours. Ned frowned. He never slept in the middle of the day, and that seemed to be all he had done since his arrival at the Eyrie. He hoped he was truly a victim of exhaustion as Catelyn contended rather than simply getting old. _Seven and thirty is not old._

He smiled at the woman lying next to him. He certainly hadn’t felt old just prior to falling asleep. He should never have doubted her even for a moment when Littlefinger had spoken. Delusions or lies, it made no difference. Cat had always been true.

She yawned then and stretched rather like the animal that shared her nickname. Sleepy blue eyes blinked open and he laughed as he saw the same confusion there he had felt a moment ago. “I believe it’s a little past midday,” he said. “We may have missed the meal.”

“I’m surprised no one came for us,” she said, stretching some more. “Surely, Sansa . . .” She stopped then, and looked somewhat panicked. “Ned . . .you don’t think she came in and saw us . . .”

He laughed at her again. _Gods, it feels good to laugh._ “Saw us asleep in our bed? Oh, dear! That would be dreadful.”

“But . . .we aren’t dressed,” she said.

She sounded so prim, Ned had to bite back another laugh. “How many nights did the children come bounding into your bedchamber over some goblin dream or another and send you scrambling for your shift and me for me breeches?” He smiled at her. “I’m afraid all of our children have known how we prefer to sleep for some time, my lady.”

“But, honestly, Ned. It’s the middle of the day!”

Now he had to laugh at her. “Who, pray tell, has taken my wife and replaced her with this septa?”

She made a face at him, and rose to get her clothes which were still pooled on the floor. “Are you hungry, my lord? I can find us something to eat.”

He watched her walk across the floor and bend to retrieve her smallclothes. _Gods, she is beautiful! How is it that she is mine?_

She saw him watching her. After putting on her smallclothes and her shift, she came to sit on the bed. “My lord, are you certain you are not troubled by anything Littlefinger told you?”

He blinked, and wondered yet again at his wife’s ability to see inside him. He sat up and brushed her hair away from her face. “No, Cat. I am not troubled. I was . . .puzzled by something, but I am no longer.”

“What?” she insisted.

“At one point, I believe the man was not actually lying.”

Immediately her face registered an expression of shock and hurt, and he cursed himself for his lack of ability with words. He grabbed both of her hands. “He spoke no truth about you! I know that, Cat. I have no doubt of it.”

“Then what are you talking about?” she said, with an edge to her voice.

“I believe that Petyr Baelish has lied to everyone for so long that even he doesn’t always know the truth from the lies.” he said slowly. “I believe that on some level, the man has actually convinced himself that you loved him, and that the things he says are true.”

“That is ridiculous!” she snapped. “Perhaps I shall just go down to that cell and . . .”

“No,” he said firmly. “You will not.” He wanted his wife nowhere near that vile little man. She never needed to hear him speak to her again.

She heard the finality in his voice. “As you say, my lord,” she said. Ned knew that phrase of hers well. She was still troubled, but she would abide by his word. Once he would have settled for that, but now . . .

“Catelyn, I need you to listen to me.” She looked at him silently, so he continued. “Littlefinger beat me long ago in King’s Landing.” She started to protest, and he held up a hand. “He played me like master musician plays a harp. I danced to his tune and never heard the music.” He swallowed. “His failure to see me dead is entirely Varys’s doing and none of my own. Had it not been for Varys, I would be dead, my love. You would likely still be at the Twins, and Sansa--gods, Sansa!--who knows what she would have become locked up here with him.” He shook his head. “I cannot have you near him, Cat. Nor Sansa. I would not have either of you breathe the same air as that evil man. You will both have to be there when he is sentenced, of course, but other than that, I would not have him so much as look upon you.”

She nodded. “Ned,” she said softly. “You are the one who came for me. Varys did not free you from Pentos or ride into the Twins.”

He smiled at her somewhat sadly. “Perhaps. But you cannot say I ever protected you from Petyr Baelish. Even when we came here, I relied upon you to face the man.”

“I volunteered for that!” she said, sounding exasperated. “You do not have to do everything yourself, Eddard Stark!”

“I will not fail you again where Baelish is concerned. You will not see any more of your children die as a result of his duplicity, my lady. I cannot change the failures of the past, but I will not repeat my mistakes. You and Sansa will stay away from Baelish.”

“We will, my love,” she said softly. “But, Ned, he will speak at his sentencing. What is to prevent him from saying some vile thing about either of us then? In front of everyone there?” Her blue eyes were troubled and Ned longed to erase all trouble from them forever. He couldn’t do that, perhaps, but at least he could promise her this.

“He will not speak ill of you or Sansa there, my love. I promise you that.” He remembered the feel of his blade at Littlefinger’s throat and the raw fear in the man’s eyes, and he smiled grimly. “That is one thing he will not do.”

His wife looked at him for a rather long time, but decided not to ask any more. She simply nodded and said, “Thank you.” She then kissed him quickly and rose again to resume dressing herself. As he continued to watch her, Ned thought, _She is mine, and this time I will protect her._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to all who read. Please feel free to leave comments. I appreciate every one! :)


	28. Name Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairly redundant, but still true---All of the characters and settings and many of the events they discuss are directly from George R.R. Martin's books. He owns all this.

The first of the lords of the Vale to arrive at the Eyrie was Lord Lyonel Corbray, which wasn’t surprising given the relative proximity of Heart’s Home. Ser Donnel Waynwood was closer, of course, but he had sent word he would remain at his post at the Bloody Gate as his family would be well represented by his lady mother. Sansa had actually looked forward to Lady Waynwood’s arrival. She much preferred her to the Corbrays. When Lord Nestor had sent word that Ser Lyn Corbray accompanied his brother up the Giant’s Lance, Sansa had felt ill. Ser Lyn frightened her.

“Does Ser Lyn realize you know of his association with Littlefinger?” her father had asked her when the bird came.

Sansa had thought carefully. “I doubt it,” she replied. “Petyr said Ser Lyn likes gold and boys and killing, so he would pay him with gold and boys and promises. He would not have confided anything to that man. It would not have profited him to do so.”

Her father had looked at her a long time after she said that, and she had wished she could tell what he was thinking. Finally, he had said simply, “That is good,” and had gone to speak with Yohn Royce.

Lord Eddard had decided to meet the Corbrays upon their arrival. “They will likely be tired, cold, and hungry after the ascent,” he had said. “I cannot think of a better time to shock them by appearing with my head intact. They were forewarned, after all.”

So, with she and her mother standing just slightly behind, her father had gone out from the Crescent Room and met the Corbrays as they climbed the last of the stairs in the mountain. Lord Lyonel, who had met him any number of times, developed quite a comical expression of shock as he drew close enough to recognize him. Her mother had laughed softly beside her. “We are getting rather used to that, I’m afraid,” she’d whispered to Sansa.

Ser Lyn’s eyes had only narrowed, though, and Sansa had instinctively drawn closer to her mother as he approached. After some initial stammering, Lord Lyonel had expressed great joy at seeing Lord and Lady Stark alive indeed, but Ser Lyn had said only, “This is indeed surprising.”

Then he had turned to her and said, “Alayne, is it not? Where is your father?”

Her own father had bristled then. “Her name is Lady Sansa Stark. And her father stands before you.”

“So I read in your letter,” Corbray said without looking away from Sansa. He smiled at her then, and she remembered how little she had liked his smile when last he was here. “And yet you seemed such a dutiful daughter to Lord Baelish, I confess I find it hard to believe you are not truly his.”

Sansa had found her voice then. “It is the truth, Ser, whether you find it difficult or not. I am the daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn. I recall you offered Lord Baelish the point of your steel when you were last here. Surely, you are pleased that he has now been exposed for the villain he is.”

The man had no response for that, and she had turned to lead them into the warmth of the Crescent Chamber for a glass of wine and a brief respite before climbing up the long stairs inside. She caught her father’s brief smile at her, and it had warmed her more than the wine.

Her father had taken both Corbrays to see Lord Royce after that, and she had seen little of them since. She knew they had asked to see Petyr and been denied by Lord Royce who told them he saw no point in individual trips to the dungeon for every arriving lord, as Petyr would be brought before all of them soon enough.

Lady Waynwood and Lord Redfort had arrived the next day, and Lords Belmore, Hunter, and Lynderly were reportedly on their way. Hopefully they would arrive soon as winter was descending on the Vale, and Sansa feared staying in the Eyrie much longer. The three lords and lady who were already their guests were getting anxious as well. Her parents and Lord Royce were meeting with them now. She, thankfully, had not been required to attend.

She was helping Sweetrobin choose the belongings he wished to send down to the Gates of the Moon and then on to Runestone. There was much to do in preparation for closing the Eyrie, she had discovered, and was glad for the task as it kept her mind occupied. Her mother had been a great help, and Sansa believed she was grateful for the distraction as well.

“Will they have books there, Alay . . .Sansa?” Robert asked her, pulling her out of her reverie. He was picking through his story books and looking thoughtful.

She smiled at him. He was being much better about calling her by her name. Yohn Royce had been spending as much time with him as he could spare from the endless meetings with her father and the other lords, and Robert was developing a grudging respect for the man. Lord Royce’s insistence that the child stop calling her Alayne had been more effective than any of her pleas.

“They’ll have lots of books at Runestone, Sweetrobin. You’ll find stories you’ve never heard, I’m certain.” She looked at the large stack of books. “Since books are rather heavy, why don’t you be kind to the poor mules and only take one or two of your very favorites? The rest will be waiting for you right here when you return.”

He looked like he might protest, but then simply nodded. He was very quiet today. “Are you well, my Sweetrobin?” she asked. “I’m used to more chatter from you.”

The little boy looked at her more seriously than he ever had. “Why did you lie to me, Alayne?” he said finally. “Why did you say that singer killed my mother?”

She had wondered when he would ask. She knew he had been told the truth. Bronze Yohn and her father both insisted that as the actual Lord of the Eyrie, Robert Arryn must be in the High Hall when Petyr was brought to justice. She and her mother had both argued that he was too young for such a thing, but her father had sternly insisted that winter was coming and the little lord had no choice but to grow up.

“I am sorry I lied to you, Sweetrobin,” she said softly. “Petyr told me what to say. I couldn’t get away from him and neither could you, so I said what he asked. Knowing the truth wouldn’t bring your mother back, and since you had to live here with Petyr, I thought it would be better if you didn’t know what he’d done.”

“I was very angry at you,” the little boy said. “I told Lord Royce we should make you fly with your father.”

That startled her. “I am sorry, Sweetrobin,” she said. “I never meant to hurt you.”

He shrugged. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t want you to fly anymore. Lord Royce said you had to lie or your father would hurt you. He said you told the truth as soon as it was safe, and I should thank you for getting my mother justice.” He paused a moment and wrinkled up his face. “I’m not going to thank you for lying to me, though. You shouldn’t lie to the Lord of the Eyrie even if your father did tell you to.”

“I know I shouldn’t have,” she said. “And you know Petyr Baelish isn’t my father.”

“He was,” the child insisted. “But I know your new father is the man with the mean face who says he’s my uncle.”

 _Mean face?_ Sansa started to protest, but then realized that her father had been going about the Eyrie with his lord’s face almost permanently in place which did make him look pretty grim. “Well, he isn’t truly mean, Sweetrobin,” she said gently. “He simply has a lot to do now. He’s actually not bad at telling stories. Perhaps I can get him to tell you one.”

“Oh, he did, already.”

Now that shocked her. She hadn’t known her father had spent any time with little Robert at all. “What story did he tell you?”

“A real one.” The boy absently twirled a finger in his newly cut hair. Her mother had told him that she cut hair exactly like his own mother had because they’d learned together as girls, and much to everyone’s surprise, Robert had let her cut it. “He said my father was a great lord. He told me about coming here to live with my father when he was a little boy not much bigger than me. He told me his mother died, too.” He looked up at Sansa. “But not by falling,” he clarified.

Sansa nodded and Robert continued. “He said he had another boy here just a little older than him, and they were like brothers and had all sorts of fun, and sometimes my father had to be very stern with them. But it was okay because he taught them swords and lots of things. He said I would get my very own practice sword at Runestone, and Lord Royce would teach me, and there would be other boys there, and I would like it as much as he liked it here.”

Sansa smiled. She had never heard Sweetrobin talk like this before. He sounded almost more like her brother Bran than the half-mad, hopelessly infantile boy she was used to. “I’m sure you will love it, Sweetrobin. My father has often told us of his time here as a boy, and I know he remembers it fondly.”

Robert nodded. “I asked Lord Royce about the sword. He says I have to start with a wooden one, but I’ll get a real one after awhile.” He frowned. “He also says I’ll get my own horse.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!" She exclaimed.

Now, he shook his head. “No it’s not, Ala . .Sansa. I don’t like horses,” he said sullenly. “They kick.”

Sansa laughed. She supposed no one could expect Sweetrobin to get too brave all at once. “Come on, my sweet knight. Let’s finish this because I still have a lot to mark down in here.” She waved her little daily book at him which Petyr had given her to keep track of household matters and accounts. He’d always insisted on her knowing things precisely.

Robert went back to considering his choice of story books, and Sansa laid her book down on a desk. As she flipped the pages looking for today’s half-finished entries, her eye fell upon tomorrow’s page, blank save for the date. _Oh!_ she thought. _I wonder if they even know._

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark’s head was throbbing. He felt like he’d been in this solar forever listening to the lords of the Vale squabble. While they met, Maester Colemon had received word from the Gates of the Moon that the last three expected lords had arrived there and would begin the ascent early in the morning as it was rather late in the day to begin it in such cold and icy conditions. Bronze Yohn had immediately declared they would bring Petyr to the High Hall as soon as they arrived then, so that justice could be done, and everyone would have time to get off the mountain safely before winter truly settled in the Vale.

“You mean everyone except Lord Baelish,” Lyn Corbray said drily. “as the Moon Door hardly offers a safe descent.”

Ned was thoroughly tired of Lyn Corbray. “Ser Corbray, we have told you in great detail all that Baelish has done. He murdered both your liege lord and his lady wife! And you’re concerned about his safety?”

“You say he has done these things. I merely would like evidence to be heard before he is summarily executed,” said Ser Lyn.

“Says the man who offered to skewer him in this very solar some few moons past!” declared Lady Waynwood. “Why the change in tune?”

Corbray narrowed his eyes. “I have come to know Lord Baelish a good deal more through my brother. His dealings with Lyonel have been completely honest and fair as far as I can see. I may have been too hasty previously, and I wish not to repeat that fault.”

“Well said,” Lord Lyonel put in. “Lord Stark,” he spoke courteously at least. “If all you say of Lord Baelish is true, then he indeed deserves no better than death. You will present witnesses tomorrow?”

“Will any witness sway you, Lionel?” asked old Horton Redfort sharply. “Now that Littlefinger’s bought you with a fat merchant’s daughter and her father’s fatter purse?”

Lord Lyonel started to rise in protest and Yohn Royce bellowed, “Enough!” With everyone’s eyes upon him, he turned calmly to Lyonel Corbray who had frozen half out of his chair. “Kindly sit down, Lyonel. And let’s all keep civil tongues in our heads. As for witnesses, you shall hear them. Littlefinger’s own man, Lothor Brune testifies against him, as does Lord Stark, and his daughter, Lady Sansa Stark.”

“Shouldn’t she more properly be referred to as Lady Lannister? She is Tyrion Lannister’s wife, is she not?” asked Lyn Corbray.

Ned felt Catelyn stiffen beside him at the word Lannister, and he addressed Corbray coldly. “My daughter’s marriage to the Imp is a sham forced on both of them against their wills by Tywin Lannister. It was not consummated and shall be annulled as soon as possible.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” said Ser Lyn.

“Speak plainly, Ser Lyn,” came Catelyn’s voice. “If you wish to accuse my daughter of anything, do so clearly, so that when I strike you, all present will know precisely why.”

“Are you allowing your wife to sit there and threaten me with violence, Stark?”

“Hardly,” Ned said. “My lady wife will have no need to strike you, Ser, as I shall call you out myself if you do not cease your insults to my daughter.”

“I said, enough!” Royce bellowed again. “This gets us nowhere. No one here doubts the Lady Sansa’s honor. You will all hear the young lady speak for herself on the morrow, and you will find her quite compelling. Now, you have heard the worst of the crimes Baelish has committed. We further have evidence of any number of questionable business dealings. Lady Sansa was able to tell us quite a lot and show us the man’s books.”

“Books?” Ned thought Ser Lyn looked just a little less sure of himself at the mention of books.

“Books,” Lord Royce repeated. “Lady Waynwood, forgive me for speaking indelicately, but are you aware that the recent difficulties with debts being called on Ironoaks has been due to Littlefinger buying up your debts himself?”

Lady Waynwood went pale and then flushed with anger. “The man had the gall to come and offer me help! He had heard of my difficulties, he said. We could work together, he said!” She shook her head.

“What did he want?” Lord Redfort asked. “I am quite certain he didn’t offer you his help for nothing.”

“Harry,” she said softly. “He wanted Harrold Hardyng to marry his daughter, Alayne.” She looked up at Ned. “Your daughter, my lord.”

Ned nodded. He, Royce, and Catelyn had already heard this from Donnel Waynwood, of course, but it was the first the Corbrays or Redfort had heard of it.

“He tried to get you to sell Harry the Heir into marriage with a bastard?” Lord Redfort said, incredulously. “The nerve of the man!”

“Except that she isn’t a bastard,” said Lyonel Corbray. “She’s the daughter of a High Lord and the heir to Winterfell. Lord Eddard himself has told us her Lannister marriage isn’t valid, so it would appear Lord Baelish was doing the girl and Harry a great favor. A match between the heir to the Eyrie and the heir to Winterfell is no small thing.”

His brother nodded. “Perhaps Lord Baelish’s intentions were honorable. Perhaps the deception was only to keep Lady Sansa safely hidden from the Lannisters while he safeguarded her future. He was her uncle by marriage after all.”

“And he murdered her aunt!” Ned exploded. “You haven’t heard my daughter tell it, but you will. Nothing that man has ever done is honorable. He has no honor! This match was for his own purposes. He’s no better than Tywin Lannister, seeking to increase his own power by tying my daughter to some randy young man who seems bent on getting bastards on every maid in the Vale!”

“I hardly think we need to malign Harry’s reputation here, Lord Stark,” Lady Waynwood started to protest. She stopped speaking as Lyn Corbray had started laughing. His laughter grew louder and louder until he wiped tears from his eyes.

As everyone stared at him, he shook his head slowly and looked at Ned with great amusement. “Now there’s the pot calling the kettle black. At least young Harry’s sowing his seed while he’s still uncommitted. You got your bastard on some lovely wench after you were wed, as I recall. Now there’s honor for you, eh?” He shifted his gaze to Catelyn. “What say you about it, Lady Stark?”

Ned felt her freeze beside him, and he knew if he turned to look, her face would be hard and pale as marble. Everyone around the table sat in stunned silence, and he felt Catelyn rise. He turned toward her then, and saw that indeed her face was white marble, but there was her tell-tale blush of shame in both cheeks. “I say nothing, Ser Lyn,” she said stiffly. “You deserve no response from me.”

She turned and left the solar without another word.

Ned stood then faced Corbray in cold fury. “Whatever insult I deserve, my lady wife deserves none,” he said between clenched teeth. “You are a foul man, Corbray. Littlefinger told my daughter you loved only three things---gold, boys, and killing. And so he paid you with gold, boys, and promises. If you ever dare insult my wife again, I promise I will pay you with steel.”

Corbray’s face had gone slightly pale at the mention of Littlefinger paying him, but Ned paid no futher attention to him. Turning to Lady Waynwood, he bowed slightly. “My apologies, Lady Waynwood, for my discourteous remark about your ward, Ser Harrold. It was ill-spoken of me.”

He then turned and left the solar himself, not caring what any of them said or did once he was gone. He cared only about finding Catelyn. _Gods! Is there no end to the shame I’ve caused her? How dare I play the honorable Lord Stark when to all the world I’m a man who betrayed his wife and brought her a bastard to raise! I cannot defend her from it. It might as well be true._

She was in their chambers, standing at a window with her back to the door. She did not move when he came in.

“Cat?” he said, hesitantly.

“You didn’t attack him, did you?” she said without emotion.

“No,” he said wearily. He sank into a chair and ran his hands over his face and through his hair. “I cannot defend myself against such accusations. I am sorry, Cat.”

She nodded. “You are sorry, I know. And it isn’t true. And I keep thinking that should help. But it doesn’t.”

He stood then and walked to her, “Cat, what can I do?” He reached for her, but she stepped away.

“Don’t touch me,” she said sharply. He drew back and waited for her to speak again. She still wasn’t looking at him.

Finally she took a deep breath, and there was a slight break in her voice when she began to speak again, still with her back to him. “I . .I am not being fair. I know that. But nothing about this is fair to me, either, Ned.”

She paused and lowered her head a bit. Though he could not see her face, he knew she was biting her lip. “I do not want your comfort right now. I want to be left alone.”

He nodded, and then remembered she couldn’t see him. “As you wish, my lady,” he said softly. “It is time for the evening meal. Should I have something sent to you?”

She shook her head. “I am not hungry.”

“I have no wish to eat, myself, nor to go to the dining hall. I shall seek out Lord Reed.” The crannogman had kept largely to himself since they’d arrived at the Eyrie, not wishing to intrude in the business of the Vale or in Ned's and Catelyn’s precious time with Sansa. Now, however, he was the only man in the world who actually might have some understanding of what Ned felt.

When his wife did not respond, Ned asked softly, “Shall I sleep elsewhere this night, my lady?”

She was silent at first, but after a moment, she shook her head. “This is your bed as well as mine, my lord. I would not have you sleep in another.”

He swallowed. “I shall return then,” he said, turning to go. As he closed the door behind him, he knew she would cry now. He also knew he couldn’t do anything for her. He briefly considered sending Sansa to her, but Catelyn would no more tell Sansa the truth of the matter than she would anyone else and would only feel shamed in front of her daughter. Gods knew he felt ashamed. _Both of us shamed by the one sin I haven’t committed! Gods!_

He found Reed in his room and briefly explained how the meeting in the solar had ended. The man let him stay there and avoid people in general and his daughter in particular. He feared she would hear something of what had occurred. Howland made a few attempts at conversation, but generally allowed Ned to brood in silence. Finally, when he was reasonably certain Catelyn would have gone to bed, he returned to his own chambers.

She was there in the bed, eyes closed and red hair spread over the pillow. He looked at her for a long moment and then began to remove his clothing. He moved as silently as possible so as not to disturb her, and whispered an oath when a boot slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.

“I am not asleep. You needn’t be silent.”

“I am sorry, my lady. I had hoped not to disturb you.”

She laughed just a little at that, but it was a sad sound. “I fear that is a forlorn hope, my lord, for I have been disturbed all evening.”

He sighed. “And I am sorry for that, Catelyn. I cannot begin to say how sorry I am for the pain I continually cause you.”

“Come to bed.”

“My lady?”

She turned to look at him for the first time since she had left the solar. “I am very tired, Ned. I do not sleep when you are gone. And I would have this night be over.”

He nodded and hastily shed the last of his clothing, sliding into bed beside her. She moved to lie against him, and he put his arms around her. “Sleep, my lady. I will be with you all through the night. Sleep, my love.”

She sighed. “You bring me far more joy than pain, Ned. I would not have you believe otherwise.”

He tightened his hold on her and kissed the top of her head gently. After what seemed a very long time, they both fell asleep.

He awakened very early to find Catelyn still curled against him. He recalled the events of the previous night far better than he wished and silently thanked the gods that she still wanted to be near him. She was sleeping deeply, and he inched away and out of the bed without waking her. He decided to go and bring her back food to break her fast, admitting to himself it was a rather feeble attempt to make things up to her.

Halfway to the dining hall, he met his daughter in the corridor.

“Father!” she called out. “I am so glad you are awake. Is Mother still sleeping?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Oh, good. I wanted to come to you last night when your meeting finally ended, but Lord Royce was very definite that you and Mother wouldn’t want disturbed.” His face must have betrayed something for she said, “Did something bad happen in that meeting?”

“Lyn Corbray was there, sweetling,” he told her. “That guarantees a lot of discourtesy and unpleasantness. Your mother very much wanted last night over with, and I quite agreed with her.” That wasn’t a lie at any rate. “I did get to mention something to our good Ser Lyn about being paid in gold and boys. You would have liked his face then.”

“Really? Was that wise?”

Ned nodded. “I believe so. He cannot possibly be sure of what I know or what I can prove, so he should be better behaved in the High Hall today.”

Sansa’s face fell. “You can’t do it today,” she said. “That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

“Sansa, we have to do it today,” he said. “The Lords Belmore, Hunter, and Lynderly are likely on their way up the Lance as we speak. Are you nervous about speaking, child? Your mother and I will both be there, and no one will treat you discourteously. I will not allow that.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s just . . .well it’s a terrible way to celebrate a name day.”

“Name day?” Ned racked his brain. He hadn’t known the exact date for a long time. It hadn’t really seemed to matter, but he was reasonably certain that Sansa’s name day was some moons away. Then it hit him. _Catelyn_. “Your mother’s name day,” he said softly.

She smiled. “You remembered!”

“Not really. I doubt your mother does, either. We’ve not exactly been keeping calendars.” He frowned. “Are you positive it’s today, Sansa?”

“Oh, yes! I have a little daily book that I use to keep track of all the details of the household and do my accounting. Father is very particular about the accounting and I have to . . .” She stopped speaking then, and the color drained from her face as she realized what she had said. She stared at him open mouthed and tears filled her blue eyes. “I . .I . .I’m sorry. I . .”

The word had stabbed him in the heart as sure as any blade when he realized she was speaking of Baelish, but her distress now concerned him more than his own. “Sansa, it is all right,” he started.

“It is not all right! Oh, Father! How could I? I am so, so sorry! I’ll never do it again. I promise!”

She looked absolutely terrified. _Gods! Why is she so frightened?_ “Sansa, child, it truly is all right. It is only a word, and one which you were required to use for a long time. It means nothing that it slipped out now. It means nothing if it slips out again.” Ned silently admonished himself to believe his own words because hearing his daughter refer to Littlefinger as Father certainly hadn’t felt like “nothing.”

She calmed down just a bit. “I am sorry, though. It just seems so wrong. Like . . .like a betrayal.” She almost choked on the last word, and Ned put his arms around her. It still seemed odd to him how tall she was now.

“Sansa, I know you know perfectly well who your father is. I am not troubled in the least.”

“I am Sansa of House Stark. Daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn.” She said it against his chest like a mantra, and his heart lurched as he wondered how often she had repeated that to herself silently during her moons as Alayne Stone.

“Of course, you are. And you could never betray me, sweetling, never.”

At that, she actually made a sound like a cry against his chest, and he wondered why every attempt to soothe her seemed only to upset her more. He didn’t say anything else, but merely held onto her tightly until she straightened up to look at him.

“You truly forgive me, Father?”

“Of course. Although there’s nothing truly to forgive.” He smiled at his beautiful, brave, yet somehow fragile daughter. “Now, let’s go and see if we can’t find something delicious to take to your mother for her name day breakfast.” He sighed. “I fear that we cannot delay today’s proceedings, but the morning is ours at any rate, so let’s make the most of it.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The High Hall was chilly, and the wind rattled the Moon Door, setting Catelyn Stark’s nerves on edge. She would much prefer to be back in her chambers eating lemoncakes for breakfast. How Sansa had managed to procure them, she would never know, but the three of them had laughed heartily over her daughter’s managing to turn Catelyn’s name day into an excuse to eat Sansa’s favorite sweets first thing in the morning.

Her name day. She was six and thirty today. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about it, but she had enjoyed the simple pleasure of letting her husband and daughter serve her breakfast and tell her how beautiful she looked. It reminded her so much of home and the time before all of this that she hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry. She chose to laugh. She had cried enough the night before.

Ned had been contrite as he carried the tray into her room. He didn’t speak of it in front of Sansa, of course, but the guilt was still there in his eyes, easily visible to her. She’d thought the tray was simply a peace offering until he began talking about this day being of great significance because when he was a mere babe of less than two, the most important event in his life had taken place. He just didn’t know about it for years. As Sansa nearly collapsed in giggles, it began to dawn on her that he was talking about her own birth. She hadn’t had any idea it was her name day until then.

She had given Ned a kiss that made their daughter blush to let him know she was quite over the events of last night, and the three of them had eaten sweets and talked of only happy things for a time. Of course, that couldn’t go on forever. Not on this day. Brienne had knocked on the door to let them know the final lords had arrived, and Ned had gone to meet them, leaving Sansa to help her dress and do up her hair.

So now she sat in the High Hall between Brienne and Sansa with Ned on the other side of Sansa. They were seated near the front, but not on the dais. Ned wanted it clear that he was not the authority in the Vale. Little Robert Arryn sat on the weirwood throne holding a toy falcon Howland Reed had made for him during their stay at the Eyrie. Sansa had convinced him it looked more lordly than a doll. Yohn Royce sat beside him.

The other lords and Lady Waynwood were seated around the Hall along with all the various men at arms and members of the household guard. In the center, with his hands bound behind him, looking dirty, unkempt, and thinner than he had before, was Petyr Baelish. Catelyn had almost felt sorry for him until the rattling of the Moon Door reminded her of her sister’s death. She was reminded, too, how easily it could have been Sansa. While Petyr may have stopped Lysa that day, Sansa never would have been in danger if not for Petyr’s plots. No, Catelyn had no pity for this man.

He was gagged as well now. Lothor Brune had been the first to speak, having been brought up from his cell looking quite as bad as Petyr did, and Petyr had interrupted and protested every word the man said. Finally, in frustration, Bronze Yohn had declared that while Lord Baelish would certainly have a chance to speak, he would not interrupt others any longer. He’d had one of the guards place the gag while Robert Arryn clapped his hands in delighted approval.

After Brune, Ned spoke of Littlefinger’s involvement in events at King’s Landing up to and including his own arrest. While those particular deeds were not crimes to be tried in the Vale, they did speak to the man’s overall character and helped paint the picture. He did make a point of describing how his investigation into Jon Arryn’s death had led him to conclude he had been given Tears of Lys. Ned also got out the ledgers Sansa had shown them and spoke in some detail about Petyr’s business dealings. This information got quite a response from the lords of the Vale, while Robert Arryn nearly fell asleep.

Catelyn herself had spoken next, telling of the letter she had received from Lysa blaming Cersei Lannister specifically for Jon Arryn’s death. That had gotten a reaction from several present as they recalled Lysa adamantly insisting that Tyrion Lannister had been to blame when Catelyn had brought him to the Eyrie. Catelyn had merely smiled and looked directly at Petyr then as she said, “Exactly, my lords. It made no difference which Lannister took the blame, as long as he had us blaming one of them.”

A particularly big gust of wind shook the Moon Door loudly at that point, and Petyr’s eyes had gotten very round as he looked at her. _He is afraid_ , she thought. She thought of all the suffering he had inflicted on her family. _I am glad he is afraid._

Finally, it was Sansa’s turn to speak. Maester Colemon first took Robert Arryn out, explaining to him that now all the lords and ladies were going to discuss everything that had already been said, and he would likely prefer to go have a sweet than to sit through that. Once he was promised he could return in time to see the bad man fly, he went willingly enough.

“Why do you send Lord Arryn away? Is this not his court?” asked Lord Jon Lynderly. As one of the recent arrivals, he had not yet heard the gist of Sansa’s testimony.

“Among other things,” Yohn Royce said solemnly, “the Lady Sansa Stark will speak about his mother’s murder, his mother’s attempt to murder Lady Sansa, and his mother‘s part in Lord Arryn‘s death. Lord, he may be, but Robert Arryn is also an eight year old boy, and there are things he does not need to hear yet.”

Lord Lynderly’s eyes got big, but he said no more.

“Are you certain you just don’t want him contradicting what the girl has to say?” said Lyn Corbray.

Catelyn saw Ned lean forward, and she reached a hand around Sansa to lay it on his shoulder.

“Of course not,” Bronze Yohn said. “You are most welcome to ask Lord Robert about anything you wish when he returns except about his mother’s own crimes. He has been spared that information due to his young age. He has lost much, and it benefits no one to have him think ill of his lady mother. We all know that Lady Arryn had been most unlike herself since her return from King’s Landing. Lady Sansa’s testimony will tell you why.”

No one else spoke, “Lady Sansa,” Lord Royce said.

Catelyn squeezed her daughter’s hand as the girl stood and walked to a spot just before the dais. Quietly, but in a voice with firm resolve, she began to speak, starting with Joffrey’s death and Petyr’s taking her from King’s Landing. She spoke a long time, telling Petyr’s secrets to his erstwhile bannermen, and they all listened intently. When she spoke of Lysa’s death, she started with Petyr kissing her in the snow. Catelyn and Ned had both told her she didn’t have to talk about that, but she had said it was easier to tell all the truth than part of it. And if her lady mother could tell about what had been done to her, Sansa could speak of Petyr’s unwanted kiss.

By the time she finished speaking of all the things Lysa had said just before her death, and of Petyr’s pushing her out the Moon Door, everyone in the room stared at her in stunned silence. After a moment, Yohn Royce asked, “Does anyone have anything to ask Lady Sansa?”

Lyn Corbray looked hard at Ned then, but said nothing. Neither did anyone else. Yohn Royce nodded to Sansa, and she returned to her seat, grasping for Catelyn’s hand and gripping it tightly.

“Bring Lord Arryn back in,” Royce said to one of the guardsmen. “And remove Littlefinger’s gag,” he said to another.

Petyr coughed several times when the gag was removed.

“Do you have anything to say, Lord Baelish?”

“She lies,” Petyr croaked. He repeated it more loudly just as Maester Colemon and Robert Arryn entered the room. “She lies,” he said more loudly.

“No!” Robert said loudly, letting go of Maester Colemon’s hand and running to the front of the room. He climbed the dais on his little spindly legs and pointed down at Baelish. “No!” he said again. “You lie. You said her name was Alyane. You made her tell lies and you made my mother cry!”

“The child is little more than a half-wit,” Petyr said, regaining more of his usual tone. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying, and you all are aware of that.”

“Liar!” yelled Robert. “My mother always told me how you would love us and protect us, but after you came here, she cried all the time. You weren’t nice.”

Catelyn hadn’t heard Sweetrobin say any of this before, but it had the ring of truth to it. Feeble the boy may be, but he had seen the desperate unhappiness of his mother. That, in itself, added weight to Sansa’s words. As she looked around the room, Catelyn saw that most of the other faces seemed to reflect the same opinion.

“Very good, Lord Arryn. We hear your words,” said Lord Royce, rather formally, but he laid a calming hand on the boy’s shoulder. Catelyn was glad because she could see the child’s hand had begun to shake, and he did not need to have a fit right now.

The Lord of the Eyrie looked up at Bronze Yohn and allowed him to lead him to his throne and lift him up onto his cushions. Once seated, he looked out over the assembly.

“Make the bad man fly,” he said. “I want to see him fly.”

“No,” Littlefinger said. “My lords, you have not heard . . .”

“We have heard more than enough, Lord Baelish,” Royce interrupted. “Unless you wish to confess?”

“I confess to nothing,” Petyr insisted.

“Then you have evidence to clear your name?”

“Just listen to me,” Petyr said. “All of these words are lies. Stark hates me because of King’s Landing. Yes, I helped the Gold Cloaks arrest him. He is a traitor! He deserved arrest. He is controlling his wife and daughter. He is the reason they testify against me.”

Catelyn stood up again. “I am Lord Stark’s wife,” she said loudly. “I am not his pawn.” She stepped closer to Petyr, and she felt Ned rise behind her. “You are the only man in this room who attempts to control people as pieces in a game, Petyr. You’ve controlled Lysa for years, and when you could use her no longer, when you’d broken her beyond repair, you threw her away. Do not presume to tell anyone that I am controlled by my lord husband when I speak the truth about you.”

“Cat,” he whispered desperately. “Cat, please. You can help me.”

“No, Petyr,” she said very quietly. “I cannot.” She turned and walked back to stand beside her husband, but neither of them sat back down.

“Lord Petyr Baelish,” called out Yohn Royce in his booming voice, “I have been given guardianship of Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, by Lady Catelyn Stark, his aunt and only adult blood relative in the Vale. As his guardian, I will exercise authority in his name until he reaches majority. In his name, and from the evidence presented here, I find you guilty of the murder of Lysa Arryn, conspiracy to murder Jon Arryn, the kidnapping of Sansa Stark, and multiple episodes of fraud. For these crimes, in the name of Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Protector of the Vale, I sentence you to death.”

“No,” Peter said.

“Make him fly!” yelled Sweetrobin.

“Open the Moon Door,” said Lord Royce gravely.

A gust of frigid wind swept through the chamber as a guard lifted the latch and the heavy door blew inward.

“No, no,” Petyr said desperately as two men began dragging him toward the door. “Cat!” he screamed. He looked at Catelyn with wild eyes. “I’ve always loved you! I know you love me! Help me, I beg you! Tell them the truth!”

Ned had started forward when Petyr had screamed her name, but she put a hand on his arm and stepped forward again herself. As she walked toward Petyr, the little man actually smiled at her. She moved close enough that he had to look up slightly as she was at least an inch or two taller than he. She felt Ned moving right behind her, but he didn’t stop her.

“The truth, Petyr?” she didn’t yell at him, but made sure her voice could be heard above the wind. “Tell me the truth of how plotting against my family, leading to the death of my children, is loving me.”

“No,” he said, his eyes quite wild now. “I never . . .I mean . .it was never that. . .it wasn’t about hurting you . . .”

“No, it wasn‘t about me at all,” she said. “It was never about anyone but you. You love no one, and no one loves you, Petyr. Lysa did, to her misery, but you killed her.”

“No,” he said again. “You love me, Cat. You love . . .”

He stopped then and she laughed. “Oh, I love all right. Shall I tell you who I love, Petyr?” She took a step toward him and he actually took a step back, his guards moving after him. “I love my lord husband, Eddard Stark, whom you betrayed and plotted to have killed. I love my son Robb, who marched to war because of your treachery and was murdered at the Twins.” She stepped forward again and watched him step back. “I love my sons Bran and Rickon, left at Winterfell while we chased your lies, and murdered by Theon Greyjoy. I love my daughter, Arya, missing since the day you betrayed and arrested her father.” Another step forward by her and backward by Baelish. He was quite close to the Moon Door now. “I love my daughter, Sansa, whom you used in your plot against Joffrey, and then kidnapped and tried to make your own. I love my sister, Lysa, whom you used and murdered.”

They actually stood almost at the threshold of the Moon Door now, and Catelyn could feel the wind pulling at her. Ned put his hands on her arms and held her from behind. Petyr was on the precipice now. The ropes that extended from his bound wrist to the hands of the guards on either side of him were whipping about wildly.

“You won’t let them kill me, Cat,” he whispered hoarsely.

She smiled at him. “Today is my name day, Petyr. And the only gift I want from you is justice.”

Behind her, Yohn Royce said, “Now.”

Both guards pulled the ropes that bound Petyr taut, jerking him backward. For one brief moment, he fought for balance at the edge, kicking one leg up impossibly high. Then he fell backward, and both guards dropped their ropes, sending the erstwhile Lord Protector of the Vale out into the frigid sky. His scream was the last trace of him to disappear.

She stood staring into the empty blue until the guards muscled the door shut and the wind ceased. Ned still held her arms. He turned her to face him then and looked into her eyes. “Are you well, my lady?” he whispered.

“I am, my lord,” she answered, bringing her own hands up briefly to his chest before turning to find Sansa. As soon as she looked at her daughter, the girl ran to her and threw her arms around her. “Mother!” she cried. “You were so close to the door! I was afraid that . . .that . . .you might fall!”

“I’m sorry I frightened you, sweetling, but I was quite safe.” She looked at Ned, who still had hold of one of her arms. “Your father would never let go of me.”

He met her eyes. “Never,” he said simply.

Others came up to speak to them then. Catelyn barely heard their comments. She nodded politely and answered courteously, but she wanted desperately to leave the High Hall. This was finished now. She was ready to move on.

Maester Colemon approached them. “Lord Stark?” he said to Ned. “More ravens have arrived while you were here in the High Hall. I believe you will want to see the letters. Several came from Riverrun.”

“Riverrun?” Catelyn asked. They had been waiting anxiously to hear from Edmure since their first night in the Eyrie.

“Yes, my lady,” he said. “There is a letter from your brother, and two letters which he has sent forward from others.”

“My lady?” Ned questioned, indicating the door.

She nodded eagerly. “Sansa,” she said, turning toward her daughter. “Are you coming with us?”

Sansa was looking at Robert Arryn, who appeared very small and forlorn now on the weirwood throne, forgotten by the lords who milled around the hall. “No, Mother,” she said. “I’m going to stay with Sweetrobin awhile.”

Catelyn smiled at her. “You were very brave today, Sansa. And you have a much kinder heart than I did at your age.” Sansa started to protest. “You did not know me at your age, so you cannot judge,” Catelyn said with a small laugh.

“We are both very proud of you, daughter,” Ned told her, and Catelyn watched the flush color her daughter’s lovely face.

“Tend to little Robert, sweetling. Your father and I will get the news from Riverrun and find you after.”

Sansa nodded and walked briskly toward the dais. Catelyn saw Sweetrobin smile as she approached him.

Ned offered her his arm and she placed her hand around it. Following Maester Colemon, Lord and Lady Stark left the High Hall of the Eyrie and did not look back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! This story has now had more than 10,000 hits. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I had no idea what would happen when I started this, and I am humbled by all of you who have taken the time to read it, and a special thanks to all of you who have left comments.  
> So, Littlefinger is finally dead! I cannot stand that little weasel, and I only hope that reading about his demise was half as much fun as writing about it. :D  
> Now, of course, it is time for Ned and Cat (and Sansa!) to move on. I wonder what's in those letters from Riverrun. ;)


	29. Ravens, Rumors, and Songs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just my usual nod to GRRM who created all these fabulous characters and the world they inhabit. They all belong to him.

“Here you are, my lord,” Maester Colemon said as he handed Ned three scrolls. Ned quickly recognized the Tully trout pressed into the blue sealing wax on one of them. The other two bore no insignias in the wax. “They were all bound together, my lord,” Colemon continued, “but the parchment is quite different as well as the wax. That is why I believe Lord Edmure has sent two of these on to you from others.”

Ned nodded. They were standing in Maester Coleman’s small study located just beneath the raven room. He lay the two scrolls with plain seals on the maester’s desk and beckoned to Catelyn to come stand where she could read along with him as he broke the blue seal on Edmure’s letter.

_Lord Stark,_

_My lady wife and I rejoice to learn of your successful journey to the Eyrie and your safe reunion with your daughter, Sansa. I imagine my sister’s joy at recovering her child is beyond measure. Please give her our affectionate regards and let her know that Roslin and the babe she carries do very well, although I fear Roslin misses Catelyn greatly._

_Forgive the delay in my response to your letter. Much and more has been happening, and I wished to send you all the information I could gather. Riverrun is quite secure. All of the lords of the Trident who bent the knee to the Lannisters, save Jonos Bracken, have renewed their fealty to us, and Bracken is not actively supporting the Lannisters in any way. Bracken has indicated his intent to renew his allegiance to House Tully, but first wants assurances he shall owe no concessions to Tytos Blackwood. Blackwood, of course, is demanding concessions from Bracken as a reward for maintaining his allegiance to us throughout this conflict. I confess I am quite tired of the both of them, but I will get them to make an accord if it kills me._

“Gods be good! He sounds just like my father!” Catelyn exclaimed. Ned murmured agreement, and they continued to read.

_Lord Olyvar Frey’s seat at the Twins remains uneasy. He is proving an able leader, and has won the admiration of many of the people there. Unfortunately, there seem to be Freys and half-Freys and bastard Freys in every holdfast in the kingdom, and whenever one of them hears of the events at the Twins, they mount a challenge to his authority. Thus far, these have been easily put down, but I fear they shall not cease. Hosteen and Aenys took a large army north with Roose Bolton, and should they march against Olyvar, he shall certainly require our assistance. Of significance, he has arranged a betrothal between young Marissa Frey, whose mother is a Darry and a young knight who is a cousin to Raymun Darry. Amerei Frey has yielded Castle Darry to us without opposition since her husband went to King’s Landing to fight for the Faith, and I intend to name the young couple the new Lord and Lady of Darry._

_Ser Brynden has successfully liberated Seagard, bringing the Mallisters back into our fold. It was apparently a bloody battle, with many casualties, particularly Freys. This leaves only Harrenhall held by Lannister loyalists, and as its current occupant shows no inclination to march out against anyone, I am content to let it be for now._

_The news from King’s Landing is passing strange. Cersei Lannister has been arrested by the Faith on charges of murder, treason, and fornication. I would hesitate to believe such tidings had I not received a letter from Ser Kevan Lannister, now styling himself Lord Regent, asking for the Kingslayer’s release. Do not fear. I have no intention of setting him free. The Lannisters would appear to be in no position to threaten me at present._

Ned knew precisely when Catelyn read this part of the letter by the sharp intake of her breath. “It would appear the Lannister woman’s decision reinstate the Warrior’s Sons was an error on her part, my lady,” he told her drily.

“Can they really try her for treason, Ned? Gods know she is guilty of it, but do you think they will truly kill her?”

The eagerness in his wife’s voice recalled to him Brienne’s tale of Cat’s expressed desire to kill Cersei Lannister with her own hands. He touched her hand now. “I do not know, Cat. I have no idea what passes for justice in King’s Landing these days, but any disarray among the Lannisters is good for us. Let them keep their attention south of here for a time.”

She nodded and motioned for him to bring the letter back up to read.

_There is little word from the north. No response from Lord Stannis to the ravens we sent, but he had apparently departed both the Wall and Deepwood Motte before any could reach him. We had one letter from Lady Glover asking after her husband and goodbrother, and confirming Stannis was marching on Winterfell. A raven came to the Twins from Hosteen Frey at Winterfell to inform Lord Walder that Bolton had occupied the castle, and his bastard’s wedding to Arya Stark had taken place with all the northern houses in attendance. Lord Olyvar chose not to reply to it, so I cannot say what Bolton and his forces know or suspect at this point._

_Speaking of bastards, I have sent on a letter I believe to be from yours, Stark. The black wax is the same as on his last. I know not who sent the other, as it bears no seal or identifying color. The bird came from the north, however, and it is addressed to you._

_Your man, Lord Glover, recovers nicely. His men and Lady Mormont’s have been very useful to myself and Lord Olyvar, but I know they wish to move on. Our forces here are strong enough to protect what is ours and lend aid to the Twins if necessary, so should you have any orders for them you feel able to entrust to a raven, they would be glad to receive them._

Ned snorted. “I believe your brother grows tired of housing and feeding my northmen, my lady.”

“As your northmen undoubtedly grow tired of biding their time with my brother while winter descends on their homes,” she responded.

“Aye,” Ned agreed, bending his head again to read the close of Edmure’s letter.

 _I entrust you will keep my sister and niece safe, my lord, and I wish you success in all your ventures in the Vale. Ser Brynden bids me tell Catelyn he has kept his promise, whatever that means. He will not tell me. I await your next communication_.

_Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun, Lord Paramount of the Trident_

Ned snorted again. “Does Edmure think I’ve forgotten his titles? And what the devil did the Blackfish promise you, Cat?” He looked up to see his wife had gone very still, her eyes remaining on the parchment in his hands. “Cat?”

She looked up at him slowly. “Black Walder Frey is dead,” she said simply.

It took a moment for her words to sink in, and then he realized her meaning. “You mean that he is one of . . .”

“Maester Colemon,” she interrupted him, turning to the maester who sat silently in a chair at his desk. “Forgive me for asking you to leave your own study, but would you allow my lord husband and myself some privacy?”

“Of course, my lady,” the man said, rising quickly and excusing himself. As soon as the door closed behind him, Catelyn turned to Ned.

“Yes,” she said, “And I asked Uncle Brynden to kill him for me.”

Ned was unsure if the anger rising within him was directed at the dead Black Walder, Brynden Tully, or his wife. Possibly all three. “You told me there were no more,” he said quietly, ice creeping into his voice. “At Riverrun, I asked you, and you said they were all dead.”

“At Riverrun,” she said. “You asked if there were any left alive at Riverrun, and there were not. I answered your question truthfully, my lord.”

“Damn it, Catelyn, you knew what I meant!” He hadn’t meant to raise his voice, but he did.

She didn’t flinch. She appeared to have expected his reaction. “Perhaps I did,” she said quietly. “You told me you wanted every man who’d raped me dead.” He did flinch, as she said the word rape, and he knew she saw it. “I wanted them all dead, as well, but had I told you about Black Walder then, you would have mounted a horse for Seagard and left me staring after you at Riverrun. Tell me that isn’t true, Ned.”

He clenched his jaw and looked at her. He realized he was almost overcome with the desire to go and kill the man now, even knowing him already dead. He simply bowed his head and said nothing.

“That’s what I thought,” she said.

“It was my right, Catelyn,” he said softly. “You are my wife.”

“Yes, I am your wife. And Gods know you have a right to your vengeance. I saw you take quite a lot of vengeance that day at the Twins, my lord, swinging that axe until you could barely stand.” He looked up at her then, and she continued. “What of my rights, Ned? No one offered me a blade to kill the men who violated me. I am only a woman. My vengeance must belong to men. But I didn’t need you riding off to kill Black Walder. I needed you beside me. I needed you to be my husband, not my headsman. Can you not understand that?”

After a moment, he nodded. “But still, you asked Ser Brynden . . .”

She sighed. “I did want him dead, my love, very badly. Just not as badly as I wanted you alive and with me. I knew Brynden would lead the assault on Seagard. And he is my uncle, Ned. I could trust him to see it done for me almost as much as I trust you.”

“Come here,” he said, and he put his arms around her. “I understand, Cat. I do. But now I must ask you, are there any others?” She started to shake her head, but he continued. “Not that I must kill them myself,” _although the gods know I want to_ , “but that we may both be certain they all find the deaths they deserve.”

She looked up at him, and shook her head. “No, my lord. Black Walder was the last.”

Ned recalled the Freys mentioned in Edmure’s letter, the ones with Bolton. “Hosteen and Aenys?”

“No,” she said. “They left the Twins shortly after I had recovered from my injuries.” She looked at him, levelly. “Ned, you asked me a question and I answered it. Every Frey who raped me is dead. Every one, everywhere. You needn’t name them individually nor ask me again any time we come across one.” She sounded irritated with him, and he grudgingly acknowledged to himself that she probably had a right to be.

“I shall ask you no more,” he said.

She smiled tightly at him. “Now, you should read your letter from Jon.”

He nodded and picked up the scroll with the black sealing wax. He broke the seal and held the letter out toward her.

“You should read it, not I.” she said.

“I wouldn’t keep it from you, my lady.”

“I know. But it was not written for me. Go on and read it. I’ll read it after, if you like, but you should read it first.” She moved away from him and sat in the chair Maester Vyman had vacated.

Her expression was unreadable. She was still a bit distant, but Ned couldn’t tell if it had to do with Jon’s letter, their discussion of Freys, or both. Sighing he opened the parchment and began to read.

_Father,_

_I never thought to set that word to parchment again, not in greeting. I do not have the words to tell you of my joy that you live. Only my vows keep me from riding to you at once, and if I am truthful, not by much. Were it not for my responsibilities as Lord Commander and the imminent danger from beyond the Wall facing us, I’d be sorely tempted to forsake my vows and come to you._

_I almost did forsake them, Father. When word came to the Wall of your execution in King’s Landing, I actually rode south, desiring nothing but to fight at Robb’s side to avenge your death. My brothers of the Watch turned me around before I could be considered deserter, though, and I thank them for preserving my honor. No son of Eddard Stark should be named an oath breaker, not even a bastard son._

_I do wish I could speak with you. The dangers beyond the Wall are more than I ever imagined, and I fear they are coming to us here. I have spent a great deal of time north of the Wall now, and I have seen too many things I thought existed only in Old Nan’s stories. I have met giants and skin changers, fought against wights and the Others. These things are real, Father, and the Others are the true threat to us. The wildlings may be our enemies, but they are simply men like any other--some good and some bad. I have come to trust some of them as much as I trust most of my black brothers and more than I trust some._

_The Night’s Watch is to take no part in matters of the realm. I know that. But when Stannis Baratheon arrived at the Wall and helped us turn back a Wildling attack, matters of the realm and matters of the Wall became linked. I find now that every action I take is questionable, and I don’t always know where to draw the line, or even if there is one._

_I could so use your counsel, Father, and I often ask myself what you would do. I attempt to hold myself to the standard you would, and I hope I will give you no cause for shame._

_I do thank you for Perwyn Frey. He is a good man, and he has come at a time when I need many good men about me and have few. I have come to rely on him a great deal. He respects you greatly, although he says he did not have the chance to know you long. He has told me many stories of Robb, which I enjoy hearing even if it makes his loss harder to bear. He also thinks very highly of Lady Stark and has asked that you convey his regards to her._

_I shall pray for the continued safety of you and your lady wife, as I have been praying for the safety of my sisters. I know the men of the Night’s Watch are to have no families but our brothers at the Wall, but my prayers are my own, and I cannot help but be your son._

_Jon_

Ned’s hands shook a bit as he lowered the parchment. He swallowed twice before he found himself able to speak. “He writes as a man,” he said softly. _And he writes as my son._

Catelyn looked up at him from her chair and he held the letter out to her. “There’s a bit about Perwyn,” he said. “He sends regards to you, specifically.”

She hesitated only a moment and then took the letter. As she read, Ned walked to the window and stood looking out at Alyssa’s Tears. He wondered vaguely if Alyssa Arryn had any Stark blood, and if that was what kept her from weeping in her grief all those long years ago. The gods knew he felt grief and fear and longing for the boy he had called son for so long now, but he had no tears. He was a Stark of Winterfell. He turned back around when he heard Catelyn whisper something under her breath.

“What did you say, my lady?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Her face was hard. Full of some sort of grief, but hard and cold at the same time.

“I heard you speak, my love,” he said softly, walking back toward her. “What did you say?”

She shook her head. “Nothing you want to hear,” she replied, looking away.

“I do, Catelyn,” he said in a tone that bordered on command.

She looked at him then, and through clenched teeth, she whispered, “It should have been Robb.”

“What?” he asked, not understanding.

“It should have been Robb,” she said slightly louder. She looked at the parchment in her hands. “I read these words of joy, of confession, of fear, and hope, and love, and all I can think is it should have been Robb.” Her voice had continued to grow louder as she spoke, and now she looked up at him, tears spilling from her eyes and grief and anger mingled in her voice. “Robb is your son, not Jon Snow! And he’ll never write such a letter. Never rejoice in your life or get to ask your counsel on anything.” Her voice broke. “And he wanted to, Ned. Gods know he wanted to. He always wanted to act as you would. He wanted you to be proud of him, and he wanted you there to advise him, not me. I’m the one who told him you were dead. I couldn’t let him read it in a letter, and I held him while he cried.” She shook her head. “Why is he dead? Why should he be the one?”

She put her head down on the desk then, sobbing into her hands, and Ned wasn’t quite sure what he should say or do. He walked to her and put a hand softly on her shaking shoulders.

“Cat,” he said softly. “Are you saying that Jon should be dead instead of Robb?”

“No!” she cried. “Yes! Gods, I don’t know!” She raised her tearstained face to look at him again. “I want Robb back,” she said finally. “I want Bran and Rickon. And yes, Ned, gods forgive me, I do wonder why Jon Snow lives while all my sons are dead.”

He looked at her, seeing her pain, but also still seeing the words of Jon’s letter in his mind’s eye--the words that filled his heart with love and pride in this nephew he had raised as son. “Catelyn, that is hardly fair. Jon is not to blame for anything that happened to our sons.”

“Of course he isn’t,” she snapped, sounding angry now. “I am not stupid, Ned. I know the boy isn’t to blame for any of it. But I do not love him.” She saw something in his eyes then, for she spat out, “And don’t look at me like that! I only speak the truth. And you know I do not love him. Just as I know you do.” She folded her hands in front of her on the desk then and looked down at them. “What I know and what I feel are two different things, my lord. We agreed not to lie to each other, did we not?”

Ned walked across the room and slowly dragged a second chair across the room, placing it across the desk from her. He sat down facing her and put a hand on top of hers. “We did,” he said. “So tell me true, Cat. Do you honestly wish Jon were dead?”

She was quiet, still staring at her hands, for a long time, and Ned began to fear her answer. Finally, she looked up at him. “No,” she said quietly. “For a great many years, I wished he had never existed, but that is not the same thing.” She swallowed. “I am certain of that because over the past two years, I have come to know quite well how it feels to want someone dead, and I have never felt that about Jon.” More quietly, she added, “Even when I thought I did.”

Ned closed his eyes. She had certainly given him honesty, but then, she always had. It was his own lie that had put them in this place. Even now, he could not see any other path he could have taken, but he wondered if they would ever stop paying the price of it--Catelyn, Jon, and himself. “He believes himself my son, Cat,” he said.

She nodded. “And you consider him so” she said softly, “regardless of his true parentage. I think it would be easier for me if you did not, but you can not change what you feel, Ned. No more than I can.”

They sat in silence then for some time, simply holding hands across the desk, neither of them knowing what else to say. Perhaps there was nothing more to say, Ned thought. He loved her, and he knew well enough that she loved him. He also loved Jon while she did not. Perhaps she never could. Secretly, he had always hoped that the seemingly boundless love she poured out on him and their children would grow to include Jon, and now he wondered if he had, in some ways, held it against her that it never did. Silently, he vowed not to expect from her more than she could give as far as Jon was concerned.

He squeezed her hand then, and said, “Shall we open our mystery letter, my lady?” It was an obvious attempt to move away from a painful topic not fully settled, but as neither of them knew any more to say or do about it on this day, she seemed grateful for the escape he offered.

“Yes,” she said, and she offered him a small smile.

He broke the sealing wax and glanced at the writing on the parchment, puzzling over it. “Other than my name on the outside, nothing in this letter is plain. The writer clearly fears its interception. I only hope he hasn’t made it too murky for me to find its meaning.

After reading it through a few times, though, he believed he understood it well enough, and his heart began beating much faster, as hope and fear mingled within it.

“Ned? What is it?” She sounded alarmed. Gods only knew what his face looked like.

He handed it to her across the desk. “Read it aloud to me, Cat. I want to know if I’m reading what I think I am. Please.”

She looked at him with concern and confusion on her face, but she took up the letter and began to read to him. He closed his eyes and listened.

_My friend,_

_You will recall you did not trust me at our last meeting as I had to take you to prison. You did trust our mutual friend, however, even when he confessed he was playing out a farce._

_He is gone now, and I know not when he shall return, but he left me instructions to send to you once your whereabouts were known again. The raven received of recent events can only be your work, and so I send to you now._

_Our friend confided in me that he told you of his boy. A singer whose songs were difficult to hear, but now he sings more clearly, and some of his songs are quite clever. I particularly like his song of the little wolves whose mother feared them dead because she found their carcasses in the wood, but later learned her pups had merely wandered off, and it was only the bones of two stray dogs she had found. It’s a silly song, perhaps, but I confess to being rather tired of the usual songs of knights and fair maids. I understand that only the first part of the song was sung when you heard the boy. I hope someday you may hear it all._

_But I digress. You want information, not songs. I only mentioned the singer so that you might recognize me and know I truly speak for our friend. I have information about the army you were promised, and the eligible maidens which so interested you._

_Come where you met me before and ask anyone for the shop of Harmon Wade. Once at the shop, ask for Mohgo. Mohgo will know you, so ask for me by name. Anyone other than you who asks Mohgo for me will be killed. He is leal, and will never give us up. As it may take you some time to journey here, I will wait however long it takes. Send no reply. Only come._

She put the parchment down and and looked at him. “You understand that?” she asked. “Who promised you an army? Do I even want to know what he means about eligible maidens?” She arched a brow at him.

“Yes, I believe I do understand it,” he said. He was even surer now, although if he told her what he thought and it was not true, it would shatter her. It couldn’t mean anything else, though. It simply couldn’t.

“Ned?” she asked, as he hadn’t kept speaking.

“No one promised me an army. It’s the one thing Manderly told me not to ask him for,” he said.

“Manderly?” she said. “This letter is from Lord Manderly in White Harbor?”

Ned shook his head. “No. It is from Robett Glover. He was secretly working with Manderly. Remember? I told you about him.”

“Yes, but you were taken to prison in King’s Landing. What has that to do with Glover or Manderly?”

He laughed. “When Robett met our ship at White Harbor, he didn’t expect me to be on it because I was, of course, dead. He hurriedly dragged us off to the Wolf’s Den because it has a passage to the New Castle, and he wanted to get us to Lord Manderly secretly. The Wolf’s Den is primarily used as a prison now. With my name on the outside of this, anyone reading it would be thinking King’s Landing just as you did.”

“So is Manderly offering you an army now? Is that what this is?”

Ned shook his head. “No. Like as not, Wyman’s gone to Winterfell with the other northern lords to bear witness to the Bolton bastard‘s charade of a marriage to poor Jeyne Poole.”

“But . . .”

“The maidens were Manderly’s granddaughters,” he interrupted. “He . . .he offered them to me when I arrived in White Harbor."

“Offered them to you?”

“As potential brides. He . . .we . . .thought you dead then, you’ll recall,” he stammered.

“Oh,” she said quietly. Swallowing, she said, “Well, you were right to be interested. Winterfell must have an heir and . . .”

“Gods, Cat! I told the man no!” He stood up then and rounded the desk to pull her up into his arms, not knowing whether to be angry at her or laugh at her for the mixture of hurt and resolve on her brave, lovely face. “I told him I had no interest in his granddaughters, however lovely and fertile they may be. That I could take no woman into my bed while you lay uneasy in your grave. In truth, I felt almost ill at the thought. I want no one else, Cat.”

She bit her lip as she looked up at him, and then said, “I should tell you that was a foolish choice, Eddard Stark, but I confess I am glad of it.” She smiled then, and it held none of the tightness that had been in her expression since they had finished the first letter. “I don’t understand then,” she said. “Why would Robett Glover babble about giving you information you know to be false or have no interest in.”

“To point me toward the true information which he made to look like babbling.” He swallowed. “Manderly showed me no singer, Cat. But he did tell me about a boy. A mute, who had been with the Ironborn when Theon took Winterfell. Manderly had men teaching him letters, and by signs and pictures and basic words, he was attempting to glean the truth of all that happened to our home. This boy had told them it was the Bolton bastard rather than Theon who burned Winterfell, and as we know from the Winterfell men who escaped to join Howland, he was right about that.”

“And?” she asked, blue eyes intent on his.

He picked up the parchment and handed it to her. “Read the part about the song, my love. Read it carefully, and tell me what you hear there.”

She read silently and Ned watched the expression on her face change. “Ned! Do you think? Could it truly be?” Her voice shook, and he knew she was fighting to keep back the hope because to hope in vain would be too cruel.

“I was dead, my love, and so were you. Yet here we are.” He took the paper from her and pointed to the passage. "Little wolves thought dead, but in fact alive and wandered off. Two, he says two, dog carcasses found in their place.”

“Why . . .” she could barely speak now.

“Perhaps they did escape, Cat, only Theon couldn’t find them. He’s always had more pride than sense or true honor. He’d never admit to losing them. He’d kill two little boys in their place.”

“Bran,” she whispered. “Rickon . . .but . . .their heads. He put their heads on the wall, Ned.”

“They put mine on a wall in King’s Landing. Yet here I am!” The more he spoke of it, the more certain he became.

She stared at him, shaking her head slowly back and forth, her blue eyes wide and starting to fill with tears. “Say it, Ned,” she whispered. “If you believe it true, say it.”

He held her arms and looked her in the eyes. “This letter tells me that our sons, Bran and Rickon, are alive.”

Ned Stark then caught and held his wife in his arms as she fainted against him.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn Stark sat up on the chaise lounge in the lord’s solar and glared at Brienne lest the woman try to force her to lie down again. Ned had tried to make her go to their chambers and lie down, but she had told him flatly that she was not an invalid. It had been a simple faint, that was all. She could not recall ever having fainted before in her life, but she was quite certain she was perfectly fine. From Petyr’s execution to Robett Glover’s startling letter, surely she could be forgiven one moment of weakness. _Bran and Rickon._ She found it difficult to think of anything else. _Bran and Rickon._ Could it be true?

Ned had brought her here and said she could stay if she promised to lie down while he gathered all those he needed to speak with. Then he set Brienne over her like a nursemaid with a sword and left the solar. Slowly, the people he had gone to fetch began to trickle in.

Yohn Royce and Lady Waynwood came in together, followed by Sansa who had rushed to Catelyn’s side as soon as she saw her mother reclined on the lounge. That was the first time Catelyn had sat up only to be forced down by Brienne. She had shaken her head and assured her worried daughter that she was fine, and that Brienne and her father were overreacting to a simple faint.

“You never faint, Mother,” said Sansa dubiously.

“I’ve had quite a shock,” she had replied, but then squeezed Sansa’s hand as she added, “but it is a very good shock, I hope.”

Before Sansa could inquire further, Howland Reed had come in with Donnell, closely followed by Ned himself. Again, Catelyn had raised up to greet them only to have both Ned and Brienne insist she lie back down.

“What has happened, Father?” Sansa asked. “Is Mother all right?”

“I am fine, Sansa,” Catelyn had started.

“Your mother and I received some surprising news from Riverrun. Sit down, everyone, and I will tell you of it.” Ned had taken a seat at the table, and the others began to take chairs as well.

Now Catelyn sat up for the third time, glaring at Brienne, and this time the woman only moved to stand nearer to the lounge. Catelyn patted the space beside her, and Sansa sat down with her. She put her arm around her daughter. “This news gives us hope we didn’t have, sweetling,” she whispered.

“Three letters arrived from Riverrun,” Ned was saying, “as my goodbrother was kind enough to send along two that arrived for me after our departure as well as his own. The most important to Catelyn and myself is this one from Robett Glover in White Harbor.” He held the parchment up. “It is written so as to seem mostly nonsense to anyone but myself, but his meaning is clear to me. Glover has evidence that my younger sons, Bran and Rickon, were not killed by Theon Greyjoy after all.”

A general gasp followed this announcement, and Sansa actually cried out. Catelyn held her tightly. “Is it true, Mother?” the girl whispered to her breathlessly.

“I hope so, Sansa,” she said. “I dearly hope so.” _Bran and Rickon._

Ned was explaining the letter to everyone gathered. Most responded with murmurs of disbelief and general skepticism. Then Howland Reed, who had been very quiet, stood up. “My lord, I must beg your forgiveness,” he said to Ned.

Everyone stared at him in silence, until Ned said quietly, “For what, Lord Reed?”

“I have long believed your sons to be alive,” he said quietly. “As I believe my own children to be alive. Perhaps I should have spoken of this to you, but I knew you would not find my reasons credible. So I held my tongue. Forgive me.”

“What reasons?” Ned voice was low, almost a growl, and Catelyn knew he was angry at the crannogman. How could the man have kept silent about something so important?

“Only dreams, Ned,” Howland Reed said with a small smile. “And you are not one to pay those any mind.” Catelyn knew the man was right.

Her husband never gave credence to dreams or signs. He believed only in what he could see, touch, and understand--his deep faith in the old gods of the north his only exception to that practice. Yet, in a world with giants and wights and whatever else Jon Snow had named in his letter, perhaps it was time Ned learned to believe a little more.

“Tell me of these dreams, Lord Reed,” she said, before Ned had a chance to say anything. “Lord Glover’s letter tells me my sons live. I have heard of the green dreams of your people. Do such dreams tell you my sons live as well?”

“Catelyn . . .” Ned started.

“I would hear him, Ned.”

Lord Reed nodded. “I have no green dreams, my lady, although my son Jojen does. I have only confused and often misleading dreams, as do most people. I do, however, pay attention to them.” He paused. “I have dreamed of your children, Lady Catelyn, since each was born. I found this odd as I had never met them. Yet I could tell you the shape of each of their faces, the color of their hair, and how they grew. I never dreamed of specific events or actions they took, only images of them--sometimes in the dark and cold, often frightening images.” He paused again. “I have not dreamed of your son, Robb, since his death. And he departed from my dreams before I had word of that terrible wedding. I still dream of Bran and Rickon.” He looked at Ned then. “I dream of Bran with my own children, Meera and Jojen. I dream of Rickon alone.”

“Alone?” Catelyn’s heart fell. How could her baby be alone? How could he live if he were alone?

“I don’t know that he is truly alone, my lady,” Reed said softly. “But I do not believe he is with his brother or my children.” He paused, looking at her again. “I dream of you, too,” he told her.

“Really, Howland, I don’t think this . . .” Ned looked even angrier now.

Reed actually laughed. “I dream of her with you, my friend. I dream of the two of you together. But I never did until after the Red Wedding. It troubled me, for I knew you both to be dead, so while you may well have been together, why did my images of you come in the same dreams as our children and the north? Were they dead as well, and the north with them?” He smiled at his long time friend. “Then you showed up at Greywater Watch. And we learned your lady wife survived at the Twins. I still do not completely understand my dreams, my lord, but now I believe they mean our children and the north live as you do.”

The room was silent then. Even Ned had nothing to say. “We must go to White Harbor, my lord,” Reed said.

Ned nodded then. “I intend to. Glover’s letter is enough for me, and if pictures in your sleep spur you to come along, I would be glad to have you, Howland.”

“We would all come, my lord,” said Bronze Yohn. “I have told you the swords of the Vale will go north with you.”

Ned smiled. “And I shall have need of them. But I fear we cannot land an army in White Harbor, Yohn. It’s fortifications have been strengthened at my direction, and it now lies at least nominally under Bolton’s control. No, an army must take the road.”

“Ned!” Catelyn cried. “To travel the High Road, the Kings Road, and then to fight through Moat Cailin? That will take moons!”

Her husband nodded. “Yes, I fear it will. All the more reason to get started.”

“But!”

“But we shall sail to White Harbor, my lady, from one of the ports in the Vale. An army is a threat to be repelled. A man traveling with his wife is not worthy of notice.”

“You can’t be serious,” Lady Anya said, speaking for the first time. “To go into White Harbor alone? It won’t be safe.”

“Nowhere in Westeros is truly safe,” Ned replied. “And I won’t be alone once I get there. Robett Glover has resources."

 “The High Road becomes more treacherous every day,” Yohn Royce put in. “If you would have us march it, my lord, we should not delay.”

Ned nodded. “It is a great deal that I ask, Lord Royce. To ask you to lead men to meet my own and then march with them on Moat Cailin while I take another direction is presumptous to say the least."

“No,” he said. “It is sense. You have spoken to me before of your plan to send a portion of your army through the neck that we might encircle the Moat rather than assault it only from the south. It is a good plan. If you are successful in White Harbor, you may not only find your sons, but bring us more men to put in the field.”

Ned nodded. “That would be my hope.” He looked carefully at Yohn Royce. “War in the winter is never easy, my lord. And in the north . . .winter itself can be a deadlier foe than any man with a sword.”

Yohn Royce laughed. “You think I don’t know that? I’m a good deal older than you are, Ned Stark. I’ve seen my share of winters.” He paused as if to think a moment. “I can have a thousand men on the High Road before the moon’s turn, and I will call for the other lords as well.”

“You shall have my men. My sons will be honored to ride north,” Lady Waynwood said.

Catelyn watched Ned’s face as the two promised him their men. She knew he felt torn. He wanted to lead this force himself, joining Maege and Galbart and storming back into the north like winter itself. But he would not turn his back on their sons.

“I would be pleased to have Lady Stark and your daughter stay at Runestone, Ned. Little Robert is quite fond of the Lady Sansa, and they would be safe there,” Bronze Yohn was saying now.

“No!” she and Sansa exclaimed at the same time.

“Lord Royce,” Catelyn said then in a quieter voice. “If there is any chance that I might find my sons by going to White Harbor, I cannot sit at Runestone. I do thank you for your kind offer. As for Sansa,”

“You are not leaving me here!” Sansa interrupted. “Don’t say it, Mother! Don’t talk about keeping me safe or anything else. You cannot leave me here!” Her daughter looked panicked.

Ned’s calm, deep voice filled the silence following Sansa’s outburst. “We shall not leave you. We have only just found you, and for good or ill, we shall take you north with us. The north is your home, Sansa.”

“Thank you, Father.” She relaxed back against Catelyn on their lounge.

Ned sighed. “We need to get everyone down from the Eyrie over the next few days, and we have much to plan for all our ventures. We might as well begin. He began to unroll Edmure’s letter then and started a discussion about the news it contained.

Catelyn nudged Sansa. “They will be at this for hours. Let’s go have some food sent for them.”

Sansa nodded. As they rose, Brienne looked at Catelyn questioningly. “Come with us, Brienne,” she said. “You needn’t listen to their war plans. Your place is with me. You will be coming to White Harbor with us.”

The tall woman smiled. “As you wish, my lady.”

The three of them left the men and Lady Waynwood to their discussions and walked from the solar.

“Mother,” said Sansa, once they were out in the hall. “Are we truly going to find Bran and Rickon?”

Catelyn smiled at her. “Yesterday, I could not have believed it possible. Today . . .I have to believe it, Sansa.”

“And Arya?” Sansa asked quietly. “Do you think we will ever find her?”

Catelyn bit her lip as she thought about her younger daughter. “She’s alive,” she said firmly, willing it to be true. “And we will find her.”

As her daughter led her through the corridors of the Eyrie, Catelyn actually allowed herself to contemplate having four of her children returned to her. She had not considered such a thing since that dreadful raven had arrived at Riverrun, telling of boys murdered in Winterfell. The loss of Robb was a hurt she knew would never heal--his absence remained a small, quiet ache even in her best moments and a festering wound in her worst. Still, she trembled now, as she feared to hope and yet hoped all the same that the gods would truly return her other precious babes to her arms.

 

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The blind girl made her way slowly down the alleyways of Ragman’s Harbor, sweeping her stick ahead of her as she went. She knew these places so well she thought she almost didn’t need the stick, but she never went without it. She could hear a man’s voice singing from inside the Inn of the Green Eel. He wasn’t bad. That would mean a good crowd. She hadn’t been there in several nights so she decided to sit with her bowl outside the door there.

As she positioned herself where she could best hear the sounds from inside, she realized the man was singing in the Westerosi tongue. The last Westerosi singer she had heard was that deserter from the Night’s Watch. But he would never sing again. She didn’t recognize the song this man was singing. She bet Sansa would. She knew every song. _Stupid!_ She told herself. _You have no sister. You shouldn’t think of stupid Sansa Stark._

It was the sailors’ fault. She always listened to their talk, learning all she could, storing away information to use or to share with the kindly man when he asked for her three things learned. But now, she heard too many lies. The tales coming on ships from Westeros now made no sense, and they reminded her too much of Arya Stark. _I am Blind Beth._

“I’m telling you they locked them up! Both those queens--the boy king’s mother and his new wife. A bunch of septons are running King’s Landing now!” The loud drunken voice from inside the inn spoke the Common Tongue with an accent that recalled King’s Landing to the blind girl. She sighed. A Westerosi singer would of course draw sailors from the Seven Kingdoms here.

“Nah, it’s not septons,” roared another man. “It’s that dead Hand, you know, Eddard Stark! He tucked his head under his arm and sacked the city. There’s a song about it!” He laughed as if he’d said the funniest thing in the world. Blind Beth didn’t find it funny and started to pick up her bowl and move elsewhere until a third man spoke.

This man didn’t sound drunk like the others. He didn’t sound like a sailor, either, although he was clearly from the Seven Kingdoms, speaking the Common Tongue without the thick accent of the Braavosi. “You are both fools,” he said. “Although you are right about the queens. Both accused of fucking people they shouldn’t. But Eddard Stark’s not in King’s Landing. He’s not dead, either. He’s in the Riverlands.”

 _Stupid!_ thought the blind girl. _He is dead. I saw his head._

The first man laughed. “So I’ve heard, Bart. But I never saw a man live without a head, so I’m thinking I’ve heard wrong.”

The third man said, “You were there that day, Arn, same as me. I saw the boy king raise up somebody’s head, but I never saw him take it off Lord Stark. And you didn’t either.”

“The Old Wolf’s as dead as the Young Wolf!” the second man proclaimed, slurring his words even more than the first. “It’s just a fucking song!”

“Maybe you ought to listen to that song, Reg. It’s not about King’s Landing to start with. It’s about the Twins,” said the third man.

“And maybe I just oughta get some more ale,” laughed the second. “Meela!” he shouted. “I’m thirsty, girl!”

All of the men laughed then, and as Beth tried to make sense of their words, she heard two feet drop suddenly beside her. “You again,” she said angrily in Braavosi.

The boy laughed. He laughed a lot. She’d met him less than a fortnight ago when he’d almost knocked her down jumping from a wall above her. Since then, he’d stopped to talk to her half a dozen times. “Sorry, Beth.” He dropped a coin in her bowl. “You should never have told me that you couldn’t be sneaked up on. I wouldn’t have to prove you wrong so often then.”

“If you’d walk on the streets like a normal person, I’d have heard you a long time ago.”

“That’s why I use the roofs. Is the new singer in there?”

“You use the roofs because you like to,” she said. _Like Bran_ , she thought. She had to get away from these Westerosi men with their stupid rumors and lies. _I am Blind Beth._ “Some Westerosi singer,” she shrugged.

“Yes! I want to hear the song.”

“You’ll hear lots of songs. This is the first time he’s shut up. Must be thirsty.”

“No, Beth. I want to hear the new song. The Old Wolf’s Charge.”

“What for? You can practice your Westerosi on any song.” The boy was crazy about tongues. She had to admit he was good at them, too. She wished her language lessons came as easily to her. He had quickly guessed that Braavosi wasn’t her native tongue, but she had lost enough of her accent that he couldn’t tell where she was from, and she hadn’t told him. He’d just laughed and said he wouldn’t tell her where he was from either, then.

“I don’t need the practice on Westerosi. I’m really good at it. I got lots of practice with . . .someone I used to know,” he said. “He spoke it right, too. Not the sailor slang you hear in Ragman’s Harbor.”

She laughed at him. Maybe that’s why she didn’t chase him off. No one laughed with Blind Beth. They chased her off or pitied her or ignored her, but this stupid boy talked to her and made her laugh. “Listen to you. Think you’re a regular High Lord, huh?”

“No! I mean . . .he’s not a . . .I mean, no.” He didn’t usually stammer like that. Beth had spent hours with the waif learning to hear lies, and she heard a lie in the boy’s voice. But that didn’t make sense. This boy couldn’t really know any Western lords.

“Forget it,” she said. She heard the strum of an instrument. “Your singer’s about to start up again. I hope you hear your song.” She knew she shouldn’t ask, but she did. “Why do you want to hear it anyway?”

“I want to know if it’s true. If his lady really does live. If he rescued her.”

Now she got angry. “Songs aren’t true, stupid! Only stupid people believe them!” _Sansa._

“No,” he said. “Songs tell of true things. They just get changed over time, that’s all. And this song’s new so it won’t be changed much. Besides, I already know that . . .”

He stopped suddenly. “You already know what?” she asked.

“Nothing.” That was another lie. He was a terrible liar.

Another musical chord struck the air and the man began to sing.

“This is it!” the boy cried. “I’ll translate it for you.”

The man’s voice drifted clearly from the doorway.

_He spurred his horse_

_On his chosen course_

_Toward a castle grim and grey_

_They’d thought him dead_

_But he’d have the head_

_Of the wicked Walder Frey_

As she heard the opening lines, Beth found herself compelled to listen. The boy beside her kept repeating everything in Braavosi until she finally had to say in the Common Tongue, “Shut up, Stupid. I understand it just fine!”

“You speak . . .”

“Shut up!”

The song went on, telling of the Old Wolf who rode to the Twins seeking vengeance for his wife and son only to discover his wife alive and bound on a gibbet with a noose around her neck. There was a great deal about swords slashing, and him cutting down men all around him before charging up and cutting her loose just as she was about to swing. Then he swung her up on his horse and galloped right out with her.

It was a long song, but even when it ended, the blind girl found herself frozen in place, the refrain of the song repeating over and over in her head.

_Though swords rang out_

_And men did shout_

_And arrows filled the air_

_The Old Wolf’s gaze_

_Ne’er left the blaze_

_Of his own true lady’s hair_.

After a moment, the boy spoke. “I hope it’s true,” he said.

_So do I._

“Hey!“ he said suddenly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were from the Sunset Kingdoms?”

Shaken from her thoughts, she frowned. “Who says I am?” Of course, they were still speaking in the Common Tongue.

He laughed. “Your accent does. Your Westerosi is perfect. What did you think of the song?”

She shrugged. She couldn’t speak about that song.

“Do you think they really set her hair on fire?” he asked then, sounding concerned.

“Her hair’s red,” she said quietly, before she could think to stop herself. “It does look like fire sometimes.”

She turned then and started to walk away from him. Blind Beth shouldn’t cry. Blind Beth didn’t know the Starks of Winterfell. She couldn’t possibly know what stupid Arya Stark’s mother’s hair looked like.

He called after her, and she started running, waving the stick wildly in front of her, heedless of falling or running into anyone.

“Beth!” she heard the boy cry after her again. “Who are you?” She kept running. She could smell the telltale scent of Pynto’s tavern up ahead. If she could reach it, she could crawl into a little space she knew about on the side of the building until the boy left. She couldn’t keep running. She’d get lost. She moved to that side of the street and ran her fingers along the buildings’ walls. As she passed the front door of Pynto’s, she heard the man call out to her, too, but she went around the corner as quickly as she dared and dove into the muddy crawlspace beneath the shed which stood there.

After a few moments she heard the boy’s voice speaking to Pynto. “You know Beth, that blind beggar girl? I thought I heard you call her name.”

“What do you want with little Beth, boy?”

“Nothing. I mean, I want to help her. If you see her, tell her Dak is looking for her.”

“Why you look for Beth? You better not hurt her.”

“No. I just . . .want to talk to her. Tell her my mother waits tables at Sailmender‘s. She can ask after me there.”

She heard the boy’s footsteps move away. _Dak. His name is Dak._ She realized she’d never asked him for it. As she crawled slowly out from her hiding place, the rag over her eyes slipped down. As she pulled it back into place, she felt the moisture there. Her eyes couldn’t see, but they could cry. _Stupid!_

She returned to the temple very late and met no one. When she fell into her cot and slept, she ran at once with her small grey cousins in the Riverlands. She sniffed carefully at the air and led her pack purposefully toward a place that she hated. It was not far, she knew. She could see the walls of the closest castle rise up in front of her and the expanse of the bridge stretching out behind it to another castle on the other side.

Her cousins were afraid to go any nearer a place so filled with men, but she feared not. She prowled right up to the wall where she could clearly see the banners flying above in the moonlight. Above the banner with the castles on it flew one with a leaping fish.

Somewhere, in the deepest part of her mind, she knew that was good, and she gave a joyful howl. A man came running to the edge of the wall above her and shouted when he saw her, but by the time he had loosed his quarrel, she was bounding back into the trees, out of his range.

The next morning, when the kindly man asked her what three things she knew that she had not known before, she did not hesitate.

“I know that Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell lives,” she said.

“How do you know this thing?” he asked her.

“It is said over and over in the ports by sailors and singers and other men.” _And a boy who knows more than he says._

“Still, you cannot know it to be true based on these tales.”

“I do,” she said.

He sighed. “What else do you know that you did not know before?”

“His wife, Lady Catelyn Stark lives also.”

“Who are you?” he asked suddenly. “You look like that blind beggar girl, but you do not speak like her.”

She hesitated for a moment, but then told him the truth. “Arya, of House Stark.”

He was quiet for a long time before saying, “There is no place here for Arya of House Stark.”

She nodded. “That is the third thing I know,” she said quietly.


	30. Departures and Arrivals

A cold wind blew salt spray into Brienne’s face as she emerged from below deck. The sea was rough for the third straight day. The roll and pitch of the ship bothered her little, but poor Lady Sansa could scarcely leave her bunk. Brienne thought Lord Eddard felt little better than his daughter, but he refused to admit it. She had noted a distinct green tinge to his long face when he’d come to the cabin to look in on Sansa just now. He had sat wearily down, and then sent her up to find Lady Catelyn. Even aboard the Wave Dancer, captained by a man Lord Royce had personally selected and vouched for, Lord Eddard did not like his wife or daughter left alone.

She spotted her lady standing by the rail, looking toward Littlesister which had just become visible off the port side of Wave Dancer. Oldcastle and then White Harbor would not be too many days away now. Lady Catelyn had her thick cloak wrapped tightly around her against the chill, but the wind had blown her hood back, and strands of her long auburn hair had escaped her braid. She brushed them away from her face as she looked toward the island. She was as untroubled by the motion of the waves as Brienne, but Brienne knew she was desperate to get off this ship. She longed to come closer to her sons.

Brienne prayed silently that Lord and Lady Stark were right about Robett Glover’s letter. She remembered the day Lady Catelyn had received the raven at Riverrun from her castellan. Something inside her had seemed to break that day. Brienne had not seen her weep or shout or even change her posture. Yet, she had felt the depth of the older woman’s grief just the same. She would not have her lady go through that again, and she was concerned about what might await them in White Harbor.

Lady Catelyn must have heard her approaching, for she turned away from the rail as she drew near and offered her a small smile. “How fares my girl?”

“She sleeps, my lady,” Brienne replied. “Finally.”

“Poor thing. It hardly seems fair that she should look so like me and yet be so much her father’s daughter on a ship.” She looked back out toward Littlesister. “Perhaps Arya fared better if she truly did take a ship. Perhaps since she looks likeNed, she’ll sail like me.” She gave a small chuckle and then turned back toward Brienne. “At least if Sansa sleeps, Ned may lie down himself. He would never have left my side had I suggested it for his own benefit, but he has been retching so that he can hardly stand. I asked him to look in on our daughter in hopes he might send you up in his stead.”

Brienne had suspected as much. “He did look rather unwell, my lady. But he was most adamant that I come up here with you.”

Lady Catelyn smiled and began to walk across the deck to the starboard rail. She stared hard into the distance ahead of the ship although Oldcastle would not appear off their starboard bow before the morrow at the earliest. “Do you think they’ve made it to White Harbor yet?”

“Donnell and Lord Reed?” Brienne asked. Lord Stark had sent the two men ahead of them. They were unknown in Gulltown and White Harbor, so he had sent them from the Eyrie almost as soon the letters had been discussed. They were to book passage anonymously and scout the situation in White Harbor while awaiting the arrival of the Starks and herself on Wave Dancer. It had taken another three days before they had finally closed the Eyrie and descended the Giant’s Lance themselves.

All the other lords had gone before them save Yohn Royce who had acceded to Robert Arryn’s wishes to ride down with Sansa. The child had been hysterical most of the way down the mountain and had even had one shaking fit that had caused Lady Sansa to jump off her own mule and grab him tight lest he fling himself off the edge. Lord Royce had already sent orders to Runestone for men to muster and march to meet him at the Bloody Gate to begin their trek down the High Road. But he had then decided to travel with them in the direction of Gulltown until he met up with his men coming from Runestone in order to spend another couple days with the little Lord of the Eyrie. It was kindly done, but Brienne wasn’t sure how much it had helped. The boy had screamed and cried when they met Lord Royce’s men, begging to be allowed to march with them instead of being sent on to Runestone with his escort. The very next day, the ways to Runestone and Gulltown had diverged, and he had sobbed again, clinging to poor Lady Sansa and begging her to be his mother now.

Lady Sansa had broken down in tears once the boy had been dragged off. Lady Catelyn had held her and told her that little Sweetrobin had been a sickly, spoiled, and frightened boy for a long time, and it would likely take as long for him to heal, if he even could. When her daughter had looked distressed at her words, Lady Catelyn smiled sadly. “I would not lie to you sweetling,” she had said. “My nephew has been badly hurt and poisoned by the fears of my sister. He was never strong even before that. But I do have some hope for him because of how he was at times with you. You have done all you could for your cousin, Sansa. There are good people at Runestone. He will be well cared for.”

The girl had dried her tears then, although Brienne could see she still suffered. Then she had raised her chin and squared her shoulders in a manner reminiscent of her mother and allowed her father to assist her in remounting her horse. They had continued on to Gulltown and met with the contacts Lord Royce had set up. While the captain of the Wave Dancer knew who they were, they had not wished to draw attention to themselves in town before they sailed. When they boarded the ship, Captain Marler had informed Lord Stark that Reed and Boden had successfully found passage on a small trader and sailed four days prior.

“I imagine they have arrived, my lady, unless they had any trouble with their voyage,” she responded to Lady Catelyn’s question now.

Her lady nodded, continuing to gaze out across the water. “When last I sailed from the Vale to White Harbor, I then traveled on with Lord Manderly’s sons to meet Robb at Moat Cailin,” she said quietly. “Ned was held prisoner in the Red Keep then, and I was filled with fear for him, and for our girls in the Lannisters’ hands, and for Robb riding to war.” She turned then, and looked at Brienne. “I didn’t fear for Bran and Rickon. I missed them terribly, but Winterfell was safe. Winterfell was home. They would come to no harm there.” She shook her head violently and stared back out across the sea. “What a fool I was! There is no place safe in this world. Not while so many evil men live. Winterfell is burned and filled now with Boltons and Freys.” She was silent for a long time before she said very softly, “I am afraid, Brienne.”

Brienne reached out and almost touched Lady Catelyn’s hand, but stopped, unsure as always if her touch would be welcome. Since she had found Lady Catelyn again, she had seen her with her lord husband and her daughter, and knew that she touched both of them frequently and easily. With others, however, she remained still slightly apart, cordial always and often truly warm, but never without reserve. Lady Sansa had told her how her septa had taught that courtesy is a lady’s armor. Brienne thought Lady Catelyn Stark wore some of the strongest armor she had ever seen.

“No harm will come to you, my lady,” she said softly. “Lord Eddard and I . . .”

Lady Catelyn began laughing. “Do you honestly think I fear for myself? Oh, child, I ceased fearing for myself long ago.” She swallowed then. “But now there is Ned again, and Sansa, and perhaps even Bran and Rickon . . .” Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper as she added, “or Arya.” She looked directly at Brienne. “It would seem that all my arrivals to White Harbor are marked by fear for my family. I have something to ask of you, Brienne.”

“Anything, my lady. You know you have only to ask,” Brienne said earnestly.

“I would have you pledge yourself to Sansa’s safety. Once we land in White Harbor, we have little way to tell friend from foe. We shall face dangers far beyond what we knew in the isolation of the Vale. Roose Bolton will not yield the north to my husband willingly, and he has been here with the Freys and Lannisters backing him long enough to wield some power. Sansa would have been safer at Runestone with little Lord Arryn.”

“But, my lady . . .”

“No, we could not have left her. Ned was right in that. After all that has happened, we could not keep her from us now. It would have been impossible for any of us.” She closed her eyes and shuddered as if even speaking of leaving her daughter behind caused her pain. Then she looked directly at Brienne again. “But she is still my child to protect, for all she is a maiden flowered and near as tall as I. Once we are in White Harbor, Brienne, I want you with her always. I would have her as safe as I can make her. You shall be her shield.”

“Of course, my lady. I shall give my sword and my life for all of you . . .”

“No, Brienne,” Lady Catelyn interrupted her. “Not all of us. Sansa.” She paused, giving Brienne time to understand her words. “Lady Brienne of Tarth,” she said formally. “You are sworn to me and bound by my word. I am telling you now that you are to place nothing above Sansa’s safety. Not mine. Not my lord husband’s. Do you understand me?”

Brienne nodded slowly. “I will protect the Lady Sansa with my life,” she said. “I will see to her first, and I will continue to serve and protect you as well, my lady.”

Lady Catelyn smiled at her then, a look of such obvious affection on her face that Brienne felt a lump forming in her throat. Then Lady Catelyn reached for her and took both of her hands, not in the gesture a liege lord makes a vassal, but in the warmth of friendship. “I know you will, Brienne. But there may come a time when you are forced to choose. If that time comes when you can safeguard only one of us, I am asking for your promise now. Promise me you will choose Sansa.”

Those blue eyes, the precise color of a clear summer sky, looked into her own larger, darker blue eyes, and Brienne nodded once. “I promise, my lady. I give you my word of honor.”

Lady Catelyn nodded then. The two of them watched the waves silently for a bit until Lady Catelyn excused herself to check on her husband and daughter. Brienne continued to stare out at the churning sea for a long time after that, praying that she would never be called upon to make that choice or keep that promise.

 

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The sunlight stung her eyes making them water. Arya had never felt as much joy from any other pain. Every hovel in Ragman’s Harbor was beautiful to her, and if the still unfamiliar brightness of the sun caused her to blink, she reveled in it none the less. She almost skipped down the alley shortcut to the street which held Sailmender’s. Cat of the Canals had not frequented Sailmender’s, and she realized with a start that she knew it more by its smoky, spicy scent than by its appearance.

They had given her back her eyes once she told the kindly man she was Arya of House Stark just as she had known they would. He hadn’t said much of anything to her through that day, and she had still still fulfilled her usual tasks, finding the dead in the temple, going through their belongings. No one taught her any lessons, though. No poisons, no lying games, no languages. In the evening, when she was given her cup, the bitter liquid had set her throat on fire. When she awoke the next morning, she could see.

The kindly man’s face was stern, maybe even a little sad when he greeted her. “It is time for you to leave here. There is no place here for Arya of House Stark.”

She nodded. “I know. I will go.”

The waif who stood beside the kindly man smiled at her and opened her eyes wide in question. “With Blind Beth’s face?”

Arya rubbed her hand over her face. She hadn’t thought about what she looked like. She scratched hard at the hairy mummer’s mole the waif had affixed to her face. It hurt as it pulled away in her hand.

“I shall give you back your own face, Arya Stark,” the waif said. She led her to sit down and began wiping and scrubbing at her face. When she was finished, she brought out a wig roughly the color of Arya’s own hair and falling to just above her shoulders. “Your own hair will take time to grow back in,” she said. “And a shaved head may suit a blind beggar girl, but not you.”

The wig itched, but Arya supposed the waif was right. “I look like Cat again, don’t I?”

The waif made a non-committal gesture. “You are Arya, of House Stark. If some in the harbor call out Cat after you, it is your choice to answer or not. You will not stay with Brusco again, though.”

Arya had nodded understanding again. The waif had brought her back to the kindly man then, who had said her name again and wished her well. He had handed her a small bag of coins and turned away from her before she left the temple.

Outside, in the too-bright sunlight, she had counted the steps leading down from the temple door. She did not count as Beth might have, in order to know how many until she reached the last, but as she had counted one night long ago, before she was Beth, before she was even Cat of the Canals. She counted until she came to the step with the loose stone. She had pried it up and felt underneath until she gripped Needle’s hilt. As her hand closed around it, she realized her heart was racing, and that she had feared it would be gone. It felt good in her hand.

Now she had it strapped to her side as she approached Sailmender’s. It was early enough in the day that there were few customers in the dining room. Two women were wiping down tables, and through the doorway to the back, she could see a man chopping meat.

“Good afternoon,” she said. _Valar morghulis_ , she thought, but that was not her greeting to use anymore.

One of the women looked up. Seeing only a girl, she put a hand on her hip. “We’ve got no handouts for street rats here,” she said. “If you’ve got coin, I can get you some food.”

Arya recognized the voice. The woman had cautioned Blind Beth more than once to stay outside when she begged at Sailmender’s. Beggars were not allowed in.

“I’ve got coin,” Arya said, “But I don’t want your food. I’m looking for Dak.”

The woman raised her eyebrows and turned to call to the other woman who was now placing ale cups in rows behind the long bar. “Alina! This little chit says she’s looking for your boy! You can see what she wants, but don’t be too long about it.” She then turned and walked through the doorway to the man in the back.

The woman called Alina walked around the bar, nodding at the only two men sitting there, and came to face Arya.

“You are a friend of Dak’s” she asked hesitantly. Her Braavosi was even more heavily accented than her son’s. She did not speak it half so well as he did.

“I guess so,” Arya said. “I mean, he said for me to ask for him here.”

The woman looked hard at her. “You are not blind,” she finally said.

“Oh,” said Arya. “No, I’m not. Um, that was Beth. She sent me to find Dak.” She wasn’t sure what else to say. She realized Dak would likely not even recognize her. _Stupid_ , she thought. She should have realized that before now. The woman was still staring at her. “Is Dak here?” she asked.

Alina shook her head. “He is running errands for Targano. The butcher. He will be back. You can wait.” She looked over her shoulder at the man and woman in the back room. “You can wait outside,” she clarified.

Arya nodded and turned toward the door.

“Your eyes,” the woman said after her. Arya turned back around then. “They are very grey.” She looked at her for another long moment, then turned to go back to the bar as one of the men there called for some ale.

Arya went outside to wait for Dak. She found herself perfectly content to just take in the sights, sounds, and smells of Ragman’s Harbor as she sat there with her back against the front wall of Sailmender’s much the same as she had sat there when she was the blind girl with her bowl. She had never appreciated all of it together before. When she had last seen this place, she had paid little mind to the sounds and scents, and when she had learned to know those, her eyes had been dark. Now she felt the place open up to her as it never had.

Before long, she caught sight of a skinny boy with brown hair almost the same length as the wig on her head walking along the wall across the street. When he leaped off and landed neatly on two feet right across from Sailmender’s, she grinned. She knew the sound of that landing.

“Dak!” she called out.

When he first glimpsed her sitting against the wall, he smiled, but as he as he hurried toward her, his face changed. “Oh, I thought you were . . .How do you know my name?”

She rolled her eyes as she stood up. “Because I heard you tell it to Pynto. You never told Beth your name, Stupid.”

“Beth!” He exclaimed. “You know Beth? Are you . . .” he paused, seeming to digest what she had said and how her voice had sounded. He looked hard at her, and then shook his head. “It can’t be,” he said.

She sighed. “I’d take this stupid wig off and show you, but its stuck on with some paste, and it hurts something fierce if I pull at it.”

“But . . .but you’re not blind,” he stammered.

“No. Not now.”

“But . . .you were just pretending? You were good at it! Who made your costume? Why were you pretending?”

“I wasn’t pretending! I was blind then.” She bit her lip, wondering what to tell him. “Valar morghulis,” she whispered.

His eyes got huge. They were precisely the same color as his hair, and Arya realized he was younger than she had thought. He couldn’t be any older than she was. “Faceless men?” he whispered in awe. “But you’re just a little girl. How could you be a . . .”

“I’m not,” she said. “I . . .I kind of lived with them for awhile. I don’t now.”

He nodded solemnly, still looking at her in awe, and she realized it was good he was so young. Anyone older would have a lot more questions about her right now. While Dak looked like he had about a million questions himself, she could tell from his expression that they were all born of eager curiosity rather than doubt about her truthfulness.

“I knew you were different!” he exclaimed. “And when you talked the Westerosi . . .”

“Yeah, about that . . .”

“You’re from the north, aren’t you? Just like the Old Wolf in the song!”

Now it was her turn to stare at him. “How could you know that?”

He shrugged. “Your accent. You don’t sound like the sailors. You speak just like . . .”

He stopped suddenly and looked around. “I can’t talk about it,” he said. “My mother will kill me.”

She shrugged. Switching to the Common Tongue, she said, “So tell me in Westerosi. Does your mother understand that?”

Dak easily switched languages with her, but still shook his head. “No. She’ll know, I swear she will. I used to think I could hide things from her, but she really . . .look, I don’t know about your mother, but mine . . .”

Now Arya got angry. “No!” she shouted at him. “You don’t know anything about my mother! But I thought maybe you just might help me find out about her!” Tears stung her eyes, and it had nothing to do with the sunlight. _Stupid, stupid,_ she thought. _Do not cry like a baby._

He looked at her in surprise and dismay. “Look, Beth, I do want . . .”

“That’s not my name,” she said shortly.

“So what is your name?”

“I can’t tell you,” she sounded like a pouty little kid and she hated it.

Dak sighed and then wrinkled up his face in thought. “Look. Maybe I can talk to my mother about it, but not here.” His eyes drifted toward the doorway to Sailmender’s. “The owner and his wife don’t like me hanging around and distracting Mother.” He put an emphasis on the word “distracting” which made it clear how he felt about the innkeepers’ opinions. “Do you know Targano’s butcher shop?”

She shook her head. “What is it near?”

He wrinkled up his face again and then said, “Come on. I’ll show you.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her with him. Taking a route that only involved climbing over two walls, he soon led her to a small building on the very edge of Ragman’s Harbor, near a stockyard--a butcher’s shop with living quarters above it. “I live here,” he said. “My mother and Targano . . .well, he says he’s going to marry her.”

He looked at her as if waiting for her to comment. “Okay,” she said. “When should I come back?”

“Tomorrow morning. She won’t be home until late, and I can’t talk to her until Targano falls asleep. He doesn’t like it when we speak our tongue. He thinks I say nasty things about him.”

“Do you?”

“No, not really.” He sighed. “He’s not a bad man. He’s better to Mother than any . . .well, he’s good to her. But I’m just an extra mouth to feed, so I know he’d rather I hurry up and move on. Mother thinks I’m too young to be on my own, though.”

“How old are you?” she asked, curious.

“Almost one and ten.”

“I think I am one and ten, already,” she said. “I haven’t exactly been keeping track of my name days for awhile.” She looked at him. “Tell her it’s important, Dak. I know you know something about my . . .I just have to know, that’s all.”

Dak nodded. “I’ll try. And if I tell you what I know about Lord Eddard Stark, will you tell me what you know about the Faceless Men?”

Hearing the boy actually speak her father’s name made Arya catch her breath. She had known he had secrets, but now she knew for certain they involved her family. She still had a family. The thought thrilled and terrified her all at once.

“Beth?” Dak asked as her mind had drifted off. “You will tell me your story, too, right?” Arya looked back to the boy’s face, his expression full of anticipation, and she almost laughed.

She nodded. “Sure, Dak,” she said. “Tell me what you know, and I’ll give you my story for yours.”

A very odd expression passed over his face then. “What is it?” she asked. “Nothing,” he said. “It’s just that you sounded like . . .”

“Dak!” came a deep voice from inside the shop. “Is that you out there, boy?”

Dak grimaced. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “Come tomorrow morning!” Then he turned and scampered into the butcher’s shop.

Arya looked after him a moment, and then wandered away back in the direction of the docks. She would spend her day listening to sailors and merchants before finding a snug place to sleep. The thought of not being able to return to the temple after dark scared her a bit, but she knew Ragman’s Harbor well enough. She knew the dark well, too. She thought about her parents and what Dak might tell her in the morning, keeping her mind from dwelling on the fact that for the moment, she was once more a lone wolf.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The ship continued to rock gently as men tossed out ropes and tied the knots securing it in place. Sansa gripped the rail as she watched them, anxiously awaiting the moment when she could set foot on dry land again. Her stomach had settled some in the last two days, but she knew she would not feel completely right again until she had left the Wave Dancer behind.

Her mother put a hand on her shoulder. “Only a little longer, sweetling,” she said. When she looked up, she saw that her mother had her eyes fixed on the people milling about the dock. “Have you seen Donnell or Lord Reed?” she asked Sansa.

Sansa shook her head. “I haven’t really been looking, though.” She just wanted to get off the boat. “Brienne,” she said without turning around. “Do you see them?”

“No, my lady,” came Brienne’s voice. The woman was directly behind her as she was any time Sansa left the cabin. “There are several men who look more like soldiers than sailors, though. I do not believe you should leave the ship until your lord father or I have gone ashore and assessed the situation.”

“Oh, no,” said Sansa. “I have to get off this ship.”

“Brienne is quite right, Sansa. You and I will wait here until she or your father comes for us.” Her mother’s voice was sympathetic, but firm. “I am afraid your safety must come before your comfort, sweetling.”

Sansa sighed, but did not argue. She knew her mother well enough to realize there was no point. She drew the cloak and hood more tightly around her face. Then she reached up to tuck an errant strand of fiery hair back into her mother’s hood. “You should have let me braid your hair, Mother,” she said. It keeps escaping.”

Her lady mother laughed as she pulled her own hood down a bit further over her face. “To hear you and your father speak, I am the only woman with red hair in all of Westeros!”

“No, my lady,” said Brienne seriously, “but you are the only woman with red hair that is likely being watched for. Lady Sansa’s hair color affords her some disguise at least. You have none.”

Her mother didn’t reply. There had actually been some discussion of coloring her mother’s hair before they left the Eyrie as they had the dye Mya had brought from Saltpans. Her mother had patently refused, though. When Lord Royce had started to argue, she had jabbed her fingers at the scars on her face, “And how shall I hide these, then?” she’d demanded. “Roose Bolton was there when I got them. The Freys know full well my face is scarred. What difference will the color of my hair make when no one who sees me will forget my face?” More quietly, she added. “And my boys know well the color of my hair. I would not appear to them as a stranger.”

Her father had nodded to her then, and no more was said about it. Her father walked up to them now, interrupting Sansa's thoughts. “My ladies,” he said formally. “The captain has ordered the walkway lowered. I have not seen Howland or Donnell among the crowd. I would have you go inside the cabin now as I don’t want anyone coming aboard to see you closely.”

“Shall you go ashore then, my lord?” her mother asked.

Her father nodded, and Sansa saw the look of panic flash across her mother’s face. “Ned, you are well known in White Harbor. You must take care, my love,” she whispered.

Her father’s expression softened. “Lord Eddard Stark is well known, Cat,” he replied. “Not this man.”

Sansa looked at her father critically. He was wearing worn breeches with scuffed boots. His black cloak was thin and patched, but had a large hood which easily covered his head and shadowed his face. He had not trimmed his beard during the voyage, and it gave him a much more unkempt appearance than normal. To her, he still looked only like her father, but perhaps a casual observer would be fooled. “But you will be careful, won’t you, Father?” she echoed her mother. “Take Brienne with you.”

“Our brave maiden is far more memorable than I,” her father said with a hint of laughter in his voice, “if only for her height. And more to the point, I need her to watch over you and your mother. But I will be careful, sweet girl. You have my promise.”

“We wil be safe on the ship, Father,” Sansa tried again. “Brienne could help you.”

“Sansa,” her father said, his voice sterner. “Lady Brienne is helping me. She is to guard what I hold most precious. Now, into the cabin with you.”

It seemed neither of her parents were in the mood to hear arguments today, so Sansa turned toward the stairs leading below deck, followed immediately by Brienne, and then her mother holding her father’s arm.

When they reached the door of their cabin, her father pulled her into a tight embrace. “I shall return soon, Sansa, and take you off this godsforsaken floating plank.” She heard the smile in his voice. “Unlike your mother, I understand precisely how badly you wish to go ashore.”

She hugged him tightly. “Just come back safe.”

He kissed the top of her head and nodded. “Be brave, sweet girl. And take care of your mother.”

He turned back to her mother then. Taking her into his arms, he kissed her on the lips, and even with Brienne and herself standing right there, her mother did not try to stop him. They remained that way long enough that Brienne turned away and even walked a few steps back toward the stairs, but Sansa could not stop watching them.

Sansa had been kissed by Joffrey and then by Petyr Baelish, but the few kisses she had witnessed between her parents were something very different. She had always thought her parents wonderful, but not truly romantic or filled with passion, not anything like lovers in the songs. Yet now she was aware of a connection between them that almost seemed to sing itself when they touched. She wondered if it were something new or if she had only been too much a child to see it at Winterfell.

Her mother pulled her face slightly away from her father’s and reached a hand up to touch the side of his face, smiling as she ran it along his ragged looking beard. “Be safe, my love.” Her whisper was barely audible, but Sansa heard it.

Her father did not take his eyes from her mother’s. “And you as well, my lady,” he replied. Then he seemed to force himself to let go of her, stepped past Brienne with a nod, and quickly disappeared up the stairs.

Her mother didn’t move, so Sansa took her arm. “Let’s sit down, Mother,” she said softly. "We might as well be as comfortable as we can while we wait.” Lady Catelyn followed her and took a seat wordlessly, and Brienne came and sat down in the cabin after the two of them.

“Tell me again what we know of things here,” Sansa said, more to take her mother’s mind away from her father’s departure than for any other reason.

Her mother sighed deeply, but then looked up at Sansa and spoke in her usual clear, strong voice. “We know little enough. Ravens were sent from Riverrun to all the northern lords telling how Lords Glover and Reed and Lady Mormont had taken the Twins, and that Edmure had confirmed Olyvar as lord there. I was not mentioned in those letters. Nor was your father. From Glover’s letter, we know that Lord Manderly apparently left White Harbor for Winterfell before that raven was ever received. If the same is true for the other lords, it is possible that none of those at Winterfell know the Twins fell to us or that Riverrun is free. I cannot imagine Hothar Umber continuing to support Bolton once he’d seen the Greatjon’s seal on that letter.”

“But didn’t you send a raven to Winterfell as well?” Sansa asked.

Her mother nodded. “Yes. Bolton certainly knows what has transpired in the Riverlands, and if he has had any communication from King’s Landing, he may well know it is your father’s work, as Addam Marbrand was sent to the Lannisters after having seen your father himself.” She looked at Sansa. “It hardly profits Bolton to share such tidings with your father’s bannermen, though, does it? I hardly think he could expect them to fight to defend Winterfell from Eddard Stark!” She shook her head slowly as if in thought. “Lord Bolton is in a precarious position to be sure. He needs all those northmen to fend off Stannis Baratheon, wherever he is at the moment. But he has to know they will turn on him in a heartbeat when they know the truth. He’s a cautious but cunning man. He’ll be looking for leverage of some sort.” She shook her head again. “I only wish I knew what he might find.”

Sansa thought her mother had a better understanding of this game than many of the lords in the Eyrie had. “Didn’t Uncle Edmure’s letter say that Hosteen Frey had written to Lord Walder? That means the Freys in the north don’t know what’s happened at the Twins, either.”

“Well, it would hardly profit Roose Bolton to share such tidings with them, either. I know Hosteen Frey. He’d care little for Bolton’s plans once he heard about the Twins. He’d take all the Frey forces and march south to avenge the stain on their dubious honor. But just because Ser Hosteen didn’t know about it when he sent that letter doesn’t mean he hasn’t heard by now. I hope not. I’d rather not have all your father’s forces face a hostile host of Freys before they even reach Moat Cailin.”

Sansa nodded. Winter came to the north before anywhere else. Snow would delay men and horses, and snowstorms would send ravens astray. But word of her parents’ survival and their activities through the Riverlands and Vale would spread, even if it spread slowly. It occurred to her that neither Bolton nor any Frey needed a raven to tell them about her mother. They all knew she lived.

She watched her mother’s long fingers fiddling absently with the edges of the cloak she had taken off and placed in her lap and recalled her parents’ embrace before her father’s departure. She wondered if others could see that connection between them as clearly as she now did. If Roose Bolton wanted to gain leverage over Eddard Stark . . .Sansa looked at her mother’s eminently recognizable hair and her still lovely, but obviously scarred face and shivered. She feared that her mother could be in even greater danger than she knew, and she silently thanked the gods that Brienne was sworn to protect her lady mother above all else.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Arya walked back toward Targano’s butcher shop at first light. It was probably too early to meet Dak, but she had needed to rise from her sleeping place before dawn. She remembered it would be warm in the small cookhouse behind the Happy Port and it was. She had been quite comfortable curled up on the floor there, but had to leave before anyone came there in the morning. She planned to sit down someplace where she could see the little shop and wait for some sign that people were awake within. She had a lot to think about. She had been pleasantly surprised to see the Titan’s Daughter in port yesterday, and even more pleasantly surprised to hear the ship would sail in another day or two for cities along the coast of Westeros.

To her surprise, she saw Dak standing outside as she approached. He appeared to be watching for her, because he quickly put up a hand to halt her where she was and signaled her to be quiet. He then turned and went inside. Puzzled, Arya stood and waited. He reappeared a moment later, accompanied by his mother, whom Arya remembered from Sailmender’s. Alina pulled a thick shawl around her shoulders against the early morning chill.

When they reached her, Dak said, “We cannot talk here. Walk with us.” So Arya followed them until they turned a corner and stood hidden from any doors or windows by a wall along the street. No one was around.

“Where is the butcher?” Arya asked.

“Asleep,” Dak replied. “He had a lot to drink last night. He will not rise for another hour at least.”

His mother said something Arya didn’t understand. The language sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t put a finger on it. Dak stared at Arya a moment and then responded to his mother in the same language.

“Why are you staring at me? And what language is that?” asked Arya in the Common Tongue.

“It is spoken some in Pentos. It is close to Valyrian, but not the same. And Mother told me to look at your eyes.”

The woman had said something about her eyes yesterday. “What about my eyes?” Arya said defensively. “I already told you I really was blind when I was Beth. They work fine now, though.”

“They are grey,” he said. “Like Lord Stark’s. You look like Lord Stark.”

The words went through Arya’s heart. She felt dizzy. “How . . .how could you know what he looks like?” she stammered.

“Please,” Dak’s mother said. “Speak the Braavosi. I cannot understand your Westerosi.”

Arya turned to her. In Braavosi, she demanded, “How do you know my . . Lord Eddard? Where have you seen his eyes?”

Alina smiled at her. “You are a Stark, yes? You have too much his look not to be. Are you a niece perhaps? Or cousin of some sort?”

Arya looked back and forth between Dak and his mother. Finally she swallowed and said, “I am Arya of House Stark. Daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn.”

“No way,” Dak said in a low voice.

“Are you calling me liar?” she challenged him.

“No, no!” he assured her. “I just mean . . .gods. His daughter. He was afraid you might be . . .” Dak’s voice broke off.

“Dead?” Arya supplied. “Well, he was dead. I thought so, anyway. I saw Joffrey hold his head up!” The stupid tears threatened to fall from her eyes again, and it made her angry. “What do you know about it anyway? What do you have to do with my father?”

Dak looked at his mother then who was looking at Arya carefully. “Tell her,” she said finally. “I must go back to the house. Come and see me later at Sailmender’s. I will get a break after midday.” She then turned without another word and went back to Targano’s.

“Please Dak,” Arya said, almost pleading with him. “Tell me about my father.”

“Well, we might as well sit down somewhere.” With that, he grabbed hold of a stone on the wall that stuck out just a bit further than the rest, and hauled himself upward. Once he was seated on the top, he reached a hand down toward her.

She shook her head. “I’ve never seen anybody so crazy about climbing except my brother . . .”

“Bran,” Dak said, and she stared at him in disbelief. “I reminded Lord Stark of him, too. “The climbing and the way I like stories.” He still held his hand out. Arya grasped his hand and let him pull her up to join him. “I am sorry about your brothers,” he said softly when she was seated next to him.

Arya nodded. “I have a sister, too,” she said. “I don’t know where she is.”

“Your father was going to find her. And you, too. That’s what he said when he left Pentos.”

The thought of her father searching for her gave Arya’s heart an odd jump, but she forced herself to stay focused. “How did my father get to Pentos? Is that where you lived before?”

Dak nodded. “He was brought to a house there by some men who work for the Fat Man. My mother was brought to care for him. We lived there with him and Mother was paid very well.”

Arya shook her head. “My father would never have just lived in Pentos with you and your mother. He would have come home to my mother and all of us!”

“Oh! Not like that. I mean your father was a prisoner. He was locked in the top room for moons and moons and I didn’t even know who he was at first. I hardly even ever saw him for the longest time because he was so sick and barely awake most of the time. We all thought he’d die, but that Summer Islander the Fat Man sent actually fixed his leg.”

Arya had been about to knock Dak right off the wall for helping to hold her father prisoner, but she stopped when he talked about him being sick. “His leg,” she repeated. “He broke it in King’s Landing. A horse fell on him when he was attacked by the Kingslayer‘s men.”

Dak nodded. “They didn’t take very good care of him there. The whole leg was swollen and it stank something awful when we got him. I still don’t know how the wizard saved him and his leg.”

“The wizard?”

“The Summer Islander. That’s just what I called him. Anyway, once your father was awake all the time, all he cared about was getting better and getting home. He had me find every scrap of news I could about the Sunset Kingdoms. Mostly he cared about the north and House Stark, though. It was obvious from the questions he’d ask. And I figured out who he was.”

“But why? Why did this fat man want my father held prisoner? And who did Joffrey kill?”

Dak shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. No one in Pentos asks too many questions about the Fat Man. Not if they like breathing. Anyway, your father is a good man. Once I found out about your little brothers, I started helping him plan his escape. Mother helped, too.”

“Why?” Arya asked suspiciously. She’d long ago stopped believing that people helped anyone else for no reason at at all.

“I told you!” Dak said rather angrily. “He was a good man. And it had been moons and moons. We got our money, but no one ever came to even talk to your father. We couldn’t just keep him there forever. I met a northman who helped arrange a way out for him. And Mother and I made plans to run to Braavos.”

“Why did you leave Pentos?” Arya asked.

“Didn’t you hear me? You don’t cross the Fat Man and keep breathing long. We had to go.” He shrugged. “There was nothing keeping us there, anyway.”

“Who is this fat man?”

Dak swallowed and looked around. Even leagues and leagues from Pentos, he seemed afraid to say the man’s name. Finally, he whispered, “Illyrio Mopatis.”

Arya shrugged. “Never heard of him. Is he some Pentoshi criminal?”

Dak actually laughed then. “He’s a magister. The most powerful one in the city.” He paused. “And yes, he is a criminal.”

“So you and your mother got my father out of Pentos and you came here,” Arya said. “Where did my father go?”

“On a ship to White Harbor. After that, I didn’t know until the stories started coming in about the Old Wolf winning battles in the Sunset Kingdoms. I knew who it was, of course, but most didn’t believe the Wolf in the tales could be the dead Lord Stark. Then when the stories started including his lady wife, I had to know if it was true. I tried to find out everything I could. The stories sounded crazy, and then I heard about the song.”

Arya bit her lip. “Why?” she asked him again. “Why is she important to you? I mean, she’s my mother, but what is she to you?”

Dak looked down. “It was awful when your little brothers died,” he whispered. “I had to tell him. He went crazy. Then once he knew that I knew who he was, he talked about you all the time--his sons, his daughters, and his wife.” Dak swallowed hard. “The day we were taking him out of the house, we heard about the Red Wedding. That very day!! He was so happy about going home, and I knew his wife and last son were dead.”

Arya remembered all the commotion and confusion at the Twins. She remembered running from the Hound, desperate to reach her mother. Unbidden, tears sprang to her eyes. She could still feel the Hound’s axe at the back of her head, although the pain of that blow had been nothing compared to the pain of waking up to realize her mother was lost to her forever.

“I didn’t tell him,” Dak was saying. “Donnell told me not to. Said he’d never be able to make the escape after hearing something like that. He promised to tell him once they were out to sea, but . . .it still didn’t feel right. I couldn’t stand listening to him planning how he would meet up with them and . . .”

“It was right, Dak,” Arya said quietly. “He didn’t need to hear it then.” _I didn’t want to hear it ever._

She wiped her sleeve across her face and realized that Dak was doing the same. He had started sniffling, too. “So, anyway,” he said, “It just made me happy to know that he got her back. That’s all. And now there’s you.” He looked at her. “You are going back, right? To your parents in Westeros?”

She nodded. “I think I may have found a way.”

“I’m coming with you,” he stated firmly.

“What? Dak, your mother will never let you come, Stupid. Why would you want to go anyway?” Arya refused to acknowledge even to herself that she’d like him to come. She didn’t want to be alone again.

“My mother will do better here without me. Targano really isn’t a bad man. He just has no use for me. And I know he’ll marry her now.” Dak hesitated. “She carries his child. She told him last night. That’s why he drank so much. He was celebrating.”

“Don’t you want to stay and see your little brother or sister?” Arya asked.

Dak shrugged. “It won’t be like that, Arya. I’m not Targano’s son, and he won’t forget that. It was different when it was just Mother and me. She needed me then. Now . . .if she knows I’m all right, she’ll be better if I’m gone.”

Arya thought Dak sounded sad about that. She thought of her brother Jon, and realized that he would understand how Dak felt. She wondered if Dak knew who his father was, or if he was a mystery like Jon’s mother. That wasn’t something she could ask though. “You can come,” she said. “I know my father will be glad to see you.” She wasn’t as sure about her mother, but decided it would be all right anyway.

Dak grinned. “Now we’ve just got to figure out how to pay for a ship.”

“Oh,” Arya said. “I have an idea about that.”

Much later that day, as the sun set in the sea west of Braavos, Arya Stark stood with Dak at the rail of the Titan’s Daughter. His mother had cried when Dak told her he planned to go with her, but she hadn’t tried to stop him, and Arya realized he had been right. His mother’s life probably would be easier with him gone.

She had made Dak stay behind when she first boarded the ship and approached the captain of the Titan’s Daughter. “Valar morghulis,” she had said as she walked up to him. At first, he had looked irritated at the interruption as he was barking orders at his men, but then he recognized her and his eyes widened with fear.

“I know you, Tenesio Terys,” she had stated certainly, trying to sound like the priests she had heard in the temple. “I know your sons, Denyo and Yorko.”

He visibly relaxed at her words, although he still looked wary. “Valar dohaeris,” he replied. “What can I do for you?”

“Is it true you sail for the Seven Kingdoms?”

He nodded. “Winter descends there so we shall make the north crossing to White Harbor first and then south to Gulltown and on to King’s Landing as it gets colder.”

“I would like passage for myself and a companion, Tenesio Terys.” She did her best to sound like a true priest of the Many Faced God rather than an anxious little girl. She was terrified he would know she was a fraud. _Stupid! He cannot tell you are Arya Stark again. He does not know you left the temple._

After a moment, the captain nodded. “You shall have your cabin.”

Arya smiled at him. “You serve well, Captain. And you shall be rewarded this time with coin you can keep.” She handed him the four golden dragons from the bag the kindly man had given her, keeping only the lesser coins back.

He looked at them. “It . . .it is not necessary.”

“No,” she said, “but I wish it.”

He had bowed to her and put the coins in his pocket. She had gone ashore to get Dak, and no one had objected to them sleeping on the ship that night in anticipation of sailing in the morning.

Now she stared toward home and watched the sun sink into the sea. _Home. Mother. Father_. Tomorrow morning, Arya Stark would sail for home. She wanted her parents so badly, she didn’t think the morrow could come quickly enough. Yet even as she yearned to reach them, she could not quite ignore a small voice that questioned, _But will they still want you?_

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark kept the hood pulled down low over his face as he stepped off the wooden walkway. As glad as he was to be on dry land, he still had to work to keep himself from lurching as he walked. His stomach was grateful to be off the sea, but his legs were still confused.

As he moved through the crowd on the dock, he saw no sign of Howland and Donnell, although it was difficult to search people’s faces without revealing his own. He staggered a little to the left over an uneven place on the ground and felt himself bump into someone. He turned to apologize and found the amused eyes of Howland Reed looking up at him.

“Careful, my lord,” the crannogman said. “You’ll have people thinking you’re in your cups.” He took hold of Ned’s arm to steady him.

“How do you do that?” Ned asked. “I didn’t see you anywhere. And where is Donnell?”

Reed chuckled. “You weren’t supposed to see me, my lord. If people can see me, it rather defeats the purpose of my being hidden to wait for you. Are the ladies still on board the Wave Dancer?”

Ned nodded. “Where is Donnell?” he repeated.

“Why, at Harmon Wade’s shop, of course.” Reed smiled. “He’s a seller of cloths, young Harmon. Seems an honest lad. Prices are reasonable.”

“I’m not buying wool, Howland. Did you find this Mohgo?”

Reed shook his head. “No one ever seems to work there except Wade. Thought it might be best if you ask for Mohgo in case Wade has been given your description. Neither Donnell nor I look much like you, I fear.”

Ned snorted at that. “I don’t look much like me at the moment, but I shall ask for the man all the same.”

He allowed Reed to guide him from the port and up a narrow street running along the outer wall of the city. A row of shops were built into the wall and Reed stopped at the door of the fourth one. “Go on, my lord,” he said. “Donnell is within. I shall remain outside to watch.”

Ned ducked his head to go through the doorway, and then blinked as his eyes struggled to adjust to the dimness inside.

“There you are!” came a voice from his right. Donnell Boden clapped him on the back. “I was just telling this gentleman about how badly you needed a new cloak.” He picked at Ned’s threadbare black garment and made a clucking sound. “It’s a wonder you haven’t frozen already.”

His eyes having adjusted, Ned realized that in addition to Donnell and himself, there was a young man behind a counter and two women who were studying a bolt of cloth. The man behind the counter eyed Ned dubiously, as if doubting this ill-dressed man would have the money necessary to buy material for a new cloak.

“Your friend has long expected you,” he said to Ned. “It is the third day he has come to my shop. I am glad you have not kept him waiting today.”

“I was detained,” Ned said briefly. “But let us not interrupt your business with these ladies. We can wait until they have finished.”

Ned and Donnell stood near the back of the shop pretending to make small talk until the women finally left, the younger one carrying a bundle of blue cloth.

“Now, sers, may I help you?” the young man said politely.

Ned threw back the hood of his cloak. “I am looking for Mohgo,” he said without preamble.

Harmon Wade blinked several times. Then he asked, “How did Lord Manderly come to choke on his soup at a feast at Winterfell for Robb Stark’s tenth name day?”

Ned was at first taken aback by this apparent non-sequitir, but then he began to laugh. “Trust Wyman to remind me of that tale!” he said to Donnell who looked completely baffled. Turning back to Harmon Wade, Ned said, “Just as Lord Manderly put the spoon to his mouth, my daughter Arya asked him loudly how it was even possible to be so fat. He inhaled the soup then rather than sipping it, and choked and sputtered for quite some minutes. He turned rather purple as I recall.” Turning back to Donnell, he said, “And Catelyn turned crimson. Arya took one look at her mother and turned ghostly white herself, before fleeing the Great Hall. It was a rather colorful affair. We didn’t find Arya for hours. She wasn’t quite five then.”

Donnell started laughing himself, but Harmon Wade had dropped to his knees. “Lord Stark,” he said. “I am at your service.”

“I thank you,” Ned replied. “Can you take me to this Mohgo?”

“It would be my pleasure, my lord,” he replied. The man turned and moved aside a small chest. Beneath it a door was carved into the floor. Wade pulled up the door and revealed a flight of stone steps. “We must go down,” he said, grabbing a lantern.

“Donnell, get Reed. He’s outside.” Ned walked to the steps. He could not see where they led from here. When Reed and Boden both came back a moment later, he said, “Lead on, young Harmon.”

They all followed Wade down the steps. There were close to forty of them before they ended in a dirt path through a long tunnel. They emerged into daylight after walking about five hundred feet and found themselves on a rocky shore.

“We’re outside the city!” Ned exclaimed.

Wade nodded. “I have to go back to my shop. The way back into the tunnel is hidden by these rocks here, but once you know of it, it is easy to find. I will not put the chest back on the trap door, and it is not locked. As long as you return after sunset, there will be no one in the shop when you emerge.”

After sunset. Catelyn and Sansa would be sick with worry, but there was no help for it. “But where do we go now, Harmon?” Ned asked.

The young man pointed. “Just behind that outcropping, there is a small hut built against the rock. You cannot see it until you have passed it. Knock on the door and ask for Mohgo. I have been told he will know you, my lord.”

“As have I. I hope it is true.”

Harmon Wade turned to go back into the tunnel then, and Ned and his companions walked toward the outcropping of rock. Just as the man had said, they saw nothing but the large chunk of bedrock rising out of the soil until they passed to the other side. Then a small hut was clearly visible. Of course, as no one had reason to be on this particular stretch of shoreline, the hut was well concealed from almost anyone.

Ned walked up and knocked on the wooden door. “Who is there?” came a voice from within.

Ned hesitated only for a brief second. “Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell,” he replied clearly. “I seek Mohgo.”

“You have found him,” came the voice. “What do you want from him, Lord Stark?”

Taking a deep breath, Ned replied, “I’ve come to ask him for Robett Glover.”

There was no reply, but then Ned heard a latch move on the inside of the door. When it opened, he found himself, looking at Robett Glover himself. “Lord Stark,” the man cried, dropping to his knee. “You have come!”

Ned offered a hand to help him rise. “Aye, Robett, I have.” He stepped inside the small hut and quickly realized there was no one else there. “Mohgo?” he queried, raising an eyebrow.

“My favorite horse when I was a lad,” Glover said with a smile. “The name was a Dothraki word for bravery or something. At least that’s what I was told.”

Ned shook his head. “Come in,” he called to Reed and Boden. With all four men in the tiny hut, it was quite close.

“Are you living here, Robett?” Ned questioned.

“More or less,” Glover replied. “White Harbor is less safe than ever with Lord Manderly gone. And he has been gone a long time. Word has it there have been heavy snows inland already, so the entire wedding party may simply be trapped at Winterfell. Or they may have been ambushed and killed by Stannis Baratheon. Or murdered at dinner by those devil Freys! I have no way to know.”

Glover sounded frustrated. “My goodbrother received a raven from your lady wife at Deepwood Motte. She does well. She asked about you and Galbart.”

“Gods be good,” the man breathed. “And my brother? The letter from Riverrun said he had been wounded.”

“He has recovered. Soon he will be marching north with Lady Mormont and Lord Umber as well as the lords of the Vale.”

“That is good news, my lord. The raven from Riverrun was the last I was able to see. Maester Theomore had known I was under Lord Manderly’s protection and gave all appearances of befriending me, but once Lord Manderly had been gone a moon‘s turn, I received word from a credible informant that the good maester was conspiring to have me arrested. I risked no more contact with him and so have seen no more letters. I had sent yours without his seeing its content, as I had known Lord Manderly trusted him not, but still I feared its interception. Hence the levels of subterfuge I engaged in.”

“Manderly didn’t trust his own maester? What kind of man is this Theomore?” Ned asked.

“He was born a Lannister,” Glover replied. “And a Lannister he seems to remain, regardless of the chain around his neck.”

Ned shook his head. “But what of my sons, Galbart?” he asked then. “Did I understand your letter aright?” He looked at Galbart Glover’s face, prematurely lined and hollowed beneath a shock of hair more grey than brown now. “Do my sons live?”

“Both of your sons escaped Winterfell, my lord,” Glover confirmed. “The boy, Wex, saw them in your Godswood with four others whom I now know to be Lord Howland Reed’s children, a wildling woman who’d been a captive at Winterfell, and a large stable boy.”

“Hodor,” Ned whispered as Howland stiffened slightly at the mention of his own children. “Where are they?”

“I do not know where your older boy is, my lord. The two split up. Your Brandon went north with the Reeds and the stable boy. That is the last I know of him.”

Ned swallowed the disappointment that Bran was missing and concentrated hard on the fact that he could still be alive. “And Rickon?” he asked.

“The wildling woman took him to Skagos.”

“Skagos!” Ned exclaimed. “I cannot possibly take Catelyn there,” he said in dismay.

“You needn’t go to Skagos, my lord,” Robett Glover said.

Ned looked at him angrily. “I will go wherever my son may be, Robett. You may depend upon that.”

“Your son is no longer in Skagos. Stannis Baratheon dispatched his onion knight to treat with Lord Manderly. He arrived not too many days after you had departed White Harbor. You may recall I had expected him when you arrived.”

“Davos Seaworth?”

“The very man. Wex had told us a great deal more about the events at Winterfell before he arrived here, my lord, and as Lord Manderly had heard of his prowess as a smuggler, he charged Lord Seaworth with finding and returning little Lord Rickon and his direwolf.”

Ned’s breath came in short gasps. “And did he go?”

“He did go, my lord. And ten days past, he returned with a wildling woman, a fiery haired boy who's half a wildling himself, and the largest, blackest, most vicious wolf I have ever seen. How they managed to get it on a ship, much less control it there, is quite beyond me.”

Ned cried out then, unable to keep the sound within him. Howland Reed took his arm to steady him as he sagged downward. “Rickon,” he whispered. “Rickon is truly here?”

“In the forest, my lord. I have him, the wilding woman, Lord Seaworth, and the beast in a camp several leagues from the city, with three score of my most loyal men. I can take you there tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, yes,” Ned breathed. He wanted to go there now. He wanted to grab his youngest son up and toss him into the air until he lost his breath from laughing. He wanted to sieze Catelyn in his arms and tell her that her baby lived. He wanted to hold all that remained of his family tightly to him and never let them go.

Suddenly, the little hut was too small, too close. He flung open the door and walked out onto the rocky ground. He heard the cry of gulls and the slapping of the water upon the rocks. Neither seemed as loud as the beating of his own heart. _Rickon is alive. He is close by._ He thought of Glover’s other words. _Bran lives as well, and we will find him_. _And Arya._ All things seemed possible to Ned in that moment as he considered his youngest son’s almost impossible survival.

He looked to the west and cursed the sun which still stood well above the horizon. All things may be possible, but the only possible action for him now was waiting. The Lord of Winterfell took a deep breath and walked back toward his men in the little hut to wait for sunset.

 


	31. Warg

As her horse slowly plodded through the snow which lay on the ground among the trees growing along the bank of the White Knife, Catelyn Stark could not escape a feeling of unreality. She had eaten and slept very little in the past twenty-four hours. Yesterday, she had spent hours in that tiny shipboard cabin with Sansa and Brienne, fearing more for Ned with every passing moment. When he had finally opened the cabin door, long after dark, she had flung herself into his arms before he could even enter and sobbed with relief.

Hating her own weakness, she had fought to regain her composure only to dissolve into tears once more when he told her that Rickon not only lived, but was here, just outside White Harbor. At that news, Sansa had begun crying as well, and Ned had simply held onto both of them while Brienne stood quietly aside. Of course, Catelyn’s heart had fallen when she realized that Ned said only Rickon, and not Bran as well. But Ned assured her that Bran had indeed escaped Winterfell alive, and they would find him, so she had allowed the prospect of soon holding her youngest again to flood her heart with joy.

Then, cloaked, hooded, and under cover of darkness, Ned had led them from the ship to meet Donnell, Lord Reed, and Robett Glover. Glover had then taken them all to spend the night in a small house near the city gate so they could leave the town early in the morning concealed among the throng of people starting the business of their day.

The house had only two rooms and one bed which everyone had insisted upon giving to her and Sansa. Brienne and the men made pallets on the floor and took turns standing watch, but Ned had seen her lying awake. When his watch ended, he came to the bed and slipped beside her wordlessly so as not to wake their daughter, sleeping on her other side. There wasn’t actually room for all three of them in the small bed, but he had pulled her right up against him and half on top of him, holding her in his arms. With her head resting on his chest, and his fingers combing gently through her hair, she had finally fallen asleep for a bit. Whether he had slept or not, she didn’t know.

She looked at Ned now, riding beside her, his face revealing to her the same mixture of anticipation, longing, and apprehension that filled her own heart. Last night, she could only feel the boundless joy of finding the babe she’d thought lost to her forever. As they had shuffled out of the city this morning among merchants, farmers, and a myriad of other small folk, however, she had begun to feel other things as well. _Will he even know me?_ He had been three years old when she left him. He was well over five now. He’d lived almost half his little life without her. With a pang, she thought of her last weeks at Winterfell, so consumed by grief for Bran that she’d scarcely given her youngest any attention at all. She had sung him to sleep almost every night of his life before those awful days. Would he remember that? Or would he remember only the despondent, half-mad woman with no time for him, if he remembered her at all?

She had voiced her fears quietly to Ned once they were outside the city, waiting in the woods for Glover’s men to bring them horses. He told her that it would certainly be difficult for Rickon--that Glover had told him their boy was half a wilding, heeding no one but the woman called Osha, and not always heeding her. But he was still their son, Ned had promised. It may take time, but he would know them once more. She attempted to draw strength from his confidence.

“Not much further, my lord, my lady,” called Robett Glover from just ahead. Almost before the words had left his mouth, the man on the lead horse shouted in alarm, and his horse reared suddenly. Catelyn saw an enormous black shape emerge from the trees.

Just as the man riding behind her raised a crossbow, recognition came to her. “No!” she cried. “Shaggydog, to me!”

The direwolf stopped. It did not come to her, but stared at her with luminous green eyes and made no sound until another of Glover’s men made to approach it. Then the wolf snarled and bared its teeth at him. The man with the crossbow took aim again.

“Stop it,” Catelyn said sharply. “You’ll frighten him.”

“Frighten him?” Robett Glover sputtered. “My lady, that beast should be chained. It’s dangerous.”

“He must not be chained,” she replied. “He protects my son.”

She realized Ned was still beside her, simply staring at the direwolf in amazement from his horse. He had never seen a wolf this size, having lost both of the girls’ animals when they were still pups. Shaggydog didn’t surprise her as much, as he was roughly the size Grey Wind had been. And she had far more reason to love these wolves than fear them. Carefully, she began to dismount from her horse.

“Cat,” said Ned warningly.

“It is all right, Ned,” she said. The big black wolf regarded her fearfully as she stood very still by her horse. Yet, she thought she saw curiosity in those emerald eyes as well, and she held out her hand. The direwolf took a step toward her and her horse whinnied nervously.

“Catelyn,” Ned said again in a low voice rather like a wolf’s growl itself.

“Take the reins of my horse, my lord, and lead it away. It’s frightened of Shaggydog,” she said quietly.

“You should be frightened, my lady. That is a direwolf, not a dog, regardless of its name.” She knew it was only his concern for her which put the sharp reproach in his voice.

“Please, my lord. Trust me in this. I knew Grey Wind well. Shaggydog may be wilder, but he is still my son’s.”

She had not taken her eyes from the direwolf’s, but she felt the horse move from behind her and knew Ned had done as she asked.

“My lord,” she heard Brienne’s voice protest, but she had no attention to spare for them. She took a tiny step toward Shaggydog with her hand extended. The wolf hesitated only a second before walking slowly to her. He sniffed her proffered hand and then sat beside her, turning to look belligerently at the rest of the company.

As she scratched between his ears, she heard a child’s voice ask in a tone of angry disbelief, “Who are you?”

Turning toward the voice, Catelyn saw two people emerging from the wood where the direwolf had appeared. The woman was very tall and lean with brown hair pulled away from her face in a haphazard manner. She wore a rough cloak which covered her completely save for her head, and clinging tightly to her hand, was a boy.

Catelyn’s heart skipped a beat, and she put her hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. He was several inches taller, and had lost the soft roundness of babyhood. His hair was too long, with ends that looked chopped off and in sore need of a comb. It was darker than hers, but the red was there. The eyes which stared back at her in angry puzzlement were not quite as blue as she remembered. Their hue had shifted slightly toward his father’s grey, giving them them more the color of a lake covered with a thin layer of ice rather than a summer sky.

“Who are you?” he demanded again. “Shaggy is mine. He doesn’t listen to anyone else.”

The wolf tossed its head and gave a short howl but did not move from beneath Catelyn’s hand. The boy frowned and called him, “Shaggy, to me!”

Now the large, black animal gave Catelyn’s fingers a brief lick, and he trotted to sit beside Rickon as meekly as a puppy.

 _Rickon. My babe._ Catelyn still found it hard to breathe but she had to answer him. “Perhaps Shaggydog remembers me. I am your mother, Rickon, “ she said softly. She heard a soft cry behind her, and realized Sansa must have dismounted from her own horse and come up to join them.

Rickon just stared at her, and then looked up at the wildling woman holding his hand. She nodded at him, and Rickon turned back to face Catelyn. “My mother went away,” he said. “She never came back.”

At that, Catelyn could not quite supress the sob that escaped her lips, and she fell to her knees. “I know, sweetling. I am so sorry,” she told him as tears ran down her cheeks. “I wanted to come back. Oh gods, how I wanted to come back to you!”

He narrowed his eyes at her, but his lip trembled just a bit as he said, “Nobody comes back. Everybody leaves, and nobody comes back.”

“We have come back now, son,” said a deep quiet voice as Ned walked up and put his hands on her shoulders. “We are very late in coming, and you have grown to be a big strong boy, but we have come back to you.”

Rickon stared at Ned without recognition, and that broke Catelyn’s heart as badly as his failure to know her. “That’ll be your father, Rickon.” The woman holding his hand spoke for the first time. “Lord Eddard Stark, who isn’t as dead as everyone thought. I told you they were coming, remember?”

“I didn’t believe you,” Rickon said fiercely. He looked back at Ned and Catelyn. “I don’t believe you!” he shouted. He jerked his hand out of Osha’s and bounded into the woods, Shaggydog at his heels.

Ned took a step after them, but the woman spoke. “I wouldn’t do that, milord. He’ll only run further if you chase him. The wolf won’t let him come to no harm, and he’ll come back to camp when he’s hungry.”

Ned looked stricken, but he nodded. “You are the woman who has cared for Rickon?”

She nodded. “I’m Osha. Pleased to meet you, milord, milady.”

She was polite enough, but Catelyn noticed she did not kneel. _Kneelers._ Ned had told her that’s how the wildings referred to the people of the Seven Kingdoms. They called themselves freefolk and kneeled to no one.

“We are very pleased to meet you as well, Osha,” Ned replied to the woman. “And forever in your debt for what you have done for our son.” He extended his hand to help Catelyn rise from the ground.

As he pulled her up to him, she whispered in a broken voice, “Our babe does not even remember us.”

Osha heard her. “He isn’t a babe anymore. A lot has happened since the two of you left him. He used to ask about you, but he mostly quit doing that once we left Bran because I didn’t know enough of you to answer his questions.”

Catelyn felt like she’d been struck. “But he remembers Bran?” she asked, desperate that her child have some connection left to his family.

Osha nodded. “We talk about him a lot. Him and Summer. Your boy’s half a wolf, you know.” She looked hard at Catelyn and Ned then, and Catelyn felt sure she was trying to see something in their reactions to her words. “He doesn’t trust people, but he and his wolf have a bond.” Again she looked hard at them.

Catelyn nodded then. “Robb had that with Grey Wind,” she said. “The wolf sensed his moods and knew when he was in danger.” Thinking about her children in danger, she added, “Does Bran still have his wolf?”

Osha was looking thoughtfully at her now. “He did when we left him.”

In spite of her turmoil over Rickon’s rejection, Catelyn took comfort in the thought that Bran had his wolf with him, wherever he was.

No one said anything for a moment, and then Robett Glover cleared his throat and said, “The camp’s right around the next bend on this trail. Let’s get you all there.”

As Catelyn turned to find her horse, she saw Sansa standing behind her, silent tears running down the girl’s face.”

“Oh, sweetling,” she cried, reaching out and pulling her into her arms. “Your brother will remember us. He only needs time, Sansa. He’s so young.”

Sansa nodded and cried against her mother’s chest. Ned came and stood protectively over both of them as everyone else prepared to travel the last little bit to camp. Catelyn ignored everyone but her husband and daughter and continued murmuring comforting and reassuring things into her daughter’s hair, praying as she did so, that she spoke the truth.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Glover’s camp consisted of sixty or so men housed in tents of various sizes. Ned was surprised he risked even a small encampment less than a day’s ride from White Harbor, but Robett had laughed at his concern. “Inside the walls of the city, the Boltons and Lannisters can control the seats of power, my lord. Out here in the countryside, there is no love for them anywhere among the small folk or the lesser gentry. And Bolton’s certainly not strong enough to control every farmer and miller in the north, so he concentrates on the lords. While he’s got all those lords shut up at Winterfell with him, these folk are mostly left to their own devices.” He gave Ned a hard look. “You know where we are, my lord. Going north up the White Knife, most everyone you meet belongs to Hornwood or Winterfell, and all of those folk have good reason to hate the Bastard of Bolton. They’ll not betray us to him. We give them some small reason to hope.” He smiled grimly at Ned then. “And once they see that you are indeed a fact and not just a rumor, my lord, they’ll have greater reason to hope. They’ll fight for you, Lord Stark. With pitchforks and rocks, if need be, but they’ll fight for you.”

Ned remembered Beric Dondarrion’s words about lions and wolves slaughtering the small folk in equal measure and wondered if Glover’s faith in their loyalty was completely warranted. Still, this was the north, not the Riverlands. These were his small folk. And in the long, cruel winters of the north, it was the might of Winterfell that kept all the people as protected and fed as well as possible. Perhaps, they did have reason to support him. He hoped so.

They had been in the camp for several hours and the sun was nearly down. Rickon had not returned. Catelyn was beside herself, pacing back and forth in the tent they’d been given, and then walking the perimeter of the camp repeatedly, with Brienne trailing her like an overlarge shadow. Sansa sat in the tent she shared with Brienne diligently working on a present for her brother. She was stitching the Stark direwolf in black thread instead of grey on a white cloak she had brought from the Vale. “It’ll look like Shaggydog, see?” she had said hopefully. Her mother had told her about Brynden Tully’s black fish, and the girl had immediately decided that Rickon needed a black wolf. “He’s always been such a fierce little boy, and he loved that Shaggy was black and not the same color as the others.” Ned smiled at the memory. Rickon might not remember them, but his sister certainly recalled him well enough.

He walked a little way past the perimeter of the camp and sat down on a tree stump to think. He couldn’t take Winterfell with three score men. His larger force would be a long time coming. What was he to do in the mean time? Where could he take Catelyn, Sansa, and Rickon? The wildling woman had told him she believed Bran and the Reed children had headed north toward the Wall, but Jon had made no mention of them in his letter. How was he to begin searching for his other son?

Gradually, Ned realized he was being watched. He sat very still for a moment, and then spoke conversationally. “It is discourteous to spy on people, son.”

There came no response, but a slight rustle of movement in the trees to his left confirmed his suspicions. “There is food at camp if you are hungry. Perhaps your mother will eat as well if you return. She will not eat now for she worries about you.” He paused. “It is hard for you to remember us, I know. You were little more than a baby when we had to go away, and now you are almost a man grown.” He pressed his lips together and paused again, lest his amusement at that exaggeration be heard in his voice. He didn’t wish to mock his son, only to make him feel strong, as he had tried to do with Robb, Jon, and Bran before him.

After a few more moments of silence, he continued, “I remember you, though. You were always brave, even when you were scared. You were a little scared of Shaggydog when you first met him, but you got over that soon enough. You loved throwing things. You hated leeks. You wouldn’t let your mother hold you unless you were hurt or when she took you to your bed at night. On cold nights, you came to her room more often than not because it is so warm there.”

“I remember my mother has red hair.” The boy’s voice came from behind a tree, hesitant, but clear.

Ned made no move to approach him. “Yes, she does,” he agreed, not even looking in Rickon’s direction. “It’s quite beautiful.”

“What’s wrong with her face? I don’t remember her face like that.”

Ned was very glad Catelyn wasn’t there to hear him say that, and even gladder to know that Rickon obviously had at least some memory of his mother after all. “She was hurt, Rickon,” he said softly, speaking his son’s name to him for the first time. It made his heart twist in his chest to say it. “Your lady mother was held prisoner by some very bad men, and they hurt her. She’s all right now, save the marks. They don’t pain her, son, and if you look past them, you will see her face is the same.”

“I don’t really remember her face,” the boy said. “Or yours.” He stepped out from behind the tree then and stared at Ned from several yards away. The black direwolf stood beside him, far larger than the child, and looking like a beast from someone’s nightmares. “Are you really my father?”

“I really am.”

Rickon scowled at him and Ned’s heart lurched again as he saw the clear echo of his brother Brandon’s expression on his little son’s Tully face. “You shouldn’t have gone away,” he said angrily.

“You’re right, Rickon. I shouldn’t have gone away.” Ned met his son’s eyes and offered no defense or excuse. “You have every right to be angry with me. I hope you will be kinder to your lady mother, however. It is never courteous to be rude to a lady regardless of how angry you are.”

The boy said nothing, but the wolf growled softly at Ned’s words. Ned’s eyes opened in surprise. Perhaps Catelyn was not entirely wrong about their children’s wolves mirroring their moods. It seemed fantastical, but Rickon’s wolf was clearly more irritated with Ned since he had given the boy that gentle chastisement.

Ned stood up then, looking at his son and the direwolf. “I am returning to camp now. Osha will have food for you if you choose to return as well. Heed what I say about your lady mother, son. She is my wife as well as your mother, and should you mistreat her, you will answer to me.”

The wolf snapped once, but did not leave Rickon’s side. Ned heard the wolf’s low pitched growl follow him all the way back to camp and wondered if perhaps he should discuss with his wife in more detail the bond she had observed between Robb and his wolf.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Rickon had returned to camp as the sun went down, demanding to be fed, just as Osha had said he would. He spoke rudely to Glover’s men and seemed amused by their fear of Shaggydog, but he also seemed frightened himself, and had stuck close to Osha since his return. Catelyn watched the two of them together, and her heart ached every time the woman smiled at him or touched his hair. _He is my son,_ her heart cried.

He didn’t speak to her at all, although she caught him staring at her frequently. Shaggydog, on the other hand, had come straight to her, and now lay at her feet as she sat by the fire.

“The wolf seems quite taken with you, my love,” Ned said as he came up beside her. Shaggydog looked up and growled briefly at the sound of Ned’s voice, but lay back down with his head on Catelyn’s feet.

“The wolf, yes,” she sighed. “But not our son.” She looked across the fire to where Osha and Rickon sat close together. “I am grateful to her, Ned. I truly am. But I cannot stand that he wants her instead of me.”

He sat beside her, carefully avoiding stepping on the wolf, and took her hand. “That is only natural, Cat. Do not berate yourself for it. And I told you of my conversation with him in the forest. He remembers your hair.”

“My hair!” she exclaimed in exasperation. “I cannot touch him, Ned.” Her voice was filled with longing. “He is right in front of me, and I cannot touch him.”

“You will, my love.”

As Ned wiped the tears that came to her eyes, Shaggydog suddenly whimpered mournfully. She looked down to see the wolf’s green eyes staring right at hers. He lay his head in her lap and nuzzled her hand. She laughed in spite of herself. “At least you want me, Shaggy,” she said, stroking his fur with her long fingers.

“Look,” Ned said, indicating Rickon and Osha. Their son appeared to be sound asleep with his head in Osha’s lap. “It looks like this day has quite worn him out. I shall see if I can carry him to their tent.”

 _To their tent. Osha’s and Rickon’s tent. Not ours._ Catelyn continued to pet the direwolf as she watched her husband pick up their child in his strong arms and carry him away from her instead of to her. It took every ounce of strength she had not to break down and cry.

Suddenly Shaggydog stood up and shook himself. A moment later, Catelyn heard a rather plaintive wail. “I don’t want to go to bed!” came loudly from one of the tents. “I want Shaggy!”

“You’re wanted, wolf,” she sighed. The wolf still stood beside her. “Come on then,” she said. She stood and walked to the tent her son shared with the wildling woman, and the wolf followed behind her.

She paused at the doorway. Ned stood just inside watching as Rickon sat on a cot glaring at Osha. “I want Shaggy, and I want a song,” he demanded.

“I’ve brought you Shaggy,” she called softly, stepping into the tent so that the wolf would follow.

Rickon looked at her. Then he called to the wolf who bounded to his side, laying his head in the boy’s lap as he had done with Catelyn earlier. Rickon hugged him and allowed the huge animal to lick his face. Then without another look at Ned or Catelyn, he pulled at Osha’s hand, causing her to sit beside him, and Catelyn’s heart plummeted once more.

“Now a song, Osha. Please,” he said.

The wildling woman sighed. “You and your songs,” she said, but she ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately, and Catelyn tried desperately not to hate her for it. She began singing in a surprisingly sweet voice given her rough appearance.

Rickon interrupted immediately, though. “Not that one! I want my song. I want the song about the moon and the ribbons!”

Catelyn froze. Her heart beat wildly, and she felt she couldn’t breathe again.

Osha sighed deeply. “Why must we always do this, little wolf? I have told you over and over I don’t know any song about the moon and ribbons. And I’ve sung you just about every lullaby ever heard in the north.”

“It isn’t from the north,” Catelyn heard herself whisper.

Rickon and Osha both looked up at her. Catelyn took one step closer to them, swallowed once, and began to sing.

“Close your eyes, the moon is high . . .”

Before she got any further, Rickon cried out in delight. “That’s it! That’s it!” He bounced up and down on his cot shaking poor Shaggydog frightfully. “Sing it all!” he demanded. Then he glanced at Ned and added, “Please.”

Catelyn smiled at him. “Of course, Rickon. It was always your favorite. And you never let me sing it just once.” She cleared tried to clear the lump in her throat and began to sing again.

“Close your eyes, the moon is high.

She sings her magic lullaby,

Making all the rivers bright,

Silver ribbons in the night.

The ribbons wrap around our keep,

And guard my sweetling as you sleep.

When sunrise bids the moon depart

I’ll still be here to hold your heart.”

Tears flowed silently down her face as she watched the expression of pure joy on her little boy’s sleepy face. She held onto that expression even as she watched him lay his head down on his pillow and pull Osha closer to snuggle him. Just as she reached for Ned’s hand to walk from the tent, Rickon’s ice-blue eyes opened once more.

“Again, please,” he murmured, just as he had almost every night in Winterfell since he had learned to say the words.

Catelyn continued to hold tightly to her husband’s hand as she sang once more the lullaby she had brought north with her from Riverrun--the song her mother had once sung to her, and she had used to comfort Lysa and Edmure after her mother’s death--the song that Ned knew as well as she, as he had listened to her sing it countless times to all five of their babes--the cradle song that Rickon had never tired of, even after he had left his cradle.

As she held onto her husband and watched her youngest son fall asleep while held tightly by another woman, Catelyn Stark sang and hoped.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

She was shaking as he led her from the tent, and Ned put one hand on his wife’s waist to support her while he held her hand in his other as they walked. In truth, he felt shaky himself. That song. How had he forgotten that? Countless nights in Winterfell now flooded his mind. Little Robb’s habit of grabbing at his mother’s braid and holding it tightly in his fist while she held him and sang; the inexpressibly sweet smiles that softened Sansa’s little pink mouth while her blue eyes closed almost as soon as Catelyn began the first verse; Arya’s inevitable fretful cries that were louder than her mother’s song, causing Catelyn to walk the floor and pat her softly until the little dark head finally fell limply onto her mother’s shoulder, allowing her to set her gently into the cradle, while still singing softly; Bran’s big blue eyes that always gazed directly into his mother’s when she sang, never closing until she had finished the last word. Rickon--their fierce little bundle of toddler ferocity and sweet baby smiles--demanding Catelyn’s presence every night and never tiring of the Riverrun lullaby. Gods! What had happened to their life? To their babes? For the millionth time, he silently cursed the day he had ridden south along the Kingsroad with Robert and vowed to preserve whatever joy his family had left to them.

Sansa’s voice pulled him from his melancholy thoughts. “Father! Mother!” she called, and he looked up to see her approach them. She took one look at her mother, and Ned saw her blue eyes fill with concern. His little girl had become quite a perceptive young woman. “Mother, what is wrong? Is Rickon all right?”

Catelyn took her hand and spoke for the first time since she had finished Rickon’s song. “He is fine, sweetling. He had me sing him to sleep.” She smiled and Ned’s heart leapt at her expression. “He remembers, Sansa. Only the song, but it is something.”

“The song?” Sansa thought a moment. “Silver Ribbons, you mean?” She smiled widely at her mother’s nod. “Oh, I can sing him that, too! I used to sing it to my dolls. Remember, Mother?”

“I remember,” Catelyn said softly, and Ned wondered if her mind was as full of times past in Winterfell as his was.

“Did you have something to tell us, Sansa?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Lord Seaworth is back. Lord Reed thought you’d want to know right away.”

“I do,” Ned assured her. Turning to Catelyn, he said, “I’ve got to go speak to the man. Why don’t you go with Sansa?”

Catelyn shook her head. “I need to thank him, too, Ned.”

He nodded and gave her his arm to walk in the direction Sansa had indicated. As they walked away from their daughter, Ned saw Brienne step out of the shadows and stand beside her. He smiled inwardly. He rather suspected Cat had given the woman specific instructions to guard Sansa, and if he had learned anything about the Maid of Tarth, it was that she carried out instructions with great diligence.

They approached a trio of men consisting of Howland Reed, Robett Glover, and a slight, dark haired and bearded man that Ned remembered only slightly, having met him briefly after lifting the siege at Storm’s End during Robert’s Rebellion.

“Lord Seaworth,” he greeted him. “It is my very great pleasure to see you again and to thank you for the safe return of my son.” He presented Catelyn. “My lady wife, Catelyn. My lady, this is Lord Davos Seaworth, a hero of Robert’s Rebellion.”

“A hero to me,” Catelyn said warmly, reaching forward to take the man’s hands. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am Lord Seaworth. You have given me back my son.”

The man seemed taken aback somewhat by the welcome and gratitude, and he quickly let go of Catelyn’s hands. “My lord,” he said. “My lady, I am pleased to have been of service. I know his grace, King Stannis, will also rejoice in the return of your son.”

Ned’s mouth tightened slightly. “And did you find any tidings of Lord Stannis when you rode north of here, Lord Seaworth?”

Upon arrival to the camp, Glover had been informed by his men that Seaworth had ridden in the direction of Winterfell with several men, hoping to discover how things stood there, and if Stannis Baratheon’s force had yet attacked it.

“No, my lord,” the man replied. “We were turned back by unrelenting snows. The snowfall has only recently stopped here, and it was far worse as we went north.” If Seaworth had noticed that Ned did not style Stannis as king, he was courteous enough not to point it out.

Ned nodded. “More heavy snowfalls will come. In time, snow will lie upon the ground in some places as high as a man’s head. Travel in the north is not an easy thing in winter, my lord. And battle more difficult still.”

“Is it winter?” Seaworth inquired. “I had thought only autumn had been announced."

Ned laughed. “Oh, it is only late autumn, to be sure. But winter is coming. And for southron lords such as Lord Stannis and yourself, our autumn may be more winter than you care to deal with.”

“Lord Manderly has promised the might of White Harbor to King Stannis’s cause in return for the safe retrieval of your son, my lord,” Seaworth said. “I must get to his grace and to Lord Manderly and let them know the child is safe.”

Ned raised his brows. “Safe? An interesting choice of words. The child is without a home, sleeping in a tent as winter descends, threatened by hostile forces.” He raised his hand as Seaworth started to protest. “Be that as it may, you have indeed fulfilled your duty, Lord Seaworth. And you have my gratitude.”

“And your fealty, my lord? Does King Stannis have your fealty? I have ever known you to be a man of honor, Lord Stark, and you know Stannis Baratheon is the rightful king.”

Ned sighed heavily. A man of honor. Once, he thought he knew precisely what that meant. Now he was not so sure. “Stannis is Robert’s only legitimate heir,” he said to Davos Seaworth. “I will not argue that point. However, you should not be so quick to assume that means I must support him. Was not Aerys Targaryen the legitimate king when I went to war against him?”

“That . . .he . . .he was mad, my lord,” Seaworth sputtered.

“Indeed,” Ned agreed. “But he was still the king. I rebelled against him for my family, for my people, and because the realm did not need a madman on the throne.” He paused and looked carefully at the man called the onion knight. “It still does not.”

Now, Seaworth became angry. “Surely, you do not insinuate that King Stannis is a madman, my lord?”

Ned sighed again. “I would never have thought so,” he said wearily. “But I have heard strange tales, Lord Seaworth. I am bothered by the power this red woman of his seems to wield over him. Stannis Baratheon has ever been ruled by rational thought and an unwavering sense of justice that has at least been as fair as it is harsh.” He looked at Seaworth’s gloved hands, the ends of the gloves on his left hand empty. “If he is now ruled by this priestess, it is her madness I fear.”

Davos Seaworth hesitated, and the expression that passed across his eyes caused Ned to suspect this man had his own doubts about the red woman. Before the man could respond, Ned continued, “I would speak with Lord Stannis myself. I, too, need to reach Lord Manderly and my other bannermen. Stay with us, Lord Seaworth, for while I cannot promise all you ask of me now, I will not ask you to disavow your king, either. And for the moment, at least, we have common cause.”

Davos Seaworth seemed to consider these words, and then he nodded. He seemed about to say something when he suddenly looked beyond Ned and sputtered, “Gods be good! It’s loose!”

Ned turned and saw Shaggydog sitting quietly, not five feet away, looking at Catelyn. He’d approached so silently, they had not noticed him.

Catelyn had been listening intently to the conversation between himself and Seaworth. Now, she held her hand out to the wolf. “Shaggydog, to me.” The wolf bounded to her, landing against her skirts with enough force that Ned was afraid she’d fall, but she only laughed and buried her hands in the thick fur of the animal’s neck.

Ned looked at Seaworth to see that his eyes were wide and he had drawn his blade. “How . . .how did you do that, my lady?” he sputtered now. “We had to keep that beast confined on the voyage, and it was not easy! It savaged the arms of the three of my crew. It’s vicious!”

“Well,” Catelyn said lightly, as the direwolf proceeded to lick her hands, “he seems to like me.” She smiled at Lord Seaworth. “I won’t let him attack you, my lord, but perhaps you men may converse more comfortably if Shaggy and I move on. And I confess I am tired.” Ned very carefully did not smile at his wife’s words, but he did not doubt she could see the amusement in his eyes.

She looked at each of the men in turn, with her eyes moving to Ned’s last and lingering there longest. “Good night, my lords.” They bowed to her, and she turned to leave, Rickon’s great black wolf following at her heels. Ned wondered absurdly if it was hoping for another song.

Once she had gone, he turned back to the other men. “Why don’t we find a warm place to sit, my lords, and discuss just what we do know of how things stand to our north?”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Lady Stark.”

The sound of her name stopped Catelyn as she walked toward her tent, and she turned to see the wildling woman standing there. “Osha,” she said, alarmed. “Is it Rickon? Is he all right?”

“Oh, the little wolf pup’s asleep,” the woman said. She gave Shaggydog a long look. “I don’t imagine I could wake him right now if I tried,” she said with an odd half-smile. “Aren’t you hungry, little beast?” she addressed the last to Shaggydog, and laughed out loud when he growled at her.

Catelyn was alarmed, though. “Shaggy, no!” she said. She looked up at Osha. “Lord Seaworth said he attacked men on the voyage here. I never imagined he’d threaten you. Is he dangerous to the men here?”

“He’s never threatened me, Lady Stark. He’s just aggravated with me.” She smiled at the wolf. “And, of course, he’s dangerous. He’s a direwolf, not a lapdog. But he’s no threat to the men here unless they try to chain him up again or threaten Rickon.” She continued to look thoughtfully at the animal. “Or perhaps if they threaten you,” she added.

Catelyn sighed. “Robb told me Shaggydog was always more difficult to manage than Bran’s wolf or Grey Wind. He attributed it to Rickon’s being too young to train him properly . . .”

“But you think it might be something else,” Osha said quietly.

“Oh,” Catelyn said, startled that the woman seemed to know her thoughts. “Well, no doubt he is young still . . .”

“Oh, he’s young all right,” Osha laughed. “Younger than he thinks, and too fierce for his own good.”

Shaggydog actually snapped at her then, but the wildling woman merely laughed harder. “Down with you, pup!” she said, swatting at the huge beast’s nose as if her were just a disobedient puppy.

“Pup?” Catelyn raised her eyebrows. “Surely, the animal is fully grown by now.”

“The wolf? Oh, he is.” Osha gave her that odd half-smile again. “You surprise me, Lady Stark. You aren’t what I expected, but then I’ve never known a southron lady before."

“Well, I’ve never actually made the acquaintance of a wildling lady, so I suppose we are even,” Catelyn said.

“Ah, but you’re wed to a Stark, my lady. And he’s more like us than he thinks. There’s more blood of the First Men in him and me than of that warm Andal blood that flows in your veins.” She paused then. “That’s why you are a surprise. You weren’t afraid of the wolf, and what you said about your other boy’s wolf. I’d like to hear what you knew of him . . .and why you think Shaggy is wilder than his brothers.”

The woman was staring at her as if she already knew the answer. “Rickon is wilder than his brothers,” she whispered. “Younger, yes, but it is more than that. He’s naturally more . . .restless, I suppose, more impulsive than his brothers were even at his age.”

Osha nodded. “And the wolf reflects the boy, is that what you mean?”

“Perhaps. I hadn’t really thought about it in detail. Grey Wind often seemed to mirror Robb’s moods, but sometimes he seemed to know things that Robb didn’t, and should have.” Catelyn shook her head. “That sounds ridiculous, I know, but . . .Bran’s wolf knew to come to his room that night. Did they tell you about that?”

The wildling woman nodded again. She looked at Catelyn’s hands, although her scars were hidden beneath her gloves. “They told me your part in it is well, milady. You fought for your boy.”

“It would have been for naught had that wolf pup not come. Bran and I would both be dead now.” She shook her head. “And I had ordered the wolf kept away from him.”

“After the attack?”

“No! After that, Robb and I both ordered that the wolf be kept in Bran’s room at all times.” Catelyn swallowed hard. “Would that Robb had done the same with his own wolf.”

“You believe your eyes, Lady Stark, even when what you see doesn’t make sense to you.” The wilding woman looked closely at her, and then at the men milling around them in the camp. “Would you walk with me,milady?”

Catelyn nodded. As Osha began to lead her to the edge of the camp, Brienne appeared beside them. “Where are you going, my lady?” she asked. “It has grown very dark.”

“I am only walking with Osha, Brienne. Where is Sansa?”

“She sleeps, my lady. Shall I accompany you?” Brienne regarded both Osha and Shaggydog with obvious mistrust.

“No, Brienne. Stay with Sansa. I am unlikely to be accosted while walking with a direwolf,” she told her with a smile.

“And what of the wolf? What will prevent it from attacking you?”

Immediately, Shaggydog snarled once more, moving in front of Catelyn to keep Brienne from coming any closer.

“I think your lady is safe from anyone at the moment, including you,” Osha said with some amusement.

Catelyn bit her lip to keep from smiling at Brienne’s obvious distress. “It is all right, Brienne. I am perfectly safe, and I promise not to go far. Go back to Sansa.”

Brienne hesitated before replying, “As you wish, my lady.” With one last suspicious glance at the wolf, she turned back toward the tent she shared with Sansa.

Catelyn and Osha walked into the trees until the fires of the camp were mostly hidden from them. Then the wildling woman turned toward her. “What do you know of things beyond the Wall, Lady Stark?”

Catelyn shivered. “Nothing but Old Nan’s stories,” she replied.

Osha snorted. “Aye, I’ve heard my share of those from your Bran. The old woman got a lot of things wrong, but she still knew more than that maester of yours.”

“Luwin? Maester Luwin was a very wise and knowledgeable man,” Catelyn protested.

Osha snorted even louder. “That may be, milady. But he knew nothing of things beyond the Wall. Told your boy, Bran, that no giants still lived, and that the Others were gone if they’d ever existed. He was wrong on both counts. I’ve seen giants with my own eyes, and while I’ve not seen a White Walker myself, I’ve seen their work. I’ve seen the dead rise up and walk again with cold blue eyes.” Her voice was low and serious and it chilled Catelyn to the bone.

“Jon Snow’s letter,” she whispered.

“What’s that?” Osha asked.

“A letter,” Catelyn repeated. “From my husband’s . . .from the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He wrote my husband about such things.” Catelyn thought, trying to remember the exact words from the letter she had only wanted to forget about. “I have met giants and skinchangers, fought wights and the Others. That’s what he said.”

“Met skinchangers, he says,” Osha said with a rough laugh. “Everyone knows about Lord Snow’s own great white direwolf. He didn’t quite tell you all in his letter, Lady Stark.”

 _Skinchanger_. “No,” Catelyn said quietly. “You don’t mean . . .”

“Open your eyes, Lady Stark. Look at that wolf and tell me what you see.”

Catelyn stared at the direwolf whose green eyes looked back at her. “I see Shaggydog,” she said firmly. “I see my son’s wolf and protector. I see a wolf, Osha.” Her heart was beating faster, though, as that wolf seemed to look at her more intently than any animal should.

She remembered the terrible lies the Freys were spreading about the Red Wedding, and she shook her head. “No,” she said more loudly. “My son is not a . . .not a . . .”

“Warg?” Osha said softly. “How do you know that, Lady Stark?”

“Because he’s just a little boy,” Catelyn shouted at her. “He’s frightened, and he’s angry, but he’s not evil! Robb wasn’t evil! Don’t you ever say such a thing!” She turned away from the woman and started back toward the camp, and the black direwolf followed her.

“No!” she said, turning on the animal. “Go on, Shaggy! I don’t want you following me!” The wolf nosed against her and she pushed him away. “No, I said. Go away!”

The big black animal pulled back and snarled at her before trotting just a few feet away. The wolf stared at her then with those great green eyes before turning up his head and howling, making the saddest, loneliest sound Catelyn Stark had ever heard.

“Oh gods,” she said. “Oh gods, no.” She ran to the wolf then and threw her arms around its neck. “I’m sorry,” she said, as the animal licked at her face. “I’m sorry.”

Several men came running up to them then, with Brienne leading them. “My lady,” she shouted. “Are you all right?”

Shaggydog bristled, and Catelyn quickly stood up. “Of course, I am fine. Would you all please back away before you frighten the wolf?” Her words were harsher than she intended, and she tried to soften her next ones. “Were you brought by his howl? Wolves howl, that is all. It is a fearsome sound, I admit, but it meant nothing. See? We are fine.”

“I thought I heard shouting,” Brienne said, hesitantly.

“Not from us,” Catelyn lied. She suspected Brienne knew she lied, but the young woman simply nodded, and she and the men went away after Catelyn promised that she and Osha would return right after.

“How is this possible?” she asked when they had gone. “My children are not evil. I know they are not.”

“Who said anything about evil?” Osha asked her. “Your children are wargs, my lady. At least Bran and Rickon are, and Lord Stark’s bastard. Probably your Robb was, too, though he may not have known it. It doesn’t make them evil. I told you Old Nan got a lot wrong. People think evil of wargs because they can’t understand it. Even beyond the Wall, where we accept such things exist, a lot of freefolk think warging’s an evil thing. It’s not, though. It’s a talent--like singing or being good with a sword. You can use it for evil or good, I suppose.”

Catelyn looked at the direwolf again. “Does he understand all this? Will he remember?” She felt the tears begin to spill from her eyes. “Gods be good, he still begs for cradle songs! How can he . . .”

“It’s like a dream to him, I think, milady,” the woman said softly. “He knows that he can feel what Shaggydog feels and see what he sees sometimes, but when he runs with the wolf in his sleep, well, he remembers it like folks remember dreams. He’s young, yet, and he can’t understand it all. Usually, he just goes along with the wolf at night, running and hunting. He must want you badly to keep the poor, hungry thing here in camp.”

“What do you mean?” Catelyn asked.

“He’s angry at you, Lady Stark. He has been for a long time. And he’s scared you’ll leave again. But he’s curious about you, too, and he wants his mother. He may not admit that for a long time. But at night, he’s got something most little boys don’t have--a way to follow you in his dreams.”

“But he remains Rickon, always. Doesn’t he?” she asked softly.

“Aye, he does.” Osha looked at her thoughtfully as if wondering how much to say. “I won’t lie to you. There’s some wargs that become more animal than human, but your boy--he’s too full of himself to disappear into that wolf. That’s one worry I don’t have about him.”

They walked back to the camp then. Ned had still not returned to their tent. Shaggydog followed her to the doorway, but chose to lie down just outside rather than follow her in. She hoped he wouldn’t growl at Ned when he did return. She had stopped by Osha’s tent first to run her fingers through the tangled hair of her sleeping son and kiss his sweet face. The woman had been right. He slept deeply and did not wake. He looked so peaceful. The idea that he was somehow also in the animal that seemed to stand guard over her was unbelievable. Yet, she found she did believe it. Everything that had ever happened with her children and those wolf pups led her to believe it. Oddly, she found she was almost as comforted by it as she was frightened. The world had become full of frightening things over the past two years, and anything that gave her children another way to combat those things was not evil. It couldn’t be.

She was exhausted. Gods knew when Ned and those men would stop talking. She rather hoped to fall asleep before he returned because she couldn’t imagine how she could tell him any of this. She had to, of course, but he would not believe it easily, and she would rather not face it tonight. Only as she she climbed into her cot with the word _warg_ running through her mind, did she clearly recall Osha’s statement about Rickon not becoming too much a wolf. _That’s one worry I don’t have about him._ Did she mean she had other worries about Rickon, or that she had that particular worry about someone else? _Bran_ , whispered a voice in her head. Was the woman worried about Bran? Catelyn’s exhausted and overwhelmed mind couldn’t think anymore. She would ask the woman tomorrow. She would talk to Ned tomorrow. She wasn’t sure which of those two prospects worried her more. _Warg,_ she thought again. _Gods help us._

 


	32. To Keep Safe

Ned Stark almost shouted in alarm when he heard the low pitched growl from beside the entrance to his tent, but he didn’t want to wake his wife. He stood staring into the green eyes of his son’s beast and slowly shook his head. “So you didn’t go back to Rickon,” he said to the direwolf, almost conversationally. “Well, I won’t chase you off, but this is my tent, and I intend to go in.”

The animal growled low in its throat once more as Ned stepped past it and lifted the flap to enter, but it didn’t move. Once inside, Ned sat and began to remove his boots, grimacing as he pulled the one off his bad leg.

“You didn’t wrap it with the linament today, did you?” came his wife’s soft voice from their cot.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he replied. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. I haven’t been asleep.”

“Well, you’ve been well guarded,” Ned said dryly.

“I heard Shaggy when you approached,” she said with a hint of laughter in her voice. “You actually received a far warmer welcome than others who’ve chanced to walk too near to our tent.” She paused. “He truly does think he’s guarding me, Ned,” she said softly.

There was an odd, almost sad note in her voice, but before he could ask her about it, she sat up on the cot. At the movement, she gave a soft cry, and her hand went to her back.

“Catelyn?” he asked in some alarm. “Are you unwell, my lady?”

She shook her head, but having moved closer to her, he could see her face was set in a grimace of pain and her eyes were closed.

“Cat?” he asked again as he sat beside her.

She opened her eyes and relaxed her facial features. “I am fine, Ned. I only forgot how cold it is.”

“My lady?” he said, puzzled.

She gave a half-hearted laugh. “My back, my love. The quarrel wound does poorly with cold, and I normally remember not to move so quickly after I’ve been lying still. It’s easing now.”

He ran his own hand along her back, gently moving hers away. He could feel the indentation of her scar through the fabric of her nightshift, and he felt knots in all the muscles around it. “Lie down, my love. Let me see if I can help.”

She lay back down, rolling onto her stomach, and he began to gently massage her back. She made a small whimper, and he stopped. “Does that hurt?”

“Yes,” she replied. “But don’t stop. It helps more than it pains me.”

As he resumed his ministrations, he said, “That wolf of Rickon’s certainly seems to have taken a liking to you. I swear the beast has become as protective of you as it is of him.”

She didn’t reply, and he looked toward her face to find her biting her lower lip. “Catelyn, what is on your mind?” he said.

“Rickon and Shaggydog, my lord,” she said hesitantly. “They share a very close bond, you know.”

He sensed she was choosing her words carefully. She wanted to tell him something and was not quite certain how to go about it. Seeking to reassure her, he leaned down to kiss her and inadvertently increased the pressure of his hand on her back. She cried out sharply.

Before he could move, he was struck painfully by something very large and knocked to the ground. He became aware of a continuous low-pitched snarl and found himself lying on his back with great black paws on his chest and bared fangs scant inches from his face.

“Shaggy, no!” came Catelyn’s cry.

Ned fumbled for his dagger, and Catelyn cried out again. “Ned, don’t! He’s only frightened. He thought you were hurting me!”

His heart was pounding. The beast’s green eyes did not leave his own, but it hadn’t moved to rip out his throat yet. He willed himself to be still.

“Shaggydog, everything is all right.” Catelyn spoke as she might to a small child, calmly and comfortingly. “I am unhurt. Your . . .Ned would never hurt me. He would never hurt you.” She had risen from the cot and was moving slowly toward Ned and the direwolf which still had him pinned on the floor. “Let him up now, sweetling. It’s all right, my sweet boy.”

 _Sweetling? Sweet boy?_ Ned wondered briefly if his wife had taken leave of her senses, using terms of endearment for the beast which still stood atop him.

She knelt beside them now and reached out to touch the animal. “Catelyn,” he warned. “Be careful.” His hand went again toward his dagger.

“I am being careful,” she hissed at him. “And don’t you dare draw your blade, Eddard Stark.”

She was running her hands through the thick fur at the wolf’s neck now, and it finally turned to look toward her. It stepped off Ned’s chest and went to sit beside her, but as Ned sat up, it looked back toward him and snarled once.

“Now stop that at once,” Catelyn said rather sharply, and Ned expected the wolf to turn and snap at her. It didn’t. It merely laid its head against her. “You must not behave like that. He loves you just as he loves me, and he will never, ever hurt either of us. Do you understand?”

Ned didn’t understand. Why was his wife speaking to this animal as if it could comprehend the Common Tongue? The bloody wolf was gazing at her with those great green eyes looking almost contrite. Of course, a direwolf could hardly feel contrition.

“Come pet him, Ned,” she said then.

“What?” he asked, disbelieving.

“Come sit with me and pet this wolf,” she insisted.

Ned stared at the beast which rose to its feet as Ned scooted toward Catelyn. It towered over Ned in his seated position, and he suppressed yet another urge to reach for a blade, to have some defense ready. It didn’t growl this time, though, but merely stared at him as he moved himself to sit directly beside his wife.

She took his hand and placed it in the fur around the animal’s neck. It was thick and warm, and oddly soft in spite of being rather matted. The wolf submitted to being petted for a moment and then pulled its nose back to sniff at Ned’s hand and then lick at his fingers.

Catelyn smiled. “See, sweetling? You know him. You belong to us and you are safe with us. Now sleep, my little pup.” She looked at Ned. “We all should sleep.”

The direwolf looked at both of them, and then slowly trotted back toward the entrance. It did not exit the tent, however, but simply stretched out in front of the tent flap and lay down.

Ned shook his head in disbelief. “It’s almost as if it understands you,” he said softly.

Catelyn bit her lip again. “Help me up, Ned,” she said. “My back does still hurt.”

He lumbered to his feet, favoring the bad leg and then extended her a hand. “We are quite the pair of invalids, my lady. Perhaps we need a direwolf to watch over us,” he said grimly.

She made no reply, but simply slipped back beneath the furs on their cot and waited for him to join her. When he lay beside her and pulled her to him she nestled against him and buried her face in his chest.

“Do you intend to tell me why you speak to the wolf as if it were one of our children, my lady?” he asked her softly.

She made a little sound against his chest that was almost a sob, and he felt her tremble. “Cat?” He held her even more tightly. “What troubles you, my love?”

She sniffed. “I had thought to tell you on the morrow, but I know I cannot wait.” She hesitated. “I’m afraid, Ned,” she whispered against his chest.

“Of me?” he asked, startled.

“No! Never!” she replied, lifting her head to look at his face. “Only, I fear that you won’t understand. I fear you won’t believe what I tell you.”

He ran his large hand over her hair, from the side of her face down past her shoulder. “Catelyn, I have come to realize there are many things I do not understand. But you are the one person I will never disbelieve.”

She nodded. “It’s Rickon,” she whispered. “And Shaggydog.” She paused again. “Do you remember Jon’s letter?”

“Jon’s letter?” Now Ned was thoroughly confused. He could not recall a single instance in all their marriage of Catelyn’s spontaneously mentioning Jon save that conversation in the woods when she had told him of Robb’s wishes for his succession. And Jon’s letter had said nothing of Rickon.

“He said he’d met the creatures of Old Nan’s stories,” she elaborated.

“Ah, yes. I recall that,” he said. He still found that difficult to believe, but given everything else that had happened, it was becoming easier.

When he spoke no further, Catelyn pressed on. “He mentioned skinchangers.”

“And giants and wights and Others, yes. It appears you may have been more correct than you knew, my lady, when you once reminded me there were worse things than wildlings beyond the Wall.”

“Not all such things lie beyond the Wall,” she whispered.

He actually chuckled at that. “A direwolf is sleeping in our tent, my love. You needn’t tell me that . . .” He broke off suddenly as the meaning of his wife’s behavior and her words became clear to him. He felt cold suddenly, in spite of the furs piled above them and Catelyn’s warmth against him. “No,” he said. “You cannot believe that.”

She put her face back down against his chest. “I cannot believe otherwise,” she said softly. When he remained silent, she continued. “All that time I spent with Robb and Grey Wind, Ned . . .it was always there if I only knew what to see. And Bran with his Summer, even when he was unconscious . . .” She shook her head, her hair trailing across his skin. “And now here with Rickon . . .”

He had remained silent only because he had no words to express the horror of what she suggested. “Catelyn, how dare you even suggest such a thing?” he now whispered harshly. He pushed her off him and raised himself above her staring into the blue eyes which began to fill with tears. “They are our children! Our own sweet babes! Even if such foul creatures do exist, you cannot . . .”

“They are not foul creatures!” she exclaimed with a sob.

A soft wolfish whine came from the darkness near the tent entrance, and they both fell silent, turning to look at the direwolf. Ned could just make out the glow of the green eyes regarding them carefully.

Catelyn swallowed. “All is well, Shaggydog,” she said in a voice which trembled only slightly. “Go back to sleep, little pup.”

She turned back toward Ned then, and repeated more quietly, “They are not foul creatures. They are our own sweet babes, and there is nothing evil in them.”

“But still you believe that they can . . .that they are . . .”

“Wargs,” she whispered the word, and Ned shuddered to hear it.

“No,” he said firmly. “I will not accept that. There is some bond between Rickon and the wolf, yes. I am not blind, my lady, and I know that is no ordinary animal. But I cannot believe that my own son is a monster from some crib tale.”

“He’s not a monster,” Catelyn whispered desperately. “No more than Bran or Robb.” She hesitated. “Or Jon Snow.”

“Jon? What has Jon to do with this?”

“He has a wolf, too, my lord. And to hear Osha speak of it . . .”

“Osha,” he interrupted her. “Is that where this comes from? Did the wildling woman fill your head with this nonsense?” He knew he sounded angry, but he was angry.

“It isn’t nonsense,” she insisted. “Please, Ned. I know you don’t believe in signs or dreams or children’s tales. But you said you believed me when I told you about Renly Baratheon’s death, and I know you believe Howland Reed has some power or knowledge we don’t understand even if you refuse to acknowledge it. Ask him about this, if you must. Or ask Osha. Just, please, please, my love, do not dismiss what I say.”

He looked at her without speaking for a long moment. She was his wife, and he knew her well. She was not given to hysteria or flights of fancy. She loved him and their children without reservation. He realized that she was frightened not by the possibility that their son could be a warg, but by the possibility it would cause harm to come to him. And whatever she may say, she was frightened of Ned reacting badly.

“I never dismiss what you say, my lady,” he said finally. He lay down beside her then, and pulled her back against him. He was not surprised to find her trembling. He kissed her hair and wrapped his arms around her. “Rickon is my son, Cat,” he said softly. “Whatever else may be true or not, Rickon is our son. He is safe with us.”

He felt her relax slightly against him. “We are all safe with you,” she whispered.

They lay there together, and he felt her drift slowly into sleep. He thought the wolf slept as well. It at least remained still and silent. But Ned lay awake for a long time wondering about his son. About all his children. Mostly he prayed fervently that his wife’s confidence in him was not misplaced. _We are all safe with you,_ she had said. _Please gods, let her be right._

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

It hadn’t surprised Catelyn when she woke in the cold, grey early morning to find both Ned and the direwolf gone already. She offered a quick prayer to her own gods and Ned’s that he was all right after their conversation last night. Dressing and bundling herself against the cold as quickly as possible, she went out to find her children. _My_ _children._ Her heart took flight at the mere thought of them. And neither the constant ache left by those children still lost to her nor her fears about Rickon’s unfathomable bond with the direwolf could limit her joy in having two of her babes here with her.

She looked around the camp, and her heart nearly leapt out of her body when she saw them sitting by a fire together. Rickon wore a white cloak with a black direwolf beautifully stitched onto the back. Sansa must have finished it last night. Sansa herself sat very close to her little brother, and Catelyn had to suppress a pang of envy as she had only yet touched her boy when he was sleeping. She watched Sansa bend her head to allow her little brother to dig his fingers into her scalp, and she wondered what they were doing. Then she saw Rickon suddenly look at his sister with a surprised smile, and she understood. Sansa was showing him the red in her hair.

Smiling herself, Catelyn approached them, stopping briefly to scratch Shaggydog between the ears as he lay not far from them. “Good morning, children,” she said and almost cried just to hear her voice speak those words.

“Good morning, Mother,” Sansa replied with a smile. “Father said to tell you he was speaking with Lord Reed and Osha. I’m to look after Rickon.”

“I don’t need looking after,” Rickon protested.

“We know that, but what harm does it do to let them think I’m looking after you?” Sansa told the boy conspiratorially. Catelyn suppressed a smile, thinking that the moons her daughter had spent caring for little Robert Arryn had certainly made her wise in the ways of small boys.

Rickon shrugged. He still hadn’t said anything to Catelyn. “That’s a very fine cloak you’re wearing, Rickon,” she told him now.

“Sansa made it for me,” he replied enthusiastically. “Shaggy’s on the back. I’m the Black Wolf, she says. I’ve got an uncle who’s a Black Fish!” He stopped then and thought. “So, does that mean he’s your brother or something?”

Catelyn felt another little jump of her heart, for this was Rickon’s first acknowledgement that she actually was his mother. “He’s my uncle, actually. Your great-uncle. And he’s a very brave and fierce knight. You’d like him.”

He smiled at her. Her little boy smiled at her, and she almost couldn’t stop herself from reaching out and grabbing him up into her arms. “I like being a Black Wolf,” he said.

“I know you do,” she said softly. She knelt down right on the snowy ground then, putting herself more on his level. “I liked having you and Shaggydog come to see me last night.”

For a moment, Rickon looked confused, but then an almost fearful expression crossed his face. “Shaggy followed you to your tent,” he said. It was half a question.

“Yes, he did. He’s welcome there. You both are,” she told him, looking into those eyes that seemed to her to look more and more like Ned’s in spite of their blueness.

“I . . .I wasn’t there,” he said stubbornly. “I was asleep.”

“Rickon, I am your mother. And you can trust me with your secrets. You can trust your father, too. You belong to us, and you are safe with us.”

She watched as he wrinkled up his brow in concentration. _He remembers it like folks remember dreams,_ Osha had said. Catelyn knew her little son was trying to remember where he had heard her say those words before.

“Shaggydog likes you,” he finally said. “He likes your smell. He remembers it.”

“Well, I like him, too,” she replied. “And I remember him well, although he is a lot bigger now. You’ve gotten bigger, too.”

“That’s what he said. That I’m almost a man grown.”

The little boy said those words with such grave seriousness, it was all Catelyn could do not to laugh. She didn’t need to ask who “he” was. She had heard Ned make that same outrageous statement to all of their boys when they were quite small any time he wished them to be serious.

Sansa had been sitting very quietly, giving her mother a chance to speak with Rickon, but now she spoke up. “Well, if you’re almost a man grown, you should know better than to leave your lady mother kneeling in the snow. Give her your hand, Rickon, and help her to rise.”

As her son held out his little hand to her, Catelyn could have kissed Sansa for her clever mind and kind heart. Her long fingers closed around Rickon’s smaller ones, and she rose effortlessly, untroubled by any aches or pains, aware only of the feel of that hand in hers. He did not try to pull it away once she was standing either.

“Look,” she said, pointing with her free hand. “Your father and Osha are coming this way. Shall we go meet them?”

He looked up at her and nodded. “Come on, Shaggy,” he called. Then he started to walk toward Ned and Osha without letting go of her hand. Sansa smiled broadly at her and slipped her own hand into Catelyn’s free one.

Ned’s expression as he saw the three of them approaching hand in hand was priceless, and Catelyn couldn’t keep joyful tears from her eyes as that beautiful smile of his completely transformed his solemn face. She knew the children saw it as well, as Sansa’s own eyes watered and Rickon stared at his father in awe.

Ned seemed to have difficulty speaking at first. “You three look . . .very well this morning,” he finally said. “Are you taking good care of the ladies, Rickon?”

The boy nodded.

“Might be nice if you answered your father properly,” Osha said to him.

Rickon looked at her in surprise. Catelyn imagined that Osha had not spent much time correcting his manners during their time on Skagos. However, he did look at Ned then, and mumble, “Yes, my lord.”

“You needn’t call me my lord, Rickon,” Ned said quietly. “Father will do.”

Rickon nodded and bit his lip. No one tried to make him speak this time, and Catelyn realized he was gripping her hand more tightly. She gave his a quick squeeze.

Ned looked at her then. “I had thought to ride just a short way north along the White Knife, my lady. I’d like young Rickon to come along if you have no objections. We have no ponies, but he can ride with me.”

She looked at Rickon who appeared at once excited and terrified by the prospect. “Would you like to go riding with your father, Rickon?” she asked him.

He realized he was being given a choice. After thinking a moment, he asked, “Can Shaggy come?”

“Can you tell him to stay far enough away to keep from scaring the horses?” she asked him.

He nodded.

“Then I don’t see any reason for him not to go.” She turned back to Ned. “Do you, my lord?”

“Not at all,” Ned replied evenly. “I’d like to spend some time with you and your wolf, Rickon.” He smiled at his son. “I fear Shaggydog hasn’t taken to me quite as quickly as he has your mother.”

“Oh, he doesn’t really hate you or anything,” Rickon started to say. “He’s just . . .” He seemed to realize he was saying too much, and stopped speaking.

Osha looked at him meaningfully. “You are wise to hold your tongue in camp, little wolf,” she said. “But you needn’t keep secrets from your parents.” She surveyed him carefully. “That’s a fine cloak, but I fear you aren’t wearing quite enough beneath it to ride away from our nice campfires. Let’s go get you bundled up a bit more.”

Rickon made a face, but turned to follow the wildling woman as she walked toward their tent.

“I’ll come collect him presently,” Ned told the woman.

After they had walked a few paces, Rickon suddenly turned and bolted back to Catelyn, throwing his arms around her hips and nuzzling his face against her waist rather like Shaggydog had done the night before. She had barely gotten her own arms around him when he pulled free without a word and sprinted after Osha with the direwolf in his wake.

The cold emptiness she felt at his absence was eased somewhat when her husband put an arm around her. “It appears your son has missed you, my lady,” he said softly.

She couldn’t speak around the lump in her throat, but he didn’t appear to expect her to answer. Turning to Sansa, he said, “And your cloak appears to have been a great success.”

“Oh, he likes it all right,” Sansa said with a smile. “And I think he likes me. He’s just shy, still. I told him about Lady. He says Shaggydog remembers her. I don’t see how he could possibly know that, but he seemed so sure.” She shrugged. “Probably just a little boy’s fancy, but I’d like to think it’s true.”

“I have no doubt that it is,” Ned said seriously. At Sansa’s surprised expression, he smiled. “They were litter mates, and wolves do have very long memories.”

“That doesn’t explain Rickon’s certainty, though,” Sansa said thoughtfully.

Catelyn looked at Ned. “You spoke with Osha?”

He nodded. “And Howland, who agrees with you, my lady.”

“And you, my love? Do you agree with me?”

Ned sighed. “I don’t know, Cat. I want to talk with him.”

“Well, don’t interrogate him, Ned. He’s a five year old boy.”

“I won’t,” Ned promised. He looked at her and she saw pain in his eyes. “It’s just . . .I feel like I know nothing about my own son, Catelyn! How could I possibly not know something like that?”

“Like what?” Sansa asked. “What are you two talking about?” Realizing that she was addressing her parents, she blushed. “Forgive me,” she said. “I shouldn’t question you.”

“It’s all right, Sansa,” Ned told her. “If we speak in front of you, you have every right to know what we say.” He looked at Catelyn questioningly.

“I’ll tell her,” she said, deciding in the moment it was the right thing to do. “But not here. Too many ears. We’ll take Brienne and walk just a short way from camp. If I tell her we need privacy, she’ll give it without question, but she’ll stay close enough to watch out for us. You know that, Ned.”

Ned nodded. “All right. Do not go far, though. I would have you both safe.”

She smiled. “I promise.” To her daughter, she said, “Go and find Brienne, Sansa. I realize we’re being very mysterious, but you’ll understand when we’ve spoken.”

Sansa simply looked from one parent to the other, nodded, and turned to go. Once she had left, Catelyn took Ned’s hands in hers.

“He is simply our son, Ned. Whatever else is true. Your words, remember?”

He nodded. “I remember, and I meant them. Others will think differently, though. I fear for him, Cat.”

“I know,” she said. “I do, too. But I fear less knowing he has you to help him.”

He looked at her intently for a moment and then he smiled. “My brave and beautiful wife,” he said. “I wish these men were not around.”

She smiled at him. “They will not be in our tent later, my lord,” she said softly.

“I shall look forward to that. See that you take good care of yourself until then.” His grey eyes had gone smoky, and she felt herself flushing under his gaze.

“I promise, my lord.”

While they had spoken, he had carefully pulled the glove from one of her hands. He now raised that hand to his lips and kissed it softly. Anyone watching them saw a very courteous and proper gesture, but Catelyn’s hand grew warm beneath his lips and breath, and that warmth spread throughout her body, leaving her slightly breathless when he stood back up and nodded at her politely. “My lady,” he said with a smile. Then he went to saddle his horse and left her standing there, holding her glove and smiling after him.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“You sit the horse well, Rickon,” Ned said to the little boy whose back rested against him in the saddle. “Would you like to hold the reins?”

His son said nothing, but reached for the reins, grabbing at them directly in front of Ned’s hands. “Easy, son. Don’t pull at them so hard,” Ned instructed. “There you go.” He released his grip and let Rickon hold them on his own. As long as the boy held them loosely, Ned could easily steer the horse with his legs at their slow pace. He had men riding ahead and behind them, but none very close, and he could speak with Rickon without anyone hearing.

“Where did Shaggydog go?” he asked him now.

The boy was silent for just a moment and then responded, “He’s behind us, off that way.” He dropped one of the reins to point toward the left, and Ned quickly picked it up. “He smelled a deer and he’s gone to hunt it. He’ll catch up.” Rickon reached to grab the rein again.

“If you wish to hold the reins, you cannot simply drop them, Rickon,” Ned told him before handing it back. “How do you know where the wolf has gone and what it is doing?”

Rickon was silent again for a few seconds. “I’m not supposed to talk about it,” he finally said. “Osha said never talk about that.”

“But Osha also said you needn’t keep things from your mother and myself, didn’t she?” Ned said quietly. “Rickon, we know you have special bond with Shaggydog--the kind of bond most people won’t understand. I don’t truly understand it myself, but I’d like to. I think perhaps your mother knows more of it than I because of the time she spent with your brother Robb and his wolf. They were like you and Shaggydog.”

“Grey Wind is dead,” Rickon said flatly. “Like the little sister.”

“Little sister?” Ned said in alarm. “What little sister?”

Rickon wiggled uncomfortably in the saddle. “Sansa said she was called Lady. I didn’t remember that. I only know she was small when she died. And Shaggy and Summer and Grey Wind all howled and howled. I remember that.” After a minute, he added, “Shaggy remembers, too.”

Ned thought a moment. “And did Shaggy howl when Grey Wind died?”

Rickon nodded, his little head bobbing up and down against Ned’s chest.

“Did you know why?”

Rickon nodded again.

“Does Shaggy . . .speak to you somehow, Rickon?”

“Shaggy can’t talk. He’s a wolf,” Rickon said, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world.

Ned sighed. “But you know the things he knows, don’t you? How is that?”

Rickon shrugged. “I just do. When I see out of his eyes, I can smell the smells and feel things and I think what he thinks. It’s not words. Except when I try to think about it after, I turn it into words. I can’t explain it.”

“I think you explain it very well,” Ned told him. “You see through his eyes?”

“Not always. Sometimes, I just know things. Except in the wolf dreams. Then it’s like I am Shaggy, and I can run so fast and hunt and howl.” Rickon paused. “I’m not as good at it as Bran. He can do that any time he wants, even when he’s awake.”

Ned must have made a sound of some sort then, although he was unaware of it, for Rickon twisted around in the saddle to look up at him. “It isn’t bad! What we do is not bad. Osha said!” His son’s blue-grey eyes glared at him fiercely, challenging him to argue.

“No, Rickon,” Ned reassured him. “It isn’t bad. You and Bran are not bad, son.” He swallowed then, almost afraid to ask his next question. “Do you and Shaggydog . . .see Bran?”

Rickon’s eyes looked sad then, and he shook his head as he turned back around and leaned against Ned. “He used to feel Summer, but he’s gone now.”

Ned’s heart dropped. “Gone? You mean . . .dead?”

It took Rickon some time to answer. “No,” he said finally. “It’s not like Grey Wind and his sister. It’s just that Shaggy can’t find him now. He’s gone. Sometimes his white brother is gone, too, but then he’s there again.”

 _Ghost,_ Ned thought. _Jon._ He almost asked Rickon about Arya’s wolf, but she had been lost to his daughter long ago.

They rode in silence for a moment before Rickon said in a very small voice, “Will Bran and Summer come back? Like you and Mother and Sansa?”

Yes, Ned wanted to tell him. But this wild little son of his had lost so much and could trust in so little that he found himself unwilling to tell him anything he didn’t know to be the absolute truth. “I hope so,” he said. “I believe Bran still lives, Rickon, and I will do everything I can to bring him back to us.”

The little boy snuggled even closer back against him. “Will Mother sing me the ribbon song again? I like the ribbon song.”

“That I can promise you,” Ned said with a smile. “She’ll sing it as many times as you like.” He put one arm around the little boy leaning on him and thought about how Catelyn would love to hold their son this way. “Especially if you let her sit with you on your cot,” he added.

Just then, a wolf’s howl came from the trees, causing the horse to jump. Ned kept hold of Rickon with the one hand and grabbed the reins from him with the other, pulling them back to stop the horse. “Sounds like Shaggydog got his deer,” he said.

Rickon turned to look at him again with an odd expression on his face. “Not a deer,” he said.

Ned felt a chill. “Call him Rickon. Get him here now.”

“He’s coming.”

Just then, the horse shied wildly as the big black direwolf burst from behind the trees. His muzzle was dark with blood, and in his teeth he held part of a tattered banner. He dropped it on the ground and a fist of ice closed around Ned’s heart when he saw the sigil. Two towers joined by a bridge.

“Back to the camp!” he shouted to the men with them. “Now!”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Would I have been one?” Sansa asked.

Catelyn was stunned. Her daughter had listened quietly as she had explained to her what a warg was and how she believed that Rickon was one, along with Bran, Jon, and Robb. After remaining silent for a very long time, Sansa had asked that question.

“Would I?” Sansa repeated. “If Lady hadn’t died?”

“I don’t know,” Catelyn said quietly. In truth, she hadn’t even considered it. Her girls had lost their wolves so long ago. “Perhaps, sweetling. I just don’t know.”

“When I saw Shaggydog with Rickon, I was jealous,” Sansa said very quietly. “That’s terrible, I know. He’s so little, and he lost all of us, and it’s been so horrible for him, and . . .I truly felt awful for him. But I just missed Lady so much when I saw them together!” She started crying. “And then I felt like a terrible person because she was only . . .only a wolf, but . . .she was my wolf, Mother!”

Sansa sobbed then, harder than she had cried about anything since Ned and Catelyn had first found her in the Eyrie. Catelyn grabbed her and held her tight, just letting her cry because she didn’t have any words for her. She caught sight of Brienne just a short distance away looking at them in alarm, and she shook her head slightly to let her know they were all right.

When Sansa’s sobs came slower, she led her to a spot where the trees grew thickly enough that little snow had reached the ground, and they were sheltered from the wind. She faced her daughter with her hands on the girl’s arms. “You are not a terrible person, Sansa. Lady was your wolf, just as Shaggydog is Rickon’s, and losing her was terrible. You are not wrong to grieve her.”

Sansa sniffed. “I didn’t realize how much I still missed her . . .until I saw Shaggy.” She looked at Catelyn. “It hurt so much when Father killed her. I know it wasn’t his fault, but . . .”

When she fell silent, Catelyn said quietly, “Your father has never forgiven himself for that, Sansa. He fears you blame him for it. He feels he betrayed you that day.”

At her words, Sansa gave a strangled cry. “Oh gods, no! Father never betrayed me! I . . .” She seemed on the verge of saying something, but then swallowed hard and shook her head. “I don’t blame him, Mother. Truly, I don’t.” Then very quietly, she added, “I did blame Arya, though. For a long time. And it wasn’t her fault either.”

“No, sweetling, it wasn’t her fault. But you were simply a hurt child, Sansa. When we find your sister, you can tell her you’re sorry. I know she will forgive you.”

“Do you really think we’ll find her, Mother?”

Catelyn smiled. “We found your little brother, didn’t we?” She looped her arm through her daughter’s. “Let’s get Brienne and walk back to camp now. It’s awfully cold, and I did promise your father we wouldn’t linger.”

Sansa nodded, and they turned to walk toward Brienne.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

He hated the bloody north. He hated the damned snow and the numbing cold and the smirking northmen that always looked at him as if they were somehow better than he. He hated fat Lord Manderly and his snickering lies. Right now, though, Hosteen Frey hated no one more than Roose Bolton. _Damn the bloody leech lord to all seven hells!_ How dare he keep such tidings to himself!

Hosteen’s horse stumbled slightly as one hoof sank into a drift of snow deeper than the rest, but recovered quickly. At least the snow here wasn’t as deep as it had been at Winterfell. When they’d first set out, they’d actually had to stop every so often, get off their horses, and dig through drifts too deep for the horses to manage. At least the bloody snow had stopped falling before they started this trek.

He shivered thinking of that dreadful day Bolton had sent them out into the blizzard. Out the main gate, they had ridden, his sword still stained with Fat Manderly’s blood. They couldn’t see anything or even hear much beyond the howling of the wind. And they never did find Stannis, only Crowfood Umber laughing as the Frey men were set upon by his pack of wild northern boys. His men had killed a good number of the northmen, but too many of his own had died as well, and bloody Umber escaped. Hosteen supposed he’d run to wherever that craven, Stannis, was hiding.

When the remaining Freys had managed to stumble back frozen through the gates of Winterfell, they’d discovered Manderly’s men had also returned, claiming to have engaged a force of northmen and been repelled by them. They appeared to have suffered no losses, though, Hosteen remembered bitterly. And in the madness of it all, the wretched Theon Greyjoy had absconded with Ramsay Snow’s little Arya, apparently assisted by six washerwomen who’d all gotten themselves butchered by Bolton men for their trouble.

Two days later, Roose Bolton had summoned Aenys and himself to his solar. At least, Hosteen considered it his solar. The bastard Ramsay might be the Lord of Winterfell in name, but the Lord of the Dreadfort ruled there. Lord Roose had sat there with a grim faced Lady Dustin and told them that bloody Lord Eddard Stark was alive and had slaughtered their lord father and half their family at the Twins. Gods! His blood boiled even now just thinking about it. He had been prepared to ride south for home immediately, but bloody Bolton would have none of it, and as the man had talked, Aenys had begun to agree with him.

There was no purpose in going south now, the leech lord had said in his cadaverous voice. Edmure Tully controlled the Trident and had their turncloak little half-brother Olyvar sitting as his puppet Lord of the Crossing. Eddard Stark reportedly had a horde of northmen and knights from the Vale marching toward Moat Cailin. Hosteen and Aenys would never succeed in taking and holding the Twins with only the men they had left in the north, and the bloody northmen in Winterfell would never help them fight against Eddard Stark.

When Aenys had pointed out that they would hardly help Bolton fight their liege lord either, Lord Roose had simply pursed his lips. “You are right,” he had said softly. “That is why Eddard Stark and I must come to an accord of some sort before my bannermen learn the former Lord of Winterfell still draws breath.”

Hosteen had laughed out loud at that. “And why should Ned Stark ever come to an accord with the man who killed his son, stole his castle, and gave his daughter to a bastard?”

It was Lady Dustin who responded. “Catelyn Tully,” she said.

“What?” he had asked her.

“You know your father refused to let Lady Stark die, against my wishes,” said Bolton quietly. “Perhaps, he did me a kindness there. We know Stark took her from the Twins, and that they both traveled to the Eyrie. There were letters sent all over the kingdom saying as much. I don’t know where he left her when he marched off toward Moat Cailin, but she cannot have remained in the Eyrie with winter coming. She will be somewhere in the Vale or possibly sent to White Harbor. We need to find her.”

“It seems to me we need to kill her and her husband,” Hosteen had said.

“Fool!” Lady Dustin had spat at him. "If we kill Ned Stark outright, every man in this castle save the Dreadfort men, mine, and your own will rise up against us. If we take Catelyn Tully, perhaps we can persuade Lord Stark to negotiate with us.”

“He’ll never give up the north for a woman!” Aenys had proclaimed. “He’s not that big a fool.”

“Perhaps not,” said Bolton. “But we shall see precisely what he will give up. We are in a rather weak position, my friends. The Lannisters have too many troubles of their own to offer us assistance at the moment, and we still have Lord Baratheon stomping around in the snow. I do have a plan for Stannis, but it needs time. If we can but give Lord Stark a reason to delay any overt attack on us, perhaps other plans may bear fruit and other friends may aid us, but I need something to bargain with. Mayhaps, it is a slim chance, but I see no other at present.”

They had discussed and argued long after that, but in the end, it was Hosteen who had been sent out, not to the Twins as he had wished, but to White Harbor to seek out the lamprey lord’s maester, of all people. Apparently the man was a Lannister tool who could be counted upon to share any news of Lord and Lady Stark he happened to have. Hosteen still thought it was a fool’s errand, but he was glad enough to get away from Winterfell and all those bloody northmen, Bolton included. He was more than weary of this cold, snowy march, but they should reach White Harbor within a day or two at most now.

“Ser Hosteen!” One of his men called his name and rode up to him.

“What is it? Have you seen the city?”

“No, ser. Old Rannik wanted me to tell you he’s seen two women in the wood up ahead.”

Hosteen sighed. Rannik was one of the oldest men in his party. He’d served House Frey since Hosteen was a small child, and had served Hosteen specifically throughout his time with Robb Stark, at the Red Wedding, and now in this frozen wasteland. He trusted no one more, but perhaps the old man was becoming senile. Why should he care about two women from some crofter’s cottage?

He started to say as much when the man continued, “He said to tell you specifically that the older one has long red hair and red marks down both sides of her face.”

Hosteen Frey drew in his breath and held it. It couldn’t be. Surely, Rannik was mistaken. Never the less, he held up his hand in silent admonition for the column to halt. Then he dismounted, and with two other men, he went as quietly as possible to find Rannik and to find out if the gods could truly be so good.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Sansa’s thoughts were jumbled as she walked arm in arm with her lady mother. The very idea that her baby brother was some sort of magical skinchanger right out of Old Nan’s stories was ludicrous. Yet, thinking of Lady, she found she believed it all too easily. Rather than being terrified by the prospect, she felt an even deeper emptiness than she had before at the absence of her direwolf. Lost in her thoughts, she never saw the man who grabbed her. She only felt the knife at her throat as she was pulled away from her mother’s arm.

She did see the terror in her mother’s eyes, though, as she stared at Sansa and behind her to the man who held her.

“Scream, Lady Stark, and I open her throat right here,” said a cold voice Sansa didn’t recognize.

“Let her go, Frey,” her mother whispered. “I’ll do whatever you ask.”

_Frey? Oh, gods, no! How could there be Freys here?_

The man laughed. “Oh, you’ll do what I ask, all right. After all, you’re standing here all alone like a gift from the gods. I’m sure my nephew Black Walder would have me give you his regards.”

Her mother’s face turned hard. “Black Walder is dead,” she said. “Along with your father and his father, among other Freys.”

The man’s grip on Sansa tightened. “You’ll pay for that, wolf bitch. Is this one yours? Perhaps I’ll kill her right now."

“No!” Her mother’s cry was desperate, and she fell to her knees. “Please, Hosteen, don’t hurt her.”

Her mother crawled toward them and reached out to grab at the man’s legs as she begged him again. “I’ll do anything. Just don’t hurt her.” Sansa didn’t see the dagger until the man cried out. She hadn’t known her mother carried a dagger, but she must have pulled it from somewhere in her skirts because it was now sticking in the man’s calf. He let go of her to yank her mother up by her hair, and her mother screamed, “Sansa, run!”

As she turned, two more men appeared from the trees to grab at her. She screamed and tried to twist away from one reaching arm only to see that arm suddenly fall to the ground as blood spurted from the hole in the man’s shoulder spraying her face. Brienne’s bloody sword flashed as she raised it again, and she whirled toward the other man reaching for Sansa, and stabbed him through the gut before he could react. “Go,” Brienne said sharply before turning to charge at a large man who appeared to have only one ear and was literally dragging her mother across the ground by her hair.

“Mother!” Sansa screamed. She stood there, terrified, unable to move. She didn’t hear the hoof beats until the horse was right beside her and an old man was reaching down for her.

“Sansa!” her mother screamed, wrenching herself free from the big knight. “Brienne, get Sansa!”

Sansa was hitting at the old man on the horse with both of her fists, and then Brienne was there again beside her, knocking the old man off the horse with her sword. “Take the horse, Lady Sansa,” she panted. “Go!”

Sansa tried to get her foot into the stirrup, but her skirts tripped her up. She heard her mother scream, and she looked toward her again. The big knight had his one arm around her waist, and he was raising his sword arm above her. Behind them, she saw several more men on horseback approaching.

“Brienne!” her mother screamed. “You take her and go!”

Brienne’s face was white as she looked at Lady Catelyn, her attacker, and the approaching horsemen. Sansa waited for her to go back for her mother, but instead she picked Sansa up and threw her face down over the horse’s back before swinging herself up into the saddle. “Yah!” she screamed kicking the horse and turning it toward the camp.

“No!” Sansa screamed. As the horse turned, she raised her face up to see the big knight bring his sword down toward her mother’s head. “Mother!!” she screamed as the horse galloped away, and from somewhere in the distance behind them, she heard a direwolf howl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't originally plan to end the chapter here, but it was getting kind of long, and this was honestly the best stopping point. I hope to get the next one posted by the end of the weekend. And no, I haven't forgotten about Arya, but her next part fits better with what I've put into the next chapter.
> 
> As always, your comments are welcomed and appreciated.


	33. Wolves in the Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I ended the last chapter on such a major cliffhanger, I finished this one as quickly as I could!
> 
> And since I haven't done my shout-out to the fine author, George R.R. Martin, in awhile, here it is again: He wrote A Song of Ice and Fire, creating this world and all its wonderful inhabitants. I own none of it.

_Lady Catelyn is gone._ Brienne kicked the horse harder and gripped the bodice of Sansa Stark’s dress more tightly as she held the girl in front of her draped over the horse like a saddle blanket. Lady Sansa bounced hard against the horse each time its hooves landed. She would undoubtedly bear bruises, but Brienne would not let her fall. _I failed you,_ _my lady. I will not fail your daughter._

As the sound of Lady Sansa’s agonized scream faded, Brienne realized she no longer heard the sound of hoof beats in pursuit. Still she dared not slow, and she had no wish to look behind. She had seen that big knight raise his sword. She had not seen the actual blow fall, but she had seen the angle of his arm, the speed with which he lowered it toward her lady’s head. _Lady Catelyn is gone._ The girl lying across the front of the horse was sobbing, heedless of the beating her own body was taking from its precarious position on the horse. Brienne realized with a shock that her own face was soaked with tears although she was unaware of crying.

She saw riders coming toward them now, men from their camp. They hadn’t gone very far away, and the screams and shouts must have been heard. The men slowed their mounts as they approached hers, so the enemy must not be visible behind her.

Robett Glover reached her first. She looked for Donnell Boden, but remembered that he and Lord Reed had gone out riding with Lord Stark’s party. “My lady!” Glover shouted in alarm.

“Attacked,” she panted, pulling the horse to a stop beside his. “Lady Catelyn . . .”

His eyes widened in alarm. Then he looked at Lady Sansa’s prostrate form. “Young Lady Stark?” he asked fearfully.

Sansa pushed herself up and off the horse, sliding to the ground. Glover paled at the sight of the blood staining her face and the front of her dress. “I am fine,” the girl cried. “Go get my mother! Please!” she begged.

The man paled, as if only then comprehending that Lady Catelyn was not with them. “Where?” he said curtly to Brienne.

“There,” she said pointing behind them. “Men on foot and horseback. I’m not sure how many.”

Glover waved his arm. “Go!” he shouted to the men around him. He turned back to Brienne before leaving with them. “They took her?”

“They . . .” she couldn’t form the words.

“He hit her head with his sword,” Sansa sobbed. “Please, Ser Glover!!”

He looked grimly at Brienne, and she shook her head slightly. She could not tell him anything good. “Take the girl to camp,” he said curtly and galloped off after his men.

Lady Sansa stood watching the riders disappear into the trees with tears falling down her face, making tracks in her attacker’s dried blood. It gave an appearance disconcertingly like her mother’s scars on her strikingly similar face, and Brienne swallowed a cry of her own.

“My lady,” she said, willing the words past the lump in her throat. “I must get you safe to camp.”

The girl didn’t move.

“Sansa,” Brienne said softly.

Lady Catelyn’s daughter looked up at her then. “You should never have left her,” she said furiously. “You were sworn to protect her! How dare you leave her there?”

Brienne swallowed hard again. “I . . .I had no choice, my lady.” She looked the girl directly in the eyes. “I could only protect one of you. That was a failure on my part. But your lady mother had me give her my vow that should I ever be forced to choose . . .”

“She told you to choose me,” Lady Sansa said softly.

Brienne nodded.

“Oh, Mother,” the girl whispered and buried her face in her hands.

Brienne climbed off the horse then to help Lady Sansa mount. When they were both seated on the horse, and she had turned it toward the smoke of the campfires, she became aware of the sounds of battle from somewhere behind.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The impact of metal on skull stung Hosteen’s hand, and the Stark woman crumpled to the ground like a child’s doll. A dark red gash bloomed in the brighter red of her hair where the pommel of his sword had struck the back of her head. She moved not at all and hoped he hadn’t killed her. Bolton would be furious.

He let her lay where she fell and ran to Rannik who was getting to his feet after that giant wench had knocked him off his horse. The two men who’d come on foot with him lay on the ground, one dead and the other dying, after that freakish woman had attacked them. His calf burned like fire with every step where the wolf bitch had stabbed him, and he thought bitterly that perhaps he’d be glad if she died after all.

“Rannik, are you hurt?” he called.

The old man shook his head. “Their camp isn’t far, Ser Hosteen. They’ll be after us quickly.”

Hosteen thought about that and raised his arms, calling the horsemen who had followed them to halt. A quick count told him he had ten armed horsemen plus Rannik on foot. “Give me your horse,” he said to a green looking boy who looked unlikely to be much use in a battle anyway.

The lad dismounted, and Hosteen took his place. “Now go fetch me that woman and tie her on the back of here. Quickly!”

He turned to one of the horsemen he recognized by sight. “Mandon, what caused you to ride after us?”

“Our column was attacked, ser,” the man said. “A great black beast! We drove him off, but he killed Amos’s lad, Elwyn, your standard bearer. Ripped his arm clean off!”

 _A great, black beast._ Robb Stark’s direwolf had died at the Twins. Hosteen had helped cut its head off, himself. The other Stark children were said to have the beasts as well, but they were all dead or scattered. Was it possible Lord Eddard had given his wife one of the wolves? Or if the girl had truly been one of the Stark daughters, could it be hers? He needed time.

“Men!” he called. “Riders will come shortly from wherever that horse went. They must not be allowed to pursue me. I shall ride back to our main body with Lady Stark , and we shall make for the Dreadfort.”

“The Dreadfort?” Mandon asked.

“Yes. Lord Bolton wants Lady Stark held there, and he wants no one at Winterfell the wiser. If you turn back all pursuers, head toward the Dreadfort. Do not return to Winterfell. You must hold them here at whatever cost.”

The men nodded grimly.

“For the honor of House Frey!” Hosteen shouted.

“For the honor of House Frey!” the men echoed.

After ordering two men to help the boy secure the inert Catelyn Stark to the back of his horse, Hosteen looked down at Rannik who had stood silently beside the horse all this time. He was genuinely fond of the old man, and knowing he had essentially just sentenced him to death pained him some. “Rannik,” he said.

The old man nodded grimly. “We shall hold, Ser Hosteen. Get you gone.”

He had tugged at the woman’s limp body behind him then, and satisfied it would not fall off, he had spurred his horse away without a backward glance. Somewhere in the distance he heard a wolf howl, and it made him shiver.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Wake up! Wake up!” Arya was aware of someone shaking her, but the words didn’t make sense, and she snapped at him, raising her face once more to howl as the small cousins in her pack echoed her. They didn’t often howl while the sun shone above, but she felt the rage in her black brother. She knew he howled, off in the north, and she joined him. Something bad had happened.

“Come on, wake up! Ow! You bit me!” A particularly rough shove caused her to open her eyes. For one alarmingly disorienting moment, she didn’t know where or even who she was. Then she recognized the cramped ship’s cabin she shared with Dak. Blinking she turned her head to see Dak himself sucking on his hand and glaring at her. “You bit me,” he accused.

“Why would I do that, Stupid?” she said, irritably, ignoring the fact she could see the bite mark on his hand. Desperately, she tried to recall the details of her dream before all sense of the night wolf left her. The oddest part was that it wasn’t night.

“That’s the last time I let you sleep late,” Dak said grumpily. They had sat awake til very late in the night as the ship had sailed into the Bite, and Arya had been too excited to sleep. She had told Dak stories of the north and Winterfell and felt she could almost taste snowflakes on her tongue and feel the warmth in the very walls of her lady mother’s bedchamber.

“Sorry,” she muttered, sitting up and rubbing the bristly hair on her head. She had stopped wearing the itchy wig on the ship, choosing to wrap a long cloth around her head instead, making her look like some exotic foreigner.

“You were the wolf again, weren’t you? You’ve never done that in the day before, even if you did fall asleep,” Dak said. “And you’ve only ever kind of snarled and whined and wiggled around before. You were actually howling, Arya.”

“Yeah,” she said. “This was kind of different.” She didn’t want to talk about it. The dream had left her feeling frightened. Something was wrong.

“Tell me,” he said.

“I don’t remember,” she lied. She had been forced to tell him something about the wolf dreams since she apparently made noises when she had them. She never said too much about them, though. She didn’t tell him she believed that the things in the dream really happened. That she really was a wolf when she slept. She certainly didn’t tell him about the excitement she had felt when she realized her black brother was closer than he’d been in a long time, or how she’d been leading her pack north from the hated place of the towers and bridge. She shrugged. “Let’s go on deck and see what we can see.”

She grabbed the yellow cloth which had been given to her as a gift by one of the sailors and covered the brown stubble on her head. The cloth was her favorite of the gifts the sailors had given her on this voyage. She felt somewhat guilty taking their things, knowing that they only gave them because they thought she was one of the faceless men, but she took them all the same.

“Look, there is Oldcastle,” one of the friendlier sailors said to them as they stood at the starboard rail. A castle rose up above the coast in front of them. Arya struggled to remember her geography lessons. She’d liked maps better than writing or sums, but not much better. All the lessons required more sitting still than she found tolerable.

“That means we could reach White Harbor by tonight, doesn’t it?” she asked him.

“Yes. You will be leaving us there?” the sailor asked, and she nodded.

“I wish you well. Remember, my little friend, Aggaro Dobin wishes you well.”

“Thank you, Aggaro,” Arya sighed. “I will remember you well.” The man looked happy as he walked away.

Arya had committed to memory the name of every sailor on board, and called each of them by name every time she spoke to them. It seemed only kind to reassure them that she knew them. She would feel even more dishonest if she thought any of them truly worried she had come to give them the gift.

She couldn’t wait to get off this ship and be around people who didn’t all fear she might kill them. She couldn’t wait to find her parents. They would be happy to see her. _They_ _will,_ she thought fiercely. _I know they will._ Her lady mother would probably cry when she saw her hair, but she thought perhaps her lord father might laugh. And Mother could never stay upset when Father laughed.

She bit her lip then as she thought about things Father wouldn’t laugh at. He wouldn’t laugh about the people she killed. She wasn’t sure she could tell him about those. She knew she could never tell Mother. Her father had killed men; she knew that. Perhaps he might understand. But her mother had certainly never killed anyone. She thought about the people on her list who still lived. She still wanted those people dead and would kill them if she had the chance. She wouldn’t even tell Dak about that, and she had told him lots of things about being an acolyte of the Many Faced God. No, she decided, she couldn’t tell either of her parents the names of those she still needed to die. They wouldn’t understand that.

As she thought about her parents, she remembered her black brother’s howl. For a moment, although she stood on the deck of the ship, she felt snow beneath furred paws and smelled the pines as she ran northward toward her brother. Something was wrong. She shook her head to clear it, and then smelled nothing but the salt in the air, the tar from the ship’s boards, and the overpowering smell of men crammed too long together.

She would find her parents soon. They would be happy to see her. And she would not tell them anything that would change that.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Hosteen reached the main body of his company quickly and vaulted off his horse. He looked at the wolf bitch. Her scalp wound still oozed blood. That was good. The dead didn’t bleed. The blood had soaked all through the hood of her cloak and dripped from the copper colored braid that hung down below the horse’s girth. He ripped the cloak off her. She groaned softly at the movement, and then vomited. But she did not wake.

 _Gods_ , he thought. _I did hit her too hard._

“Arryk!” he called. “Take this cloak and put it on your horse. You are to lead all but five of our men to the Dreadfort.”

Arryk took the bloody cloak without question, and said, “But, Ser Hosteen, I do not know the way to the Dreadfort.”

“We’ve got half a dozen Bolton men with us. They’ll show you. Leave me one of them, though, and choose five of our men that you trust above all others. Those will go with me to take Lady Stark to Winterfell.”

“Only half a dozen men, ser?”

“We met no one on the way coming here. I see no reason to expect to meet more people on the way back. And the fewer people in Winterfell that know about the wolf bitch here, the better.”

Arryk nodded. “It will be done.” He paused. “What’s the cloak for?”

“Your bloody black beast,” Hosteen said grimly. “Where did it come from? Did you put any arrows in it.”

“It came from there,” Arryk said, pointing. “And went back the same way. And no, we did not hit it. The beast leapt at Elwyn, ripping the standard from him and his arm with it. It snapped at some others, and then just took off with the banner its mouth. You think it was a Stark wolf? A warg like the Young Wolf used to kill men at the wedding?” Hosteen sighed. Arryk hadn’t been at the wedding, and such was his loyalty, the man actually believed Lord Walder’s fairy tale.

“Perhaps. I take no chances.” He would have liked to keep Arryk with him, but he needed someone trustworthy to lead the men to the Dreadfort, and he had already sacrificed Rannik. “Is there any among the men with a particularly offensive stink?”

“I beg your pardon, ser?”

 _Loyal, but not particularly quick-minded,_ thought Hosteen. “To cover the woman. I’ve taken her cloak, and I’d not have Lord Bolton’s prisoner freeze. I’d like to cover her scent as best I can as well.”

“Oh, to be sure, ser,” Arryk said then. “Rod!” he shouted. “Somebody find me Roddeg!” He looked Hosteen. “Rod stinks like a week old fish,” he grinned.

Hosteen looked at the unconscious woman. “Fish stink should suit her I think. She was a trout before she was a wolf.”

In another quarter hour, Hosteen and his small party were on their way to Winterfell, still with no sign of pursuit.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark had ridden back to camp at as close to full gallop as he dared with his little son perched in front of him. His son’s black direwolf had streaked along just ahead of them, turning and howling whenever they fell too far behind it. Ned had sent Donnell and the other men forward at their fastest possible pace, with only Howland Reed remaining with him and Rickon. As desperate as he was to get back to camp, Ned couldn’t hand Rickon over to anyone else. The child looked terrified. The little hints of joy which had started to creep into his demeanor were long gone.

Rickon didn’t know what the wolf had seen or where it had gotten the Frey banner. He said he wasn’t seeing through Shaggy’s eyes then. He only knew the wolf was angry and worried and sad. The last thing Rickon had said on the subject had frozen Ned’s blood.

“He’s thinking about Mother,” Rickon had said.

 _Please gods, please gods, please gods,_ Ned had prayed as he rode. He couldn’t even put words to his request. He only begged.

As he rode into the camp, he saw Donnell and the others still on horseback gathered around Lady Brienne. She was helping Sansa dismount from a horse. As he drew his own mount closer, he saw that his daughter appeared to be covered in blood. “Sansa!” he shouted.

She looked up at his voice. “Father!” Then she was running toward him. He swung his leg over the horse’s back, careful not to topple Rickon, and jumped to the ground. Sansa jumped into his arms as soon as he landed.

“Are you all right?” he asked, barely able to breathe. She seemed well enough, but there was so much blood. If it wasn’t hers . . . _Oh gods, where is Catelyn?_

She nodded against his chest. “I am unhurt, but Mother is gone, Father! He took her, and he hit her with his sword!”

Ned’s world ripped in two with her words. He clutched his daughter tightly, unwilling to ever let her go, and yet at the same time, he longed to leap back on the horse and ride out and cut down whoever had harmed his wife.

“Where is she?” he said, looking around. “Where is Cat? She is not . . .she is not . .” He found himself unable to say the word 'dead' even to ask the question.

Lady Brienne spoke. “I did not see the blow land, my lord. I was riding away with Lady Sansa, but I saw the man who held her raise his sword and swing.”

Ned cried out as if he had been struck by a sword himself, and his knees buckled. Had he not been holding Sansa so tightly, he would have fallen. “Have they killed my wife, Brienne?” he said in a voice of deadly cold.

“I do not know for certain, my lord,” she said. Her voice shook, but she looked him in the eye. “But I fear the worst.”

Now the cold dread inside Ned’s heart exploded into anger. “You do not know?” he shouted at the woman with cold fury, pushing Sansa aside. “How could you not know? She trusted you! You were to protect her! How dare you stand here unharmed!” He moved toward her. “You ran like a craven and left my wife to be taken or murdered?”

The big woman seemed to shrink before him as he advanced on her. Vaguely, he was aware of a child’s voice, repeating “No, no, no, no, no, no!” Then Sansa yelled sharply, “Father!” and grabbed his arm.

As Ned turned to face his daughter who was pulling at his arm, he realized he was holding his sword. He did not remember drawing it. Sansa stared back at him, fear and grief in her eyes, but a certain determination as well. She would not back down. He lowered his arm, breathing heavily.

“Brienne did not run,” Sansa said softly, but firmly. “There were four of them, Father. Brienne killed two and knocked a third off his horse. The fourth held Mother, but she ordered Brienne to take me and go. More men came on horseback.” She looked into Ned’s eyes, and he tried to focus on her face and her words, but he kept seeing his wife’s face and hearing her trusting words. _We are all safe with you._ The memory shredded what was left of his heart. _Oh gods, Cat. How could I have left you here?_

“Father?” Sansa was saying. “Father, Brienne couldn’t kill them all. She did all she could.”

Ned turned slowly to face Brienne again. The woman looked shattered. “You believe she is dead,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question. He could see it in her eyes.

“I fear it, my lord,” she whispered.

Rickon had not stopped saying “No!” and at these words, he became louder. “No!!” he screamed. “No!”

The wildling woman was there then, pulling him down from the horse, while he clawed and kicked and continued to scream the word no. He looked as feral as his wolf, who had begun howling again.

Sansa’s voice cut through the cacophony. “My mother is not dead.”

He looked at her, desperate to believe that she knew something he did not, but fearful he heard only an older child’s version of Rickon’s denials.

“My mother is not dead,” she repeated firmly. “It would serve no purpose.”

“Purpose?” Ned asked blankly.

“She called the man Frey, Father. She said his given name, too. She knew him. The Freys and Boltons are working together. Mother told me herself that your return puts Bolton’s plans in jeopardy. She feared he would be seeking some leverage over you.”

Ned stared at the daughter who a few moments before had been sobbing in his arms and now stood before him giving a concise summary of the military politics in the north. “What good is Mother to him dead?” she continued, and Ned tried not to cringe at the cold, flat way she spoke that sentence. “Killing Mother will simply have you tearing down Winterfell stone by stone to kill him, and you’ll have every northman alive right there with you once they discover Bolton‘s treachery.”

 _She is right,_ Ned realized. Sansa’s reasoning was sound, and Ned began to hope. Ramsay Snow was a monster, but Roose Bolton held his chain. Roose may simply be another form of monster, but he was a cold and cunning one. He would not make such a rash, stupid mistake.

“If he takes Mother prisoner, however,” Sansa went on, “he could hope to . . .”

“Set me a tune and tell me to dance,” Ned finished for her. “He’s taken her.” The fury began to build inside again. “Gods damn the man! He’s taken my wife!” He turned to Brienne. “Show me where this occurred. We must ride after them!”

“Robett Glover and a dozen men already have, my lord,” Brienne said.

“Then why are we standing here?” Ned growled, already remounting his horse. “Take me there, Brienne.”

Brienne nodded once and turned to her own mount, but then riders appeared on the perimeter of the camp.

“It’s Robett!” someone shouted. “Perhaps they have found her!”

With his heart in his throat, Ned urged his own horse forward to meet them, but as he scanned the riders approaching, he realized his wife was not among them. There appeared to be several wounded men, but no women at all.

Robett Glover rode directly to him, his face grim and his mouth set in a thin line. “Your lady wife has been taken, my lord,” he said without preamble. “We did not find her.”

“Then why have you come back?” Ned growled.

“We do not know where they went, my lord. And I have wounded men. The villains left a small force behind to cover their escape, and they fought fiercely. We killed all save these two who were on foot.” He motioned toward two bound men secured to a horse led by one of his own men. “I thought perhaps we could question them as to the Lady Catelyn’s whereabouts.”

Ned willed himself to speak calmly. “You did well. Did you lose any men, Robett?”

The man looked grave. “Two. And I fear for two more of the wounded. They are grievously hurt.”

Ned nodded. These men had put themselves at risk for Catelyn. He could not think only of her regardless of his own feelings. “Go and tend to your men, Robett. Leave these two with me.”

Robett Glover nodded and turned his horse away.

“Donnell,” Ned said, and Boden moved to take the lead rope of the prisoners’ horse from the man who held it, understanding Ned’s wishes without need for further instruction.

Ned then turned to Howland Reed. “Take some of Robett’s men who are unhurt. Have them show you the place where they fought. You see more than most, Howland. See if you can discern where this villain Frey has gone.”

Howland Reed nodded. “The wolf, my lord. He may be useful in this.”

Ned followed Reed’s gaze to the black direwolf who now sat at Osha’s feet. Osha sat on a large rock and held Rickon tightly in her lap. The boy no longer screamed, but stared blankly in front of him. “Rickon,” Ned said softly.

Rickon’s face showed no expression, but the wolf looked at Ned and growled low and menacing.

Ned looked at Reed and shook his head. “The wolf cannot leave Rickon, Howland. And Rickon cannot go anywhere just now.” _Will Mother sing the ribbon song again? Oh gods, Rickon!_

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face because Reed put a hand on his arm. “We will find her, Ned. You know better than anyone how strong she is. We will find her.”

Ned couldn’t speak, so he merely nodded. Once Howland turned to ride away, he spoke again to Donnell. “Get them down and bring them over by the fire.”

The two men were taken down from the horse and pushed to sit down on the ground not far from a campfire. Their hands were bound tightly at their backs and secured to a large tree behind them.

“What are your names?” Ned asked them.

Neither spoke. One was an old man. What thinning hair he still had was the color of the snow on the ground, and his face was wrinkled leather. His body still appeared hale enough, though, thin but hard. The other was hardly a man grown--a gangly youth with straw colored hair and a pockmarked face. He stared at Ned in obvious fear, but still seemed determined to take his cues from the old man.

“You serve House Frey,” Ned said. “We have your banner, and my daughter heard my lady wife call your leader by name. We will hunt down that villain whether you help us or not, but you will suffer far less should you answer my questions.”

“Ser Hosteen isn’t a villain!” the young man yelled then. “You Starks are villains! Oathbreakers and filthy wargs!” He spat.

“Shut up, you fool,” the old man ordered him.

 _Hosteen, was it?_ Ser Hosteen was one of two Freys known to be with Bolton, which confirmed Ned’s suspicions that the Lord of the Dreadfort was behind his wife’s abduction.

Ned narrowed his eyes at the men. “Normally, I do not abuse prisoners. However, you are not honorable captives taken in battle. You two are kidnappers, criminals deserving of nothing but death. I can make that death quick and painless or as slow as you like it.” He spoke the last sentence very slowly with nothing but ice in his voice.

The old man set his jaw, but the younger one’s eyes got round.

“Tell me where they have taken my wife.”

“I . . .I don’t know,” the straw haired boy stammered. “I just tied her on the horse.”

“Shut up, boy!” the old man snarled again. A man standing beside him cuffed him hard in the head. Ned did not object.

“Whose horse?” he asked patiently.

“Ser Hosteen’s. He took her to to the rest of the men. We were to hold you off.”

“Craven!” the old man yelled at him. “You are a shame to your house, boy, squawking like a bird!”

Now the soldier standing guard over the old man kicked him hard in the ribs, but the old man didn’t cry out. Ned felt a grudging respect for this Frey man, but he had no time to indulge courtesies or even common decency. “A shame to House Frey? A house of murderers and rapists! No one can bring more shame on a house that owns naught but shame already!” He leaned over the old man. “You bring shame to yourself, old man, giving your sword and your fealty to such criminals.”

The man spat at him, and Ned stood up, gratified to have finally gotten him to lose his temper. “It doesn’t matter where they take her,” the old man yelled spitefully. “She’ll be naught but a corpse when she gets there! Hosteen split her skull wide open, he did! There was more blood in her hair than left inside her by the time he rode off with the red-headed bitch! Death to the wolf bitch and to all you bleedin’ wolves!!”

Fury and terror had been building inside Ned as the old Frey soldier’s words had tumbled angrily from his lips. Ned heard in them the truthfulness of anger, and his dread for Catelyn multiplied. As he gave himself to his fury and drew back his fist to smash the old man’s face, a huge black shadow flew past him.

Almost before the sound of the old man’s last words had faded, the direwolf was standing on his bloody corpse, howling like a demon after having ripped out the man’s throat. Ned stared in shock, as did everyone else. Shaggydog made no move to attack anyone else, though. After howling several times, he simply lowered his muzzle into the gaping hole in the man’s neck and began to feed.

Ned heard several men retching. The young straw haired prisoner was screaming, and Ned slowly realized his screams had words. “The Dreadfort!” he shouted hysterically. “The Dreadfort, I swear! Keep it away from me! They’re going to the Dreadfort!”

“Shaggydog,” he said. The wolf ignored him. Ned turned and saw Osha standing behind him, bending to pick up Rickon who appeared to have fainted to the ground. Ned hadn’t heard him or the wolf approach.

Beside Osha was Sansa. She walked forward now, keeping her eyes on Shaggydog. “Shaggy,” she said soothingly, “The bad man is dead now. He can’t hurt Mother, and he can’t hurt you.”

The wolf raised its head, licking its bloody muzzle as it turned its green eyes to Sansa.

“It’s all right, Shaggy,” she said. “To me, now.”

The wolf leapt off the dead man in Sansa’s direction, and what few soldiers hadn’t already backed away instinctively raised weapons. Ned raised his hand. “Hold,” he said.

Shaggydog sat at Sansa’s feet, and she placed a hand on this head to scratch between his ears. “The Dreadfort,” she said, looking at Ned.

“The Dreadfort,” he answered her with a nod.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Her head had exploded. That’s all she was aware of at first, a constant, repeated explosion of pain in the back of her head. Waves of nausea assailed her, and she knew she vomited, but she felt the liquid on her face and forehead. Upside down. She was upside down. Her head had exploded. She knew nothing else for a long time.

Moving. She was upside down, but moving. The ceaseless pain in her head still overwhelmed all other sensations, but she knew more now. Everything hurt. She was not alone. She heard voices. Almost, she could understand them, but trying to do so made her head hurt worse, so she stopped trying. She didn’t know where she was or how long she’d been moving along upside down. She couldn’t remember. Darkness took her again.

 _Ned._ The name came to her in the darkness. It meant something. She wanted to hold onto it, but feared it was lost forever. Someone lifted her head up by grabbing her hair. The pain exploded anew.

“She’s moaning again,” came a voice. First, she was startled to realized the words made sense. Secondly, to realize they were speaking of her. She was moaning?

“She keeps getting louder,” said another voice. “We’ll need to give her poppy to keep her quiet when we take her in.”

“I tried,” said the first voice. “She didn’t keep it down. She pukes everything.”

“Yeah,” said the second voice. “Big Man Frey doesn’t know his own strength. She’s lucky she’s only puking. That blow should’ve killed her.”

“May yet,” yet said the first voice. “Gods, she doesn’t even need old Rod’s cloak anymore. She stinks of blood and puke and piss and shit.”

The second voice laughed loudly, and that set off another explosion in her head. “Old Eddard Stark won’t even want her back once he sees her like this! Gods, not even Rod would fuck anything that filthy!”

As both voices broke into raucous laughter that threatened to completely destroy anything left of her head, a third, vaguely familiar voice demanded silence. In that silence, the name Eddard Stark echoed in her mind. _Ned_ , her mind supplied, and suddenly the black void was flooded with memory. _Ned! My babes! Oh gods, where am I? Where are they? Oh, please, oh please._

She made no sound, but now as the horse continued to plod toward the castle just ahead under cover of darkness, tears fell from the eyes of the broken woman slung across its back, mingling with the other things staining her face and her hair.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned kissed his daughter’s forehead softly. There were tears in her eyes, but he knew there would be no more arguments. He helped her mount the horse behind her little brother, and steeled himself to bid them farewell.

The hours following the interrogation of the prisoners had been a continuous whirlwind of discussions, strategizing, and mobilization. Lord Davos Seaworth had come to him almost immediately, offering to ride out again in search of Stannis Baratheon and ask his aid in recovering Catelyn.

“That is kind of you, Lord Seaworth, but do you believe Lord Stannis will truly place a premium on my wife’s safety?” Ned had asked.

Seaworth had sputtered. “But of course! He is the most honorable man I have ever known, and she is a highborn lady taken against her will!”

Ned had smiled grimly. “Honorable he is indeed. Tell me, Lord Seaworth, if Lord Stannis felt compelled to make a decision between what he sees as his duty to his realm and his duty to his own lady wife, how would he choose?”

The man had opened his mouth to respond immediately, but closed it again without speaking when he realized the trap Ned had laid. “You needn’t say it,” Ned had told him. “I know the answer as well as you.”

“You would choose differently, my lord?” Seaworth had asked him.

Ned hadn’t answered. Instead, he said, “You are a married man, I seem to recall. Do you love your wife?”

The onion knight had looked completely taken aback at that, and Ned didn’t blame him. It was a rude question. He had answered it, though. “Yes, my lord,” he said softly. “I confess I have not always done right by her, but I do.”

“There is honor in making a woman your wife,” Ned had said softly. “Just as there is in ruling a castle or a kingdom. Honor may demand that you perform both duties to the best of your ability, but it does not help you choose when those duties conflict. Perhaps Lord Stannis may find easy answers to those conflicts, but I do not.”

Both men had been silent for a bit before Ned spoke again. “I love my wife,” Ned said softly, as much to himself as to Davos Seaworth. He rarely spoke those words even to Catelyn herself, but that made them no less true. “When duties conflict, and honor fails to give clear guidance, Lord Seaworth, what shall I use to set my course?”

“Love?” the man had asked, arching his brows.

Ned had smiled, albeit sadly. “Love and honor,” he said. “I have found each to be rather empty without the other.” He sighed deeply. “I honestly don’t know yet what I may do, my lord, but I would not have it be as simple and cold a choice as I fear Lord Stannis might make it.”

The man had not argued with him. He obviously respected and even loved Stannis Baratheon, but he appeared to see him clearly. Stannis was indeed fortunate to have a man of such value in his service, and Ned understood why he had made him his Hand.

“I shall ride north with you at least until I must turn toward Winterfell,” Seaworth had said. “I hope we may all be in accord and save your lady and his grace’s kingdom, Lord Stark. King Stannis will want the same.”

“Oh, he will want the same, my lord,” Ned had said with wry twist of his mouth, “simply not in that order.” He had clapped the man on the back then and gone to find Donnell Boden and Brienne of Tarth.

Neither of them had argued with him long, but he had not expected them to. _Sansa will be a different tale,_ he had thought when he walked into Osha’s tent to find her with Rickon. His heart had stopped when he approached the tent because inside, he clearly heard Catelyn singing the Riverrun lullaby. He knew it wasn’t his wife, of course, but is sounded so like her that he couldn’t prevent the slight ache of disappointment when he lifted the flap to see Sansa holding Rickon as she sang. Shaggydog slept on the floor.

Both of his children had looked up as he entered; Rickon with big, haunted eyes, and Sansa with defiance.

“No,” she said. “I’m not going back to White Harbor.”

“You are,” he had told her. “Donnell Boden and Osha will accompany the two of you and Shaggydog.” He had feared the wolf would be a problem. It would hardly escape notice in a city, but Osha had assured him the wolf need not enter the city. It could easily find the hut on the beach on its own if Rickon were there. “Harmon Wade can keep you safe,” he had continued. “I need you safe, Sansa.”

“I can’t bear it,” she had protested. “Not knowing anything! Please, Father, I only just got you back!”

Ned had swallowed hard against the emotion in his own throat. “And your mother and I only just got the two of you back as well. She would never forgive me if I put you in danger.” He paused. “I will do everything in my power to recover your mother safely, Sansa. But I must be able to think only of her. I cannot do that if I am worried for you or Rickon. Can you understand that?”

She wanted to argue further. He saw in her blue eyes the echoes of her mother’s anguish when she sent him off to battle, and it tore at his heart. But, like her mother, she did understand. “I will go,” she said finally. “Why are you sending Donnell with us, though? Instead of Brienne?”

He gave her a tiny smile. “Our Lady Brienne is not altogether inconspicuous. She would be remembered in White Harbor whereas Donnell is rather good at disappearing into the crowd.” Looking at his daughter more seriously, he had said, “That is not the main reason though. Donnell is a good man. He would give his life for you or your mother in most instances. But he considers me his liege lord. He would value my life above anyone else’s, and I cannot change that. The other men who ride with us will feel the same. It is what they are taught and what they believe. Brienne, alone, belongs wholly to your mother. Without you there, she will be free of the vow she made Catelyn to safeguard you first. I would bring your mother at least one soldier who puts her above all else.”

Sansa had smiled at him then with all of her mother’s warm understanding shining in her Tully blue eyes. “You’ll bring her two,” she had said, squeezing his hands. “You have belonged to Mother a lot longer than Brienne has.”

Ned had actually laughed then. “Indeed. And the two of us shall endeavor together to bring her back to you and your brother.”

So now, hours later, all plans having been made, and the camp broken down, he settled his daughter on a horse behind his son. Rickon had not spoken a word since the episode with Shaggydog and the old man, but he seemed calm enough. He allowed Sansa and Osha both to lead him around, and had not resisted Ned when he had picked him up and embraced him tightly before putting him on the horse. But Ned could see the simmering anger hiding behind the overwhelming sadness in his little boy’s eyes, and it frightened him as well as breaking his heart.

He looked at the two of them now, and offered a quick prayer for the two still missing. “Sansa,” he said seriously. “As things now stand, Rickon is my heir. But he is still a child while you are a woman grown. I am depending on you. Promise me you will not give up on Arya or Bran or Winterfell.”

“Father, there is no need. You and Mother will come back and then . . .”

“Yes, my daughter, there is a need. I fully intend to return to you with your mother, but I can promise only my own efforts, not the result. I do not ask you to promise success either, Sansa, only that you will ever remember you are a Stark of Winterfell, and attempt to live accordingly.”

Tears filled her eyes. “I promise, Father.”

He patted the horse’s rump, and his children rode away from him, flanked on either side by Osha and Donnell Boden. Shaggydog ran far ahead as if the direwolf knew their way already. _Gods go with them_ , Ned prayed before turning to find his own mount in order to ride off in the opposite direction. _I am coming, Cat. Hold on, my love._

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The ship had docked just before sunset, and Dak and Arya gathered their meager belongings to disembark. To Dak’s surprise, Arya had removed the yellow cloth from her shorn head.

“You’re going out like that?” he asked her.

“Yes. You have a problem with that?” she challenged him.

“Uh, no. It just seems strange is all.”

She sighed. “We need money, Stupid.” She held up the little bag the kindly man had given her. “The dragons are all gone, and the rest won’t last. That yellow cloth is expensive. I bet we can sell it.” She paused. “Besides, I think I need to be a boy here.”

“A boy,” Dak said slowly.

“Yes, Stupid, a boy. A boy can wander throught the streets without comment. It’s not like that for girls. I don’t know why, but here it’s even worse than in Braavos. Girls are supposed to stay home and sew or something. I won’t be able to find out anything as a girl.”

“But, Arya,” Dak protested. “You don’t look like a boy. You’re obviously a girl. A really dirty almost bald girl, maybe, but a girl just the same.” He collapsed in laughter.

“That’s just because you know I’m a girl. I pretended to be a boy before and nobody knew for the longest time. Not until Gendry figured it out,” she said stubbornly.

He twisted up his face and seemed to want to say something, but he hesitated.

“What?” she demanded. “Spit it out, whatever it is.”

Dak blushed. “Well, it’s just that . . .well . . .you were what then--nine or something? Nine year old girls look like boys. Eleven year old girls look . . .well, different,” he finished with a helpless shrug.

Arya hadn’t considered that. She looked down at herself. She did now have two very small, firm breasts that annoyingly enough got tender at times instead of the perfectly flat chest she had had before, but those were easily concealed by her loose shirt. She put her hands on her chest. “Nobody can see these,” she said. It’s not like I’m Sansa or anything.”

Dak blushed more furiously. “Well, there’s your breeches,” he said.

She looked down at her pants. They were getting small, she knew, but she didn’t have any others. “What about them?” she said. “I know they don’t fit well, but lots of street boys have ill-fitting clothes.”

“Yes,” Dak stammered, “But you can see the bottom parts of your legs, and they . . .well, they look like girl legs, not boy legs, and the top part is tight and . . .” He shook his head and refused to say any more.

Arya stared at him, and then burst out laughing. “Dak! You’ve been staring at my arse!” She laughed until she fell back on the bunk shaking.

“Stop it!” he said. “And I don’t stare. It’s only I can see you don’t look like a boy and so will anybody else!”

Arya slowly got her laughter under control and sat up to think. “I guess you may have a point,” she said. “Let’s go find Simm. He’s the smallest sailor on board. Any breeches he’s got will still be pretty big on me, but I guess the bigger the better, huh?” She punched Dak on the arm, and he finally smiled at her.

An hour later, as the two children stood in an alley just off the docks of a rapidly darkening White Harbor, their earlier hilarity was forgotten. Arya now wore Simm’s second best pair of breeches rolled up to keep from dragging the ground, and tied with a rope at the waist to keep them from falling off her. She supposed she must look enough like a boy because no one gave her or Dak a second look. The difficulty was that she had no idea what to do now.

“I guess we can’t just go up to people and ask if they’ve seen Lord Eddard Stark,” Dak said.

Arya rolled her eyes. “Not unless you want to get arrested. The Lannisters named my father a traitor, remember?” She shook her head. “White Harbor is part of the north, but that doesn’t mean we can trust anyone here.” With a pang, she remembered Harwin recapturing her for Beric Dondarrion’s men. “We can’t trust anyone anywhere.”

“How about we ask for Donnell?” Dak said.

“Huh?”

“Donnell. Donnell Boden. You know, the man who came to White Harbor with your father. He’s not anybody important. No reason for anyone to know his name unless they met him.”

“Or arrested him,” Arya said darkly. “But we know Father got out of White Harbor safely because he got to the Twins to rescue Mother, right? So maybe that means they didn’t have any problems here. And anybody who knows Donnell Boden’s name would have to be a friend.” She smiled at him. “That’s not a bad idea, Dak.”

“Not bad for somebody so stupid, you mean?”

She laughed, beginning to feel more optimistic in spite of the prospect of sleeping outdoors somewhere in this cold grey city. “Let’s go find somewhere to hide and maybe even sleep a little tonight. It’s too late to go to shops. In the morning we’ll see if we can find a place that buys cloth and start asking about my Uncle Donnell.”

Finally, the found a stable with a hole in the wall of the hayloft just big enough for two skinny kids to scramble through. It was up pretty high, but it was an easy climb for Dak and not too difficult for Arya as long as he told her where to put her hands and feet.

Once they burrowed down into the hay, Dak fell asleep almost immediately, but Arya lay awake in the dark. She was in the north. She was terrified about what may happen next, but she felt exhilarated as well. This was her land. She was a Stark of Winterfell. She may look like a grubby street boy, but she knew now that in her heart of hearts she had always been Arya of House Stark even when she had been Arry, Weasel, Squab, Salty, Nan, Cat of the Canals, Beth or No One.

Needle lay beside her in the hay and she gripped its hilt. _Ser Gregor_ , she thought. _Dunsen, Raff the Sweetling, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei_. She had been gone a long time. She knew Queen Cersei was still alive, but people said she was locked up in King’s Landing. Arya hoped they kept her in a dark, filthy place like Dak said her father had been in. She hoped the others were dead. If not, she would still have to find them. Her father had killed all the Freys of the Crossing if that song was right. She hoped it was.

She closed her eyes and waited for her wolf dreams to come, although she knew she couldn’t force them. They wouldn’t come until she was truly asleep. She wanted to run with her pack. She wanted to reach out for her black brother and find that whatever had been wrong earlier was better now. Lying in the straw of a hayloft in a northern city, home felt so close that it almost hurt. Arya Stark wanted her mother and her father. She wanted to go home.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

She wasn’t moving. That’s the first thing she knew. The second was that it didn’t appear to matter if her eyes were open or closed. The darkness was the same. Her head still hurt, but that had become her normal now, and she gave it little attention. She swallowed and felt the scratchy dryness of her throat. She was lying down, she realized, but not in a bed.

She ran her hand over the surface next to her face and felt hard packed earth. A dirt floor of some kind. She moved her hand further and further from her face and it brushed against scant pieces of straw. She decided to sit up then, pushing herself slowly up with her hands, every muscle in her body aching. Once she was in a seated position, her head swam alarmingly, and nausea overwhelmed her. She retched, but nothing came up. She wondered how long it had been since she’d been upright.

There were no voices now. She thought she was alone. She decided to call out. “Hello?” It was an odd rough sound, half croak and half whisper. Not like her voice at all. No one answered.

Gradually, she realized she could see a bit. The darkness was not absolute as her eyes adjusted. She appeared to be in a small earthen room with a wooden door. The door had a window in it. That was where the light came from. It was not daylight, though. Perhaps the window opened to a corridor or another room which was dimly lit. She didn’t have the strength to get up and see. She could barely remain sitting.

In the corner, she thought she saw two objects sitting on the floor, and with great effort she half crawled, half dragged herself toward them. One was an empty slop bucket. The other, gods be praised, was a flagon of water which was full.

It could be poison for all she knew. It did not matter. She was so thirsty, she’d have drunk anything wet. She turned it up and gulped greedily. Immediately, her stomach heaved and she vomited into the slop pail. She then collapsed onto the ground and cried, although she made no tears.

She was unsure how long she lay there, simply waiting to die. Finally, she realized she couldn’t simply give up. Ned would be looking for her. Her children needed her. Once more, she laboriously pushed herself into a sitting position and reached for the water. This time she allowed herself only the tiniest of sips. Her stomach rolled and gurgled, but she did not retch. After a time, she took another sip.

In this manner, she managed after an indeterminate amount of time to finish about half the contents of the flagon. She scooted herself so that she might rest her back against the wall and keep an eye on that little window in the door.

She realized as she sat there that she was clothed only in her shift, both her cloak and outer garments having disappeared without her having any memory of it. She was stricken with terror then that she was somehow back at the Twins and had been raped once more. She forced herself to think calmly, however, and realized that she knew well enough the specific pain that came with that type of attack. She had not been raped.

The next thought to strike her was that she was not cold. In fact, she was warmer than she could remember being in a long time. How could that be? Surely, she was still in the north. Yet this little chamber had no fire, and she was more than warm enough in spite of being barely dressed. What kind of place would . . .

Suddenly her hand flew to her mouth, and her heart began to beat faster. It couldn’t be. She began to scoot slowly to her right, feeling along the bottom of the wall where it joined the dirt floor. It should be along here. Finally, her hand brushed across a crack. She pushed the thin layer of dirt away and opened the tiny trap door exposing a hollowed out space only big enough to hold a handful’s worth of small objects. It was empty now.

Catelyn remembered the only other time she’d ever been in this space. The little hidey-hole had held colored pebbles then. She closed her eyes, and it was again that night close to seven years ago now. Robb’s name day feast had been disrupted by Arya loudly making a rude statement about Lord Manderly’s weight. The child had then run from the Great Hall, and no one had seen her in hours. Catelyn had gone from embarrassed and furious to desperately afraid that harm had befallen her little girl.

Finally, Ned had come to her and told her he had found her beneath the First Keep.

“The First Keep?” she had gasped. The oldest part of the castle had long been abandoned, and she wasn’t certain of its saftey.

Ned had just laughed. “There are little chambers barely big enough to be called rooms carved out of the earth beneath it, my lady. There’s nothing harmful there. There’s not a child raised here who hasn’t used them as a hideout at some time. Robb and Jon confessed to me that they’ve showed them to her, and sure enough I found her there, red eyed but otherwise fine.”

“Bring her to me,” Catelyn had demanded.

“Oh, she refused to leave, my lady. She fears you might kill her.”

Catelyn had huffed, irritated by his amusement. “Ned, she can’t stay out in the cold all night.”

“Oh, she isn’t cold, my lady. The underground hot spring runs close by there. Those little rooms are even warmer than your chambers.”

And so Catelyn had found herself creeping down the crumbling stairs below the First Keep, much to the surprise of her younger daughter.

She could see that dirty little tearstained face now. “Mother!” Arya had cried. “I didn’t think you’d come here.”

“Whyever not?”

“It . . .it’s dirty,” she had said.

Catelyn had laughed and surprised her daughter further by sitting beside her on the dirt floor and putting her arms around her. Once the child had sobbed apologies into her skirts, Catelyn had smoothed back her tangled hair and told her that she would have to apologize to Lord Manderly on the morrow.

“But he is fat, Mother. Really fat. How does somebody get to be that fat?” Arya had asked her in all seriousness.

Catelyn had bit her lip in an effort not to smile. “I don’t know, Arya. But you mustn’t say things that make people feel badly even if they are true, sweetling. It’s discourteous.”

Arya had nodded and then asked her mother if she wanted to see her treasure. With the air of someone revealing the great secrets of the universe, the little girl had revealed the hidey hole and proudly showed off seven brightly colored pebbles.

Catelyn had oohed and ahed, and then talked the child into accompanying her back up the stairs to where Ned waited. He had carried the sleepy girl back to her room in the Great Keep. Catelyn had never gone below the First Keep again, allowing it to remain the secret domain of children.

Now her long fingers closed around pebbles that weren’t there, and tears began to fall at the bitter irony of her situation. Broken, hungry, thirsty, and held prisoner, Catelyn Stark was home.

 


	34. Lost and Found

“He can’t come with us, Rickon,” Sansa sighed as her little brother stubbornly clung to the direwolf’s neck. “White Harbor’s a big city, full of people. They’ll hardly fail to notice big, black direwolf in their midst.”

“I don’t care!” Rickon said defiantly.

She was glad he was speaking again but frustrated by his words. “Rickon,” she said as patiently as she possibly could. “We will be staying in a little house on a beach. Shaggy can meet us there without ever going through the city. You’ll see him again in no time.”

“I’ll just go with him.”

“You can’t!” Sansa said, coming close to losing her temper in her exasperation. They had not arrived at White Harbor prior to sunset and so had spent a cold night camped beneath a small rocky ledge in the woods an easy ride from the city gates. Sansa was cold, tired, and stiff from lying on the ground, and filled with worry for both her parents. Now, she needed to get her recalcitrant brother moving so that they could enter the city when the gates opened for the day. She closed her eyes for a moment in an attempt to calm herself. “You don’t know the way, and the only good way for a little boy to go is through the city. Wolves can run where people can’t. You know that, Rickon!!”

He scowled at her, and Shaggydog growled.

“Don’t do that,” Sansa said shortly. “I know perfectly well that you’re the one who’s mad at me, Rickon, and not Shaggydog.”

Osha, who’d been watching the two of them with great interest, laughed out loud at that. “Your sister is on to you, wolf pup,” she told the boy. “Send the direwolf on, Rickon. He’ll like as not be safer than we are once we’re inside those walls and surrounded by hundreds of kneelers.”

Rickon looked back and forth between Sansa and Osha, but then released his wolf from his grip, drawing back to look at the animal’s face for a long minute. “Go on then, Shaggy,” he finally said. The direwolf licked at his hand and then disappeared into the trees.

“Where’s he going?” asked Sansa.

Rickon shrugged. “He’s hungry. He’ll hunt until he knows it’s okay to find me.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “And we better not go somewhere he can’t get to or I’ll run away!”

She sighed again. “It’ll be fine. I promise.” She looked at the spot where the wolf had disappeared into the trees and felt an immense longing for Lady. _What must that feel like?_ she thought, _to have such a connection with another living creature?_ She shook the thought from her head. Lady was gone, and she had places to go.

“Ser Donnell!” she called. He had told her repeatedly he wasn’t a knight, but he was so brave and kind and had served her father so well, it just seemed discourteous to call him anything else. And he didn’t get angry with her for saying it like the Hound had in King’s Landing. He only seemed amused and a little embarrassed.

“My lady?” he responded. He had tactfully removed himself to deal with their horses when Rickon had become difficult.

“We are ready to ride for White Harbor as soon as the horses are ready.”

He smiled at her. “Well then, we shall mount up, my lady, as the horses are quite ready now.”

He looked down at Rickon. “My lord?” he inquired, extending his arms to lift Rickon and carry him to the saddle. Technically, Rickon was no more a lord than Donnell was a ser, but the man had learned he got the little boy’s cooperation more quickly when he gave him his father’s title.

Rickon only scowled at him now, and made a noise in his throat that sounded alarmingly like Shaggydog, but he raised his arms and suffered himself to be borne into the saddle. Sansa then accepted Donnell’s assistance in mounting up behind him, and once Osha and Donnell himself were mounted, they started for White Harbor.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

They had ridden hard since breaking camp yesterday, and had stopped only briefly to rest overnight. The snows got deeper as they moved north, but still Ned realized they would reach the fork in the White Knife by nightfall. Then they would follow the eastern fork north to the Sheepshead Hills before turning east toward the Dreadfort.

Lady Brienne almost always rode beside him. She was silent unless spoken to, and then responded in the briefest possible manner to questions. Ned still did not understand the odd woman, but he had come to believe in her complete loyalty to his wife. He had spoken truly to Sansa when he said she was the one person in his company other than himself who would unquestioningly give her life for Catelyn. That made the Maid of Tarth precious to him.

Ned Stark was a man normally comfortable with silence, but there was an undeniable pain in Lady Brienne’s silence, and finally he could stand it no more. “My lady,” he said, “I must beg your forgiveness.”

“My lord?” Her large, blue eyes showed her puzzlement at his words.

“I raised my weapon to you,” he said simply. “That was unforgivable. And yet, I ask your forgiveness all the same.”

“There . . .there is nothing to forgive, my lord,” she stammered.

“There is, Lady Brienne,” he said softly. “And I must thank you for my daughter.”

The big woman lowered her eyes, then, staring at the reins in her hands. “I am sorry, my lord.”

“For doing as my lady wife asked you to do? For taking up arms against her attackers?” Ned shook his head. “Of the two of us, Lady Brienne, you are not the one who need be sorry.”

For a long time, the woman did not respond. Finally, in a voice no more than a whisper, she said, “She alone never mocked me. She found me strange, I know, yet she never mocked me.”

“She loves you,” he told her. He had honestly never thought that much about his wife’s feelings toward this young woman, but as he spoke the words, he knew them to be true.

Lady Brienne made a small, strangled sound in her throat. Then she looked up at him. “If my lady lives,” she said fervently, “she shall be returned to you, Lord Stark. I swear it on my life.”

“I believe you, my lady,” he said seriously, meeting her gaze. Neither of them spoke for some time after that, but Ned found himself comfortable with the silence.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Come on,” Arya said, grumbling as Dak lagged behind again. He seemed fascinated by everything in White Harbor.

“What?” he said, sprinting forward to where she stood. “I was just listening. Those men back there were talking about King’s Landing.”

She rolled her eyes. Dak had already pointed out several times that almost everyone here was speaking in Westerosi as if it were some great surprise, and she had given up reminding him that they were in Westeros. He had approached a few people, casually asking about Donnell Boden. Men had raised their eyebrows at his odd accent, but he was understandable enough, and had told them he had just arrived from Braavos, and that he was the son of Donnell’s sister who’d married a man of Braavos. None of them had seemed to question his tale, but no one had heard of Donnell Boden either.

“So what’s the word from King’s Landing?” Arya asked, not that she cared. She wanted word from Winterfell, from her family.

“The queen is still imprisoned by the High Septon, they say. You know, the boy king’s mother.”

“Cersei,” she spat the name.

“Yes, that’s her.” Dak looked at her carefully. “Do you know her?”

“She’s the one who arrested my father,” said Arya. “And she made my father kill Lady even though Lady never did anything.”

“Lady?”

“Sansa’s wolf,” she said. Then she scowled. “It was Sansa’s own stupid fault for lying, though. She should have told them it was Joffrey’s fault to begin with!”

Dak seemed stunned by her sudden burst of anger. “What was Joffrey’s fault?”

“Everything!” Arya spat. Then she looked down the hill toward the ships in the port and remained silent for a long time. “Not everything, I guess,” she finally said quietly. “But a lot of it was his fault. And his mother’s. And even that fat King Robert.” She looked at Dak. “He was supposed to be my father’s friend, King Robert. But he let Lady die anyway. And he would have let Nymeria die, too, if I hadn’t sent her away.”

“Nymeria?”

Arya realized she’d never told Dak her direwolf’s name. “She was my wolf. She bit Joffrey on the arm, but he deserved it.”

“I’m sure he did,” Dak said loyally.

Arya smiled at him for that.

“Is she the wolf you dream about?” Dak asked.

Arya bit her lip. “I think so,” she said. “In my dreams, I’m the wolf. But, yeah, I think it’s Nymeria.”

“Is she here?” Dak asked, his brown eyes big and round.

“No. She’s coming north, though. Last night, she . . .” Arya’s words trailed away as she remembered her dream from the night before. Three towers of man-rock rising tall with snow lying on the tops of them, and more snow falling onto the ground that was frozen in some places and boggy with cold wet in others. There were lots of men there. Men in the rock towers and men marching toward the rock towers from the south. Many of her small cousins had run back to the south. They feared the men, and they feared the cold which made the prey more scarce.

“You really think she’s there, Arya? Not just in your dreams?”

Startled out of her reverie, Arya made a non-committal sort of sound. This was the closest she’d ever come to telling Dak just how real her wolf dreams were. “I don’t know,” she said. “Hey, look!” She pointed toward a stall selling food. “I’m hungry. It won’t cost much to get a bite to eat.”

She started off toward the food seller, trusting Dak to follow. She didn’t want to speak more about her dream, but she had remembered more. The men marching on the three big towers carried banners. She’d seen them through her wolf’s eyes. Remembering them now, she knew the white banner at the front of that group of men bore the direwolf of House Stark.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“We are almost to the fork of the White Knife, my lord,” Ned said to Davos Seaworth.

“Yes?” Seaworth asked.

“Your best path would be to ford the eastern fork and then travel northward along the eastern bank of the western fork. It will take you to the Kingsroad just south of Castle Cerwyn and Winterfell lies just north along the road from there.”

Seaworth nodded. Ned knew he had little knowledge of the north. “I would expect his grace to be somewhere between Deepwood Motte and Winterfell, my lord, unless he has already laid siege to your castle,” Seaworth said.

Ned looked at the man sympathetically. “Deepwood Motte lies all the way northwest to the coast, my lord. And there is naught but the Wolfswood between it and Winterfell. That is a forest greater and deeper than any you have seen in the south, I fear.” He shook his head slightly. “Distances between castles and keeps in the north are much greater than what you are used to, Lord Seaworth.”

“I must attempt to find King Stannis,” Seaworth said firmly.

Ned sighed. “Just to the west of Winterfell, there is a small crofters’ village. If it has not yet been abandoned in favor of the winter town, and Bolton’s forces do not hold it firmly, you may find shelter and information there if you can reach it unmolested. I have no other advice to give you, my lord.” He hesitated. “You are, of course, welcome to remain with us. Winter is coming. A man riding alone in the north faces peril at such a time even without threat of war. And war has most definitely come here.”

Davos Seaworth looked at him. “I must seek King Stannis, my lord. I thank you for your words of advice.”

Ned sighed again. He needed every man he could muster to take the Dreadfort, but he could not let this man who had returned his son to him ride out entirely unprotected. “Speak to Robett Glover,” he said. “Take a small escort with you. At least half a dozen men. You can at least divide watches in the night that way.”

The man nodded his thanks, and rode off to find Glover. Ned would hate to see him go, but perhaps he would be a positive influence on Stannis should he find him. Ned hoped so. Right now, he had little thought to spare for Davos Seaworth or Stannis Baratheon. His mind was fixed firmly on reaching the Dreadfort and Catelyn.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“It’s all shops, I think, on this side,” said Dak. They had eaten and then wandered the streets of White Harbor for most of the day. It was well past midday now, and they were wandering up a street which led up from the port along the city wall.

“Well, we can ask about Donnell in shops,” Arya said, trying not to sound as discouraged as she felt. “And maybe sell my yellow cloth as well.”

She saw a group of women standing beside a fruit seller. Arya thought the fruit all looked pretty rotten, but perhaps that’s all you could get here once winter approached. “Excuse me, miladies,” she said, bowing deeply to the group of women, who obviously were not highborn.

The youngest among them giggled. The others just rolled their eyes.

“I was wondering if you would assist a humble lad,” Arya said with a flourish the mummers of the Ship would have been proud to see. She was doing her best to put their lessons on playing the gallant knight to good use.

“What d’ye want, boy?” one of the women asked.

“I only seek to sell a bit of pretty cloth,” Arya answered, “to make a bit of honest coin.”

“If he’s got any pretty cloth, he stole it like as not,” another woman said huffily.

“No, milady. It’s all I’ve got left from my poor mother. I swear it.” Arya forced big crocodile tears to her eyes, but did not allow them to fall. She thought a boy missing his mother might tear up, but he’d not actually cry in front of a bunch of women. “I wouldn’t part with it if my little brother weren’t starving.”

“Poor boy,” the youngest cooed. “You could try Harmon Wade, I suppose. His shop’s just there, and he carries nice cloth.

Arya knelt and grabbed the young woman’s hand. “I thank you, milady! You are the soul of kindness!”

One of the older women grabbed her backward, snatching her hand from Arya’s grip. “That’ll be quite enough, Ella. Come along.”

As the women walked further up the street away from the port, Arya caught sight of Dak doubled over with laughter.

“Hey! It worked, didn’t it? Let’s check out this Harmon Wade.”

Dak managed to stop laughing, but still had a ridiculous grin on his face as they passed through the door of the cloth seller’s shop.

It was dim inside the shop, but Arya’s eyes adjusted quickly. Bolts of cloths lined various racks along the wall, and a long counter ran in front of the wall opposite the door. Behind it, stood a young man who was marking in a ledger with a quill. The shop was otherwise empty.

“Do you buy cloth?” Arya asked loudly.

The young man looked up and eyed Arya and Dak doubtfully. “I only deal in quality materials,” he said. “I don’t buy scraps. Perhaps you could try one of the women who have wagons down at the port.”

“I don’t have any scraps. I have a good long length of yellow linen,” Arya said. “It’s not as fine as silk, but the color’s true and there’s plenty enough to do the embellishments on a lady’s gown with it.”

She wasn’t sure if Dak or the man behind the counter looked more shocked to hear her speak with authority about the quality and use of the cloth, and she didn’t really care. She pulled her precious bundle from beneath her overlarge shirt. She’d wound the yellow cloth tightly and bound it in a piece of rough wool which she now laid on the counter and opened up.

The man fingered the yellow material. “Where did you get this?” he asked suspiciously.

“It was a gift,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I do not buy from thieves,” he said.

That made her blood boil. She snatched the cloth off the counter. “Come on, Dak!” she said angrily. “I’d rather sell it to a ragwoman for a penny than sell it to a man who questions my honor!” She looked at the man behind the counter with ice in her grey eyes. “You, sir, have made a mistake this day, and have missed the opportunity for a good purchase.”

She turned on her heel and strode toward the door and realized both the man and Dak were just staring at her open mouthed. “Come on, Dak,” she repeated, looking back at him. “Let’s go find your Donnell Boden and get on with it. The sooner we leave White Harbor, the better!”

She turned again to go, but was stopped by the sound of the man sputtering behind her. “D . .Donnell? Donnell Boden?”

When she turned back to look at him, his face was white. “You know him?” she asked.

The man swallowed visibly. “Who are you?” he asked.

As Arya bit her lip, pondering how to reply, Dak offered up their story. “I’m his nephew,” he said. “I’ve just come from Braavos, the son of his sister who married a man of Braavos.

The man behind the counter narrowed his eyes at him, and then stared at Arya again. “Who are you?” he repeated.

“Why should I give you my name when I don’t know yours?” she asked him. “But I am of the north, and if you are a true northman, you will tell me what you know of Donnell Boden.” She hesitated. “And of the man who travels with him.”

That startled the man. She could see it. “I am Harmon Wade,” he said. “I come from Deepwood Motte.”

“You’re a Glover man, then?” Arya asked, remembering that Deepwood Motte was the seat of House Glover.

“Aye,” he said, still staring at her. “But where do you come from, boy?”

“I told you,” she said. “I am of the north.”

Harmon Wade shook his head slowly, looking at her closely. “But the older boy is a cripple,” he whispered under his breath.

“What?” she asked him.

He stared at her for another long moment and then seemed to come to a decision. Taking a deep breath, he asked her, “Can you tell me how Lord Manderly came to choke on his soup at the feast at Winterfell for Robb Stark’s tenth name day?”

Arya grinned. She’d been very small, but that was one feast she remembered well. She decided then to give this Harmon Wade the truth and take her chances. “Because I asked him how he could possibly be so fat,” she said firmly, looking right at Harmon Wade.

The man’s eyes got absolutely huge. Then he rounded the counter and fell to his knees in front of her. “Lady Arya!” he exclaimed. “Oh, my lady! Can this truly be you? You were feared lost!”

Dak was staring between her and the man on his knees, and Arya now felt decidedly uncomfortable. “Um, yeah, well I’m not lost. Get up, will you? Do you know where Donnell is?”

The man nodded. “He is here,” he said in a voice still full of disbelief. “Well, not here precisely, but in the safe house with Lady Sansa and little Rickon.”

Now, it was Arya’s turn to stare wide eyed and dumbfounded. “Sansa?” she said. “Ric . .Rickon? But Rickon is dead!”

“No, my lady,” Wade said. “The villain Greyjoy murdered another in your brother’s place. He is here with the Lady Sansa.”

Tears filled Arya’s eyes and started falling down her cheeks before she knew what was happening. _Stupid, stupid,_ she thought. _Don’t cry!_ But she was crying, and she couldn’t stop. She was sobbing and shaking, and suddenly the only reason she wasn’t on the floor was that Dak had come to grab her and hold her up.

“Your brother and sister, Arya!” he was saying. “You’ve found them!”

The words seemed so unreal to her that she couldn’t make sense of them. She had spent the entire sea voyage convincing herself of the reality of her parents’ survival, imagining herself being with them again. She had not thought to find Sansa first . . .and her brothers were dead.

“Bran . . .” she choked out, finally, looking down at Harmon Wade who was still on his knees, staring at Dak and herself helplessly, as if he couldn’t fathom what to do now. “My brother, Bran.”

He shook his head. “He escaped Winterfell alive, my lady, but your brothers were then separated. We do not know where young Brandon is.”

She nodded, and then asked the question that caused her heart to beat so much faster, and hope and fear to constrict her throat. “My parents?” she whispered. Surely, if Sansa and Rickon were truly here, Mother and Father wouldn’t be far away.

She saw the shadow pass across the man’s face, and her heart plummeted. Cold fear gripped her as he hesitated to speak. She threw Dak’s hands off her and grabbed the man’s shoulders. “Tell me where my parents are!” she yelled at at him.

“Arya, let him go! He can’t talk if you’re shaking him.” Dak had grabbed her arms and was trying to pull her off the man, but Harmon Wade put his hands over hers and held them there on his shoulders. She stood still.

“They are not here, Lady Arya,” he said quietly. “Your mother was taken by Ser Hosteen Frey. Your lord father has ridden after them.”

The room began to spin around her. “No,” she said, pulling her hands from the man’s grip and backing away from him. “No. He already got her back from the Freys. He already saved her. It’s in the song.” _Stupid!_ she thought. _Songs aren’t real!_ But this one had to be real because her mother was alive. “He already saved her!” she yelled.

“Please, my lady,” Wade implored her, “You must not shout. We cannot draw attention here.” She saw him look toward Dak as if asking for assistance, but she could not stop shouting.

“Tell me all of it!” she demanded of Wade. “I need to find my mother!” Then she was crying again, and somehow she was sinking to the floor while Dak tried to hold on to her. Yet she was also back at the Twins, and the Hound wouldn’t let her go. “I need my mother,” she said, throwing off Dak’s arms, or the Hound’s. “I want my mother.”

She wasn’t sure how long she remained there lying on the floor, but gradually she became aware that the room was silent except for her sniffs and gasps. No one touched her. Dak sat close by, watching her with a frightened look on his face. Harmon Wade had risen and gone to stand by the closed door of the shop, looking out its small window into the street.

Arya Stark pushed herself slowly to an upright position. “Tell me everything that has happened,” she said to Wade in a cold, hard voice. “Then take me to my sister and brother.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The little house built up against the jutting wall of bedrock was too tiny to warrant the title house or even cottage, Sansa thought. Donnell Boden had called it a hut, and that seemed as good a word as any. There was only the single small room with minimal furniture, and the back wall was actually formed by the bedrock itself.

Sansa had offered the single small bed to Osha and Rickon, but her brother had announced he wanted to sleep with Sansa before running back outside to watch for his wolf. The memory made her smile in spite of all her fears, although she wondered if he would still want her once the sun truly set. He’d been with Osha a long time.

Donnell had gone to gather firewood which was not a simple task on this largely treeless, rocky expanse of shoreline, and she and Osha were contemplating how best to arrange things to give adequate floor space for Osha and Donnell both to make pallets come nightfall.

“Sansa! Somebody’s coming!” came Rickon’s voice from outside.

“Get inside, Rickon,” she said as she opened the door to look out. He stood well away from the hut, so that he could see around the outcropping that hid them, and he looked back in the direction of the cave that held the passage to Harmon Wade’s shop. He didn’t move. “Rickon!” she said again. “Come back inside.”

He shook his little head. “It looks like Harmon Wade,” he said. “And two boys. Bigger than me, but not as big as him.”

As her stubborn little brother made no move to come back, and she was now curious herself, she walked down the beach to join him. She heard Osha following wordlessly behind her and knew the tall wildling woman would have her spear in hand.

It was Harmon, she saw, once she had reached the edge of the outcropping. Beside him walked two boys who appeared to be about ten years old. For a brief moment, her heart jumped, and she thought, _Bran,_ but of course, Bran couldn’t walk. She knew that. And as they drew closer, she could see that both of these boys had dark hair, although the one had so little hair at all, the precise color was difficult to make out.

Suddenly, that boy gave a little cry and started running toward them. Sansa was startled at first and grateful to know Osha was there with her spear. But then she saw the face. _Oh gods, that face!_ Older, harder somehow, but dirty and fierce and so much like Father’s!

She wasn’t aware of moving at all, and yet she found herself running. She collided with her sister, both of them falling to their knees as they threw their arms around each other. Neither said anything. They just stayed there like that and sobbed uncontrollably because they had no words.

The four people standing on the beach watching them made no move to interrupt. Even Rickon remained still and silent. Finally, Arya pulled back and looked at her. “Your hair looks stupid brown,” she said.

 _Oh gods, Arya!_ Sansa laughed through her tears at that and found she couldn’t control the laughter any more than she could her sobs. Finally, she regained enough control of herself to reply, “Well, you’ve no room to speak. You’ve barely any hair at all!”

Arya grinned at that, and she laughed too, but then her face turned quite serious, and Sansa felt so many things at once, she almost couldn’t contain them. But above everything, she needed her sister to know how sorry she was for all she had done wrong.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, only to hear Arya say the exact same words at the same time. Then they were hugging again and laughing until Rickon’s voice interrupted. “Who is she?”

Arya’s eyes looked past Sansa now, staring at the little boy whose challenging words and fierce expression were belied somewhat by the fact that he had grabbed Osha’s hand. “Baby Rickon?” she said, in a tone of disbelieving joy. “You have gotten big!”

“I am not a baby!” he protested. “And who are you?”

Arya turned to Sansa, looking stricken. “He didn’t recognize any of us,” Sansa told her quickly. “He was so little when we left, Arya.”

“Arya,” Rickon repeated. “Are you my other sister? You don’t look like Mother and Sansa. You don’t like any kind of a sister.”

Sansa could not suppress a giggle at that for her brother was quite right. In the filthy, ill-fitting men’s clothing and with that barbaric excuse for a haircut, Arya certainly didn’t look like any kind of a sister. _But she is. She is my very own sister._ “No, Rickon,” she said in an attempt at a calm and reasonable voice. “She doesn’t look so much like Mother or me. She looks like Father, though. And I believe your eyes look just like hers, even if they aren’t the same color.”

Just then, a long howl sounded from further down the beach. Sansa looked up to see Shaggydog bounding toward them. Rickon gave a cry of glee and ran to meet the direwolf, his strange new sister momentarily forgotten.

Harmon Wade and the boy beside him stared at the approaching animal with expressions of near terror, but Sansa saw something else entirely on Arya’s face. She stood and looked at the huge, black beast with an expression of awe and longing. She watched Rickon throw his arms around Shaggy’s neck, and Sansa was quite certain she heard her sister whisper, “Black Brother.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Five days. It had been five days since Catelyn had been taken. Ned cursed the snow that seemed to get deeper and harder to ride through the further they went into the Sheepshead Hills. He had pushed the men and horses almost beyond their limits, he knew, and yet he still felt it wasn’t enough. They had to move faster.

They were gaining on the Frey men now. He knew it because there was more evidence of their having passed recently along this trail. They were southrons, unused to such weather. Surely, northmen could outride them through the snow! It would be a far easier thing to recover Catelyn if they could overtake her captors out in the open than if they actually had to attack the Dreadfort with such a small force. In truth, he didn’t think he could take the Dreadfort with such small numbers. So he pushed himself and his men relentlessly.

“My lord!” Robett Glover approached him from up ahead. “We came upon three dead horses just ahead of here. Southron war horses, ill-suited to the snow in the hills. They look to have been exhausted. If Frey’s men are mostly mounted on such as those, they cannot be far ahead.”

Ned nodded grimly. “Take men who can move silently, Robett, and scout ahead. I have no wish to stumble upon them or warn them of our coming.”

Glover nodded. “Yes, my lord.” Then he was off again.

 _Could it be today?_ Ned thought, as he watched the man ride ahead again. _Will I find you today, my love?_

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The dim light that illuminated her makeshift cell through the window in her door came from a torch which must be mounted on the wall in the corridor leading to the stairs. Catelyn couldn’t quite see the torch. Nor could she see the guard who stood near it, but she knew one was there.

A guard had come running in that first day after she realized where she was. She knew a scream from this little room could be heard by anyone standing near the First Keep and that Winterfell was full of northmen, most of whom had reason to love the Starks far better than Roose Bolton. So she had chanced a scream--her voice hoarse and ragged, but loud enough all the same. That had brought the guard running in. He had hit her in the side of the head which started the explosions again, and clapped a hand over her mouth. A second man had arrived shortly after and instructed him to gag her.

She had been gagged ever since except for when they brought her food and water. She wasn’t sure how long she had been here. Her mind was still hazy from the head injury, and she couldn’t see daylight; only the torchlight which burned with the same brightness day and night. At least, she had stopped feeling she would vomit every time she moved her head too quickly. She kept down food and water well enough and didn’t feel quite so weak anymore, although the gag made her feel always that she was about to suffocate. The guards who brought her food and water refused to speak to her except to admonish her not to speak. When she persisted in questioning them, they simply replaced her gag and left without letting her eat or drink. There were only three of them who took turns coming to her. She surmised that Bolton was attempting to restrict knowledge of her presence here to the smallest number of men possible.

She wondered where Ned and the children were. She had seen Brienne riding away with Sansa before everything had gone black. She remembered that now, and hoped fervently that Brienne had gotten her daughter safely back to camp. Her heart ached when she thought of Rickon. One night. Only one night she had sung to him again, and then was ripped away from him. How he must hate her for abandoning him once more. He couldn’t possibly understand what had happened.

And Ned. The image of him holding her hand with those smoky grey eyes of his looking into her own haunted her, causing her almost physical pain. The promise in those last moments they’d spent together had been broken, shattered by Hosteen Frey and Roose Bolton, but Ned would blame himself. She prayed he would not act rashly, but feared that he would. He would come for her, of course. She simply prayed to his gods and her own that he would not risk himself needlessly.

Gods, it was hot in this room. Her filthy shift clung to her and seemed uncomfortably tight, especially across her chest. She was bruised in about a hundred places, and most movements caused her pain, but it seemed that her breasts were particularly tender and the movement of the shift’s fabric across her nipples was almost unbearable. She couldn’t imagine why . . . _Oh, gods!_ It had been six years, but she remembered this feeling. So much had happened recently. She hadn’t kept track. Desperately, she tried to remember. _Oh, gods, before the Eyrie!_ She had not had her moonblood since before they reached the Eyrie. Almost since her first flowering, Catelyn’s moonblood had arrived dependably on time, and she had been this long without it only five times before.

 _No,_ she thought. _Not now._ She felt the tears threaten, and she fought to control them, having learned already that crying while gagged made breathing almost impossible. _The_ _gods are indeed cruel,_ she thought, as she lay a hand over her belly. Her greatest prayer answered only to become another nightmare. _Oh, Ned, one more babe I cannot_ _protect! One more I cannot keep safe!_ Catelyn was prepared to give her life for any of her children, but now there was a child who depended upon her surviving. She’d grown so used to thinking of her own life as the least of her priorities that she almost couldn’t remember how it felt to be concerned with self-preservation. But as she wrapped her mind and heart around the knowledge of this brand new person, this tiny bit of Ned within her, Catelyn Stark silently vowed to do whatever she must to stay alive.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“We’ve found them, my lord!” The rider came to Ned about an hour before sunset with excitement in his voice and an expression of great anticipation on his face. “They are stopping for the night less than an hour’s ride from us.”

“Were you seen?” Ned asked.

“No, my lord. I was the furthest forward and I halted as soon as I realized I was upon them. I watched only long enough to be certain they were truly stopped and then rode back to turn back our other scouts. No one else even approached the Freys.”

Ned nodded. “Well done,” he said. Then he asked the question foremost in his mind. “Did you see her? Did you see my wife?”

The man shook his head. “No, my lord. I saw naught but men. But I did not stay to look long nor dare to come too close to them. I couldn’t see everyone there.”

Disappointment knifed through him. He hadn’t realized just how desperately he needed to hear that she was there and well until he didn’t hear it. He clenched his jaw and simply nodded at the man. Then he turned his horse and held up his arm to halt their own column.

Dismounting from his horse, he motioned for Robett and Brienne to join him and sent the scout back through the ranks to tell the men to quietly prepare to make camp for the night.

“My lord, have they found the Lady Catelyn?” Brienne asked immediately as she approached him.

“I hope so,” he said quietly. “They have found the Frey men. They are making camp not far from here. The scout did not see Catelyn, but she must be with them.”

Glover nodded. He had already heard the report as he had been ahead with the scouts. “What shall you have us do, my lord?”

Ned was silent for awhile. “Bid the men get some sleep, setting the usual watches. Leave the horses saddled and prepared to ride.” He looked at the sky. “There will be a moon tonight, but only a narrow one. Enough light to see once our eyes adapt, if we go slow and careful, but dark enough that men startled out of their sleep will be like the blind.” He looked at Brienne and then Glover. “Rest the men while we may. We shall rise when the night approaches its darkest time and attack the Freys at the hour of the wolf.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

She hadn’t really slept much, but she had dozed off and on lying in the straw on the dirt floor. She supposed it had been night or still was night because no food or drink had been brought for what seemed a long time. Her limbs were stiff, and between that and the difficulty of breathing through her gag, she could not lie down any longer.

She pushed herself up to a seated position and attempted to stretch her arms and legs. She then tried to run her hands through her hair, a move she always regretted as her hair was matted and stiff with dried blood and gods knew what else. Her hands were bound tightly with linen in a manner eerily similar to the bandages she had worn after her palms were cut by Bran’s would-be assassin, but the purpose now was to bind her fingers so she could not remove the gag. It left her arms free, for which she was grateful, but prevented her from accomplishing any task requiring manual dexterity.

She heard footsteps from the direction of the stairs, and hastily, if painfully, got herself upright and standing. She was nearly as tall as two of her guards and slightly taller than the third, and she derived at least a small amount of satisfaction in refusing to allow them to look down on her. Then she heard voices. That was odd. The guards never spoke.

“What is this place exactly?” A woman’s voice! Catelyn couldn’t imagine what woman would be coming down here.

“It’s an old place, my lady.” That was one of her guards. “I don’t think the Starks have used it for a long time. Even before it collapsed.”

_Collapsed? Gods, the First Keep above them had collapsed?_

“I am aware of the history of the First Keep,” the woman snapped. “I have been to Winterfell many times before. I was simply unaware there was a dungeon in it.” Her voice was familiar, Catelyn realized, but she couldn’t quite place it.

“I don’t think it ever was a dungeon, my lady. The little places down here are more like storerooms, I think. But Lord Bolton thought it seemed a good place to put her, being as nobody comes here and it stays warm enough without a fire.”

Catelyn was sorely tempted to go and peer out the little window, but she wouldn’t give her captors even the statisfaction of seeing her curiosity, so she waited.

When the door opened, the woman who walked in gasped at the sight of her. Catelyn might have gasped in return had not the gag prevented it. The tall, proud woman whose brown hair had quite a bit more grey than Catelyn remembered was Lady Barbrey Dustin.

“What, by all the gods, have you cretins done to her?” Lady Dustin asked. “If you think the sight of her like this is going to endear any of us to Eddard Stark, you are worse than fools.”

“Lord Roose said she wasn’t to make any noise, my lady,” the guard replied.

“And you’ve kept her filthy and half-naked! For gods’ sake, look at her hair!” She shook her head. “Roose Bolton is a bigger fool than I thought if he intends to let Eddard Stark see her like this.”

 _Is Ned here?_ Catelyn wondered. Her heart simultaneously leapt and clenched with fear for him at the thought.

“Get that thing off her face,” Lady Dustin commanded sharply. “I would converse with her, and she can hardly eat with it in any event.”

The guard moved behind Catelyn and roughly undid the tight knots that held the gag in place. She coughed as she always did when the binding loosened and she spit the material from her mouth. When she breathed more easily, she met her visitor’s eyes. “Lady Dustin,” she said with all the dignity she could muster, although her voice sounded like sawdust.

“Catelyn Tully,” Barbrey responded with a certain amount of amusement in her voice.

“Catelyn Stark,” Catelyn corrected her. “Lady Catelyn Stark.”

Lady Dustin laughed out loud then. “Still high and mighty, are you? You should see yourself.”

Catelyn licked her dry lips and swallowed. “Oh, I can imagine what I look like,” she said. “I am still Lady Catelyn Stark.”

Lady Dustin’s eyes darkened. “Yes,” she said. “By virtue of one Stark or another, I suppose.” She turned to the guard. “Put her food down and leave us.”

“My lady, I shouldn’t leave you . . .”

“Leave us!” Barbrey commanded. “Look at the woman. She is hardly able to stand. If she tries to attack me, I promise I’ll scream. And send your friend for a washbasin with soap and water. And a brush.” She looked back at Catelyn’s hair. “Although perhaps a good pair of shears would be more useful.”

The man stared at her blankly. She sighed. “That was a jape. Now, excluding the shears, go and do as I have bid you.”

After only a brief pause, the man bowed. “As you wish, my lady,” he said before turning and closing the door behind him.

Once he was gone, Barbrey Dustin turned back toward Catelyn and shook her head. “That hair,” she said. “It truly defies explanation.”

“Have you a purpose in coming here, Lady Barbrey, or do you only wish to discuss the dreadful condition of my hair?” Catelyn asked, raising a brow.

Barbrey laughed again. “Perhaps I came to hear someone speak with some intelligence for a change. I’ve been too long surrounded by Freys. But you mistake me. I wasn’t referring to the condition of your hair, but to that color.” She shook her head again,. “You are a scant few years younger than I, and yet I see not a single grey strand. How is that possible?”

“Perhaps I live a charmed life,” Catelyn said dryly. “Now, are you going to tell me the reason for your visit or not? What does Bolton intend to do with me? Have you cast your lot in with him, or have you enough honor to stand by your allegiance to House Stark? You obviously know my lord husband lives so you know he is the rightful Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

Lady Dustin looked at her a moment. “Honor,” she snorted, and then she said carefully, “I know your husband lives. I do not know that he is the rightful lord of anything. He is, after all, a traitor to the crown convicted by poor dead King Joffrey. And Lord Roose has been made Warden of the North and his son Ramsay given Lady Arya and Winterfell by little King Tommen’s own hand.”

“That girl is not my daughter and you know it!” Catelyn spat. “And my husband is no traitor!”

“Oh, I beg to differ with you there, Catelyn Tully,” Barbrey Dustin spit back. “Perhaps the Lannisters merely accused him of treason against the wrong king. Or was it some other man that led the north in rebellion against King Aerys?”

“Aerys?” said Catelyn, not understanding what the Mad King had to do with the current situation. “Aerys was evil and mad! You know what he did to Lord Rickard and Brandon. Ned had no choice!”

“Everyone makes choices, Lady Tully, and I’ve made mine. Perhaps I’m not proud of them all, but I’ve made the best choices I could. I won’t say the same for your Lord Stark--second born and second best. I begged Willam not to go with him on his fool’s errand.”

“Lord Dustin was a good man. Ned trusted him. He was with him until the very . . .”

“End,” Barbrey finished. “He was with him until the end, when Eddard Stark left his bones to bleach in the Dornish sun while he carried Rhaegar’s little trollop north to Winterfell. Too much trouble to be bothered with Willam, but not his sister.” There was venom in her voice.

“He buried, him, Lady Barbrey. He buried them all. He was devastated when he returned without them.”

Lady Dustin laughed again, and it sounded as cold as winter itself. “Listen to you! The man rode north from Dorne bringing me a horse and you a bastard! Why do you defend him so? I suppose he did at least bring you a working cock so he could keep putting babes in your belly.” She shook her head again. “Beautiful and disgustingly fertile. Gods, you are easy to hate.”

Catelyn blinked, trying to keep up with the conversation, but somewhat at a loss as to what the woman wanted from her. “Lady Dustin,” she said with as much courtesy as she could muster. “I am not certain what it is you wish of me, but I would like to know why you have come. Are you here to aid me or taunt me?”

“Neither. Although taunting you is entertaining.” She sighed. “I cannot aid you. I am too much a part of Lord Bolton’s plans at this point to cast him aside heedlessly. He thinks he needs me, and he is correct about that, but if he thought for one moment I’d betray him, he’d kill me without a thought. He’d kill you without a thought, as well, the moment you serve no purpose to him. I’d remember that if I were you.”

“And why does he need me?” Catelyn asked, although she knew the answer.

Barbrey smiled. “Because while he holds you, Eddard Stark will not kill him. He won’t risk you. It pains me to say it because the man was supposed to be mine. You were just a means to some swords, but somewhere along the way, he came to care for you.”

“What do you know of my husband’s mind?” Catelyn said. She had hoped to convince Bolton that Ned wouldn’t risk the entire north on her account. She was certain that cold, calculating man had never truly loved a woman, and she had hoped to make him believe she didn’t matter that much to Ned. Of course, that had been her plan before she knew . . . Unconsciously, her hand fluttered over her belly.

“I have eyes,” Barbrey Dustin said. “I am not some blind, arrogant man. I have been to enough feasts at Winterfell to see how it was between you . . .bastard or no bastard.” She shrugged. “He’s stayed to your bed more than Brandon would have done at any rate.”

Catelyn had heard stories about Brandon and Barbrey Ryswell as she had been then. Looking at the woman’s face now, she thought they were likely true. She wondered if Barbrey knew about the other girls Brandon had bedded. One of Catelyn’s own maids had been sent away during her betrothal to Brandon, and Catelyn had subsequently wondered if it had merely been because the girl had gotten with child or because her father feared the child would look too much like his future son-in-law, the heir to Winterfell.

“And how does Lord Bolton intend to use me against my husband? He can’t simply hold me her forever and hope Ned allows him to die of old age because of it.”

Barbrey laughed again. “Hardly. He intends to give Winterfell to your husband in exchange for Lord Stark’s acknowledgement of himself as Warden of the North. The northern lords will see that the two men have come to a friendly accord and are working together to kill or drive out of the north every Frey who draws breath.” She smiled tightly. “Nothing to bring our little northern family together like a healthy dose of shared vengeance.”

“So Bolton will turn on the Freys as quickly as he turned on my son,” Catelyn said in disgust.

“Of course,” said Lady Dustin. “He’ll turn on his bastard as well if need be. His fat little Frey wife is with child, you know. Ramsay will kill it if he’s given a chance. Once, I think Roose wouldn’t have cared, but Ramsay has proven to be even more difficult than his father thought. His death would pain Roose little as long as Fat Walda is nice and fertile.”

“And what’s to keep Ned from simply telling the truth about all of Bolton’s crimes once I’m free?” Catelyn asked.

Lady Dustin’s laugh then had an almost musical tone to it. “Why, my dear lady, we are talking about Lord Eddard Stark. Roose intends to have him swear to the terms on his word of honor. He’s probably the only man in the Seven Kingdoms who could actually be counted upon to keep such a vow.”

“He’ll never make such a vow,” she said.

“Of course, he will,” said Lady Dustin with another smile. “Because if he doesn’t, Roose will kill you.”

Catelyn shivered. Lady Barbrey was right. Ned wouldn't let Roose Bolton kill her. “What of the other northmen here in Winterfell? If they learn I am here . . .”

“There won’t be any northmen here to learn anything as of sunset, I’m afraid. The snows that fell during that terrible long storm are quite settled. Roose intends to send all the northmen out against Stannis Baratheon who’s hunkered down somewhere in the Wolfswood. All but the Freys, of course. Those he’ll keep here, ostensibly because of the bad blood between the Freys and the Manderlys, but in actuality to defend Winterfell if need be, should your husband not care as much about your welfare as we hope. He’ll keep some of my men and some of his own as well, but send enough of them against Stannis with Ramsay to avoid raising suspicion.” She smiled. “He is rather cunning, Roose. He’s already sent a messenger to meet your husband at Moat Cailin. If he can get to Lord Stark before they attack the Moat, he’ll give him safe conduct which will lend credence to the idea that he is thrilled to discover his liege lord alive and eager to welcome him back. If we are too late to prevent that battle . . .” Barbrey shrugged. “Well, the Moat is held mostly by Freys, so no great loss should Lord Stark win. Should he lose and die, well, that would be a tragedy, and we would all mourn him. You would quietly disappear, having never been here, of course, and things go back to the way Roose wants them. He has a plan for all contingencies.”

Catelyn’s mind had been working all the while Barbrey spoke. _Moat Cailin._ They thought Ned was with the army marching north from the Riverlands. Ned was already in the north, probably on his way here from White Harbor. She wondered if Roose Bolton had a plan for that contingency and thought desperately about how she might use that particular secret to her advantage. There had to be a way out of this.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The night was cold and dark as Ned’s men rode slowly toward the Frey camp. When the scout signaled they were near the place, a good number of men, including Ned, dismounted and proceeded on foot. They would take out any men on watch and then signal the others to ride in on horseback.

Ned’s entire body tingled as he walked carefully through the wood. Everything had to go right. The attack must be swift and entirely successful or they risked Catelyn being killed in retaliation. He heard a small twig break beneath a foot and looked in that direction to see a man undoing his breeches to take a piss. He was likely starting or ending his watch. Ned crept behind him and with a quick stroke of his dagger, silently ended his life. Moving forward, he saw various pallets laid around fires. There were no tents in spite of the bitter cold. A horse whinnied nervously at the approach of Ned and his men, but all the watchmen must have been killed for no human alarm was raised. In the pale moonlight, Ned saw the dark forms of his men emerging from trees and creeping toward the sleeping Freys. He raised an arm, and the men began to run, attacking men as they lay wrapped in their furs.

As men were grabbed, stabbed, and bludgeoned, some began to cry out. That’s when a horn was blown bringing the sound of hoof beats as the remaining members of Ned’s company came up on horseback, riding down Freys who attempted to stand and fight or flee. The entire thing was over in minutes. Dead Frey men littered the ground and the few live ones were being bound.

“Catelyn!” Ned screamed, not caring that he sounded like a wounded animal. “Catelyn!”

“She isn’t here, my lord.” The voice was Brienne’s.He looked at her face and saw that it looked ashen in a way that wasn’t just from the cold light of a moon that was less than half full. She shook her head. “She isn’t here,” she said again.

“No,” he whispered. Then he grabbed the first Frey man he saw. One of Glover’s men had been binding the man’s hands behind his back. Ned pushed him down on his knees in the snow. “Where is my wife?” he demanded. “Where is the Lady Catelyn?”

“Dead!” the man spit out with a nasty grin. “We slit her throat and threw her in that river way back there just like we should‘ve done at the Red Wedding.”

“Liar!” Ned shouted and he plunged his sword into the man’s chest.

“My lord!” said Robett Glover, but Ned simply held up his bloody sword and looked around at everyone standing in what was left of the Frey camp, captors and captives.

“I am Lord Eddard Stark!” he called out. “Warden of the North! The penalty for kidnapping is death, and I shall do each of you as I have this man! Anyone who seeks mercy had best be prepared to offer truth for it!”

“She died!” one man yelled. “It weren’t our fault. She just died after Ser Hosteen hit her.” The man looked Ned right in the eyes as Ned walked up to him. He stared at the man, searching for some hint that he lied, but the man just looked at him steadily, and Ned felt something inside him start to break.

“My lord!” This time the voice that cried out was Brienne of Tarth’s. “This man lies, my lord!”

He wheeled around to look at her, desperate for her to be right. “How do you know that?”

“I have looked at all of them, my lord,” she said. “The living and the dead. He isn’t here.”

“Who isn’t here?” Ned asked her.

“The big knight who took her. The one who seemed to be the leader. He isn’t here.”

Ned’s overwrought mind took a minute to digest that fact, and then he turned back to the man who yelled. “Ser Hosteen,” he said coldly. “Where is he?”

The man said nothing, and Ned put the tip of his sword under his ribs. “Where is Hosteen Frey?” he said again through clenched teeth. The man remained silent, and Ned braced himself to push the sword through his flesh.

“No!” screamed another man. Ned turned to see an older man held by yet another of Glover’s men straining to get to Ned. “Don’t kill him! He’s my only son!”

“Shut up, old man!” said the man Ned had at sword point.

“No,” the old man said. “It’s over, Kyan. And it’s nothing worth you dying for.” He looked at Ned. “Winterfell,” he said. “Ser Hosteen took your lady and rode for Winterfell.”

 _Winterfell._ He was leagues from Winterfell. Almost as far from it as he had been when they’d first started out. _Catelyn._ Ned’s entire body shook. He’d been riding away from her. Away from her! He walked slowly away from the group of men until he stood by himself.

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, threw back his head and screamed in rage and frustration. He then stood there for what seemed a very long time. Finally, he turned back to the men. None of them had moved from where they stood. He nodded at the few remaining Frey men. “See that they are tightly bound,” he said. “We ride for Winterfell.” Without another word, he walked through the woods in the direction of his horse. _I will not fail you again, Cat. I swear by all the gods, I will not fail you again._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's taken me a bit longer than usual to get this chapter posted, but it's been a crazy, busy week, and I've got another crazy, busy week coming up, so I can't promise when the next one will be ready. I do promise that I seriously want to write it as much as any of you want to read it! :) And I do hope I can make it worth the wait.
> 
> Thanks again to all who read and all who comment. To say that I am overwhelmed at the response this story has gotten so far is the understatement of the year. Much love to you all!


	35. Restless Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has lots of POV's in various locations, and while they all take place around the same general time frame, they don't necessarily occur at the exact same time or in perfect chronological order.  
> And, the usual acknowledgement to George R.R. Martin--these are all his characters in his world. I own none of it, but am awfully grateful he thought them up. :)

There was a cold wind blowing off the water, but Arya Stark paid it no mind. She was restless, wishing to be somewhere else. Ten days. Ten days on this stupid grey, rocky stretch of ground with nothing to see, nothing to do, and no word about her parents. Stupid Sansa kept saying they must wait, and that stupid Donnell Boden was useless. He just did whatever Sansa told him to. The tall wildling woman wasn’t so bad, but she acted like Rickon belonged to her sometimes, and that made Arya angry. Rickon was theirs. Of all of them, Arya minded her little brother the least. He rarely talked and didn’t expect her to talk. He just wandered the beach with Shaggydog.

She knew he had wolf dreams. She also knew he didn’t remember them as well she remembered hers, and wondered if that was just because he was so little or if there was some other reason. He did seem almost to go into Shaggydog sometimes when they were awake together on the beach, and it made Arya wonder if she could do the same if Nymeria were here. Sansa had tried to talk to her once about it. She called Rickon a warg, just like from Old Nan‘s stories, but that had been one of the times when Arya was tired of listening to Sansa talk, so she hadn’t really paid attention. She didn’t tell Sansa about her own wolf dreams. She might have told Rickon, if he wasn’t just a little kid.

She missed Dak. She was angry at him, too. It wasn’t fair that he got to leave the stupid beach when she was stuck here. Stupid Harmon Wade and stupid Donnell Boden decided he was the best person to go back and forth between the hut and the shop because he wouldn‘t attract any attention. He was just a no one. Wade had actually called him no one.

Arya had screamed at the man, then. “He is not no one! He has a name! His name is Dak!” she had yelled. Everyone in the cramped little hut had just stared at her, even Dak. Then she had turned and left, running down the beach to get away from all of them. It hadn’t been the first time or the last.

The first time she had run out had to do with Dak as well. That very first day, after Shaggydog had appeared, and Sansa had managed to convince Dak and Harmon Wade he wouldn’t eat them, they had all gone into the hut except Rickon who stayed outside with the wolf. Arya had expected them to make plans to find her parents somewhere, but they had started talking about sleeping arrangements!

She had simply stood silently in a corner, staring at her sister. Sansa looked so much more like Mother now, in spite of the stupid brown hair. She didn’t know why it had been colored. Perhaps Sansa had been pretending she was someone else, too. Now, though, she seemed to be pretending she was the Lady of Winterfell, issuing orders and instructions. Arya thought maybe she was even as tall as Mother, and she felt small and shabby next to her. She rubbed the fuzzy hair on her head self-consciously. _Stupid!_ she thought to herself. She didn’t care about hair.

She had realized Sansa was talking about all of them sleeping in this tiny little room. The thought made Arya positively claustrophobic and she had spoken up. “I’ll sleep outside.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Sansa had said. “It’s freezing here at night.”

“I’ll build a fire,” Arya had shrugged. “It’s not like anybody’s down here to see it, and the light will be mostly blocked from anybody by the rock anyhow. And the smoke won’t show any more than the smoke from this hearth.”

“I cannot allow it,” Sansa said, giving her the same reproachful look she had seen on her mother’s face a thousand times. _She may look like Mother, but she is not my mother!_ Arya had thought angrily.

“I’m not asking you,” she’d said.

“I’ll sleep outside with her!” Dak had volunteered loyally. “Arya and I will do just fine, and we’ll be close to the hut. It really is too little for all of us to sleep in here.”

His words had been met with silence for a moment. Then Harmon Wade cleared his throat uncomfortably and Sansa spoke. “I am sure the offer is kindly meant, Dak. It is Dak, right?” she had asked in her formal voice.

“Yes, milady,” Dak had said stupidly, nodding at her like she was a queen.

“Well, Dak, I fear it would hardly be appropriate for you and my sister to share sleeping space outside. Surely, you can see that,” Sansa told him.

Again, he nodded like an idiot, and Arya had turned on him. “Oh, please! Like we didn’t sleep in the same cabin all the way here from Braavos!!”

That announcement had been met with uncomfortable silence all around, and Arya had rolled her eyes. She ignored Osha and the two men and looked at her sister. “Gods, Sansa, don’t be stupid! Dak’s just a kid. There was only one cabin for us on the stupid ship!”

Dak finally seemed to catch up to the conversation at that point because he had blushed and stammered, “Oh, no, Lady Sansa! You mustn’t think . . .I mean she’s Arya . . .and I’m . . .well, I just . . .it’s not like that!”

At that point, even Sansa had seemed on the verge of laughing at the absurdity that anything dishonorable could have happened between Dak and Arya, but Harmon Wade had opened his big mouth.

He stood over Dak and said sternly, “Young man, you do realize who this is, don’t you? She is Lady Arya Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn. You would do well to refer to her with more respect.”

Dak had looked puzzled for a moment, and then the realization dawned on him. He turned toward Arya and stammered, “I swear, Ary . . .I mean, milady, I just didn’t realize. I mean I knew you were his daughter, but you were Beth, and then . . .you were just . . .I’m sorry, Ar- . . .milady, I mean.”

“Don’t call me that,” she had said quietly in tones of ice.

Sansa knew enough not to speak when Arya sounded like that, but Donnell Boden didn’t. “He never meant any disrespect, Lady Arya,” he started. “Dak’s a good boy. He was a great help to your father and . . .”

Arya had heard a buzzing in her head which got louder as Boden spoke. The hut seemed to have shrunken to an even impossibly smaller size around all of them. “I know what he did for my father,” she interrupted loudly. “More than any of you are doing for my father right now! And none of you get to tell him how to talk to me!” She then rounded on Dak. “And if you ever call me ‘milady’ again, I swear I’ll stick Needle in your gut!” She had then fled the hut for the first time.

She hadn’t returned until after dark. She honestly didn’t want to make Sansa worry about her. She was so happy to have her sister back, she could barely think about it, and yet Sansa was already making her just as angry as she always had. Everything was different now, and yet nothing was different. And Arya didn’t know what she was supposed to feel or do. She had gone back to the hut with every intention of apologizing. She truly had.

The wolf had been gone when she got back to the hut, and Arya supposed he was hunting. There was a small fire burning beside the bedrock shelf not far from the hut, and Donnell Boden and Dak sat beside it. _I guess that’s their answer to the sleeping question,_ she thought angrily. She told herself that it wouldn’t kill her to sleep in the little hut, and walked past Dak and Boden without speaking to them. What she heard as she opened the door, however, stopped her in her tracks.

“Making all the rivers bright,

Silver ribbons in the night.”

Sansa sat on the single small bed, holding Rickon tightly against her and running one hand through his hair as she sang.

“The ribbons wrap around our keep,

And guard my sweetling as you sleep.” She looked up then, and seeing Arya, smiled at her. _Gods, she looks like Mother!_

Tears threatened Arya’s eyes then, but she held them back. “That’s Mother’s song,” she said quietly, interrupting Sansa’s singing.

“Yes, it is,” Sansa said, still smiling. “Rickon never forgot it. He always wanted her to sing it to him again.”

Arya looked at her coldly. “You are not our lady mother.” She had turned and left without another word, walking past Boden and Dak, and going to sit near the very end of the sheltering outcropping. Neither of them came over to her, and she was grateful for that. She didn’t know how long she’d sat there in the dark before she heard footsteps approach and felt a fur being draped over her shoulder.

Her sister sat down beside her without looking at her. “I’ll never be Mother, Arya. I know that,” she said quietly. When Arya didn’t respond, she added quietly, “I miss her, too.”

After a long pause, Arya whispered, “You got to see her.”

Sansa nodded. “Yes, I had them both again at the Eyrie, and it was like I couldn’t imagine how I’d ever done without them.” Arya heard her swallow. “And now they’re gone again.” Sansa sniffed. “Father made me promise I’d never give up on you and Bran. I promised him, Arya. I promised I’d take care of you all. That’s why I . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I know I’m not our lady mother,” she finished quietly.

Arya hadn’t spoken or looked at her, but she’d reached out and taken her sister’s hand.

Things had been mostly all right between them since. Arya slept on the floor of the hut near Osha, while Sansa and Rickon shared the bed. Dak had brought a tent of sorts on his first trip back from Harmon Wade’s shop which he and Donnell shared. Dak was gone every third night or so, though, since he’d been appointed their messenger and supply man. It prevented Harmon from having to close his shop at odd times or risk being gone from home at night.

Sansa didn’t want to speak of her time at King’s Landing or in the Eyrie before Mother and Father came, although she told Arya everything about what had happened since their parents had found her. Sometimes Arya listened eagerly, drinking up every word as if it were water in the desert, and other times she tuned it out, unable to bear hearing about the parents she couldn’t see or touch.

She told Sansa almost nothing, and Sansa had given up asking. Mostly she walked on the beach with Rickon and the direwolf, and when Shaggy left them to hunt at night she envied him the freedom. Her wolf dreams were brief lately. She wandered through wooded lands with snow on the ground, and her pack was smaller than it used to be. She could feel Shaggydog--she knew it was Shaggy now, and Rickon--but she couldn’t quite find him. She thought she was going the right way, but sometimes she wasn’t sure.

Before she slept each night, she whispered her list of names to which she had added three after hearing Sansa’s tales of her parents and her brothers. _Hosteen Frey, Ramsay_ _Snow, Roose Bolton._ Roose Bolton’s name particularly chilled her as she remembered the weasel soup at Harrenhall. She had set the northmen free, and when he arrived he had made her his cupbearer. And now he had her mother. He needed to die.

So, now she stood here, close to the water, watching yet another day disappear on this desolate shore. The hut had grown too small again, and she had fled, but no one tried to stop her. She knew she had Sansa to thank for that. Her sister had finally told Donnell and Osha both to let her come and go as she pleased. She wished Dak would return with news of her parents. She wished Dak would return bringing her parents. The wind whipping her cloak around was nothing compared to the whirlwind in her mind that gathered more force every day she was trapped here knowing nothing and doing nothing. Arya Stark didn’t know what to do, but she couldn’t help feeling that she had to so something.

 

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Perwyn Frey spurred the horse as quickly as he could through the thick snow, which was not quick at all. _Any who pursue us will face the same snow, and there are no better_ _horses,_ he thought, in an attempt to reassure himself. He heard a soft moan from the man strapped behind him. _Of course, their horses won’t be carrying double,_ he thought grimly.

He had heard no evidence of pursuit thus far, though. He had no idea what had occurred at Castle Black after they’d fled, but it had sounded like full scale warfare. He had reached Jon just as Bowen Marsh struck with his dagger and had leveled his own sword at Othell Yarwick who was raising a dagger at Jon’s back. Yarwick had backed away, dropping his dagger, but more brothers approached, all with daggers drawn, and Perwyn had known he could not stop them all. In a fit of desperation or madness, he had grabbed up Yarwick’s fallen dagger and hurled it at the enraged giant who was howling and repeatedly whipping a dead man against the tower wall. The giant had hurled the dead man into the crowd of living ones and then swung his powerful fists at two of the black brothers advancing on Jon, knocking the men at least thirty feet away.

There was no purpose to the giant’s attack. His next swipe could just as easily have taken out Jon or himself. He had grabbed Jon about the waist and dragged him away as quickly as he could. In the moment, the surrounding men had all been far too interested in fleeing themselves or attempting to subdue Wun Wun to offer more than a token resistence to his leaving. As he dragged Jon away from the chaos there, he ran into Soren Shieldbreaker and a large number of half-drunken wildlings coming from the Shieldhall. He had yelled that the giant was on a rampage and that men of the Night’s Watch had attacked the Lord Commander. The wildlings had headed en masse toward the raging giant and the men surrounding him, leaving Perwyn completely alone with Jon. He had dragged the man back to his quarters where he had Satin help him quickly assess his wounds.

The throat wound was little more than a scratch although the general location and direction of it eerily recalled the deep slash across Lady Catelyn Stark’s throat to Perwyn’s mind. The dagger in Jon’s belly was another matter. The blade was small enough, and the wound in the skin did not bleed much, but there was no way to tell if his bowel had been punctured. If it had, the wound was likely lethal, and the death would be slow and terrible. Perwyn hadn’t had time to think of that, though. If Jon stayed at the Wall, those men would certainly come and kill him.

So he had sent Satin for the horse and bid him help tie the barely conscious Lord Commander on behind him, and now he found himself riding south through the deep snows covering the Kingsroad. _Ser Perwyn Frey,_ he thought bitterly, _Traitor to my King, betrayer of my House, kinslayer, and now deserter from the Night’s Watch_. He laughed out loud into the cold night air, and wondered bitterly if he should perchance find a maiden to rape or an infant to murder in order to complete the decimation of his honor.

Jon moaned behind him. _Damn all Starks_! he thought. _Robb Stark. Catelyn Stark. Jon Not-a-bloody-Stark Snow! And bloody fucking Lord Eddard Stark for sending me to the_ _godsforsaken Wall instead of just taking off my head like I asked him!_ He couldn’t quite comprehend how, in the name of all the gods, attempting to serve the most honorable people in all the Seven Kingdoms had brought him to this pass. He would get Jon to his father if he could. Surely, the man wouldn’t behead Jon as a deserter when the Watch had obviously deserted him! After that, Perwyn had no idea what to do. The idea of reclaiming his honor seemed rather hollow now.

Suddenly the snow in front of him seemed to leap upward and the horse reared and lurched sideways in terror. Perwyn fought to remain seated and to control the horse, struggling to understand what had happened. As a long, low howl emanated from the white blur, he realized that the leaping whiteness was Jon’s direwolf.

“Ghost!” he cried. “Gods, you scared me.” Perwyn generally got on well with Ghost, just as he had with Grey Wind before, but then again, he wasn’t generally fleeing the Night’s Watch during a snowfall at night, and Ghost was usually at Jon’s heels, rather than leaping out in front of Perwyn.

The direwolf sat in the middle of the Kingsroad almost indistinguishable from the snow, save for his red eyes which glowed in the moonlight. Perwyn stared at him a moment. “What?” he finally said.

As if he had been waiting for the question, the wolf stood and walked off the road into some woods. When he had gone just about as far as he could and still remain visible to Perwyn, he turned around, sat down, and waited.

Perwyn stared at him again. He wished Jon would wake up. He seemed to know what the bloody beast was thinking half the time. “What?” he said again. “You want me to follow you?”

The wolf just sat there looking at him. Perwyn sighed deeply and spurred his mount in Ghost’s direction, much to the horse’s dismay. As they approached, the wolf again stood and trotted off through the woods, maintaining a pace Perwyn’s horse could easily match through the snow. In fact, the snow was somewhat easier to traverse here among the trees, as the forest’s canopy had prevented some of it from reaching the ground. Any time Perwyn fell too far behind, Ghost just sat and waited.

After they had gone on like this for about two hours, Perwyn began to realize he couldn’t go much further. He was exhausted and so was the horse. The frigid temperatures couldn’t be good for Jon regardless of how well he and Satin had attempted to bundle him. He realized suddenly that he could no longer see Ghost ahead of him.

“Ghost!” he called out in a moment of panic. He was answered by a soft howl. He followed the sound and found the wolf sitting at what appeared to be the low opening of a small cave. “Oh, thank the gods!” Perwyn cried. This looked like better shelter than any he’d hoped to have this night. He looked at the direwolf in amazement and remembered being similarly amazed by Grey Wind during the battles he’d fought with Robb Stark. He was thankful for the beast’s guidance, but the very thought of a wolf capable of giving him guidance made him shiver.

He carefully started loosening the bindings around himself and Jon, and prepared to stop for the night. Looking again at the direwolf by cave’s entrance, he thought gratefully that at least he could sleep. With Ghost present, there was surely no need to keep watch.

 

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Catelyn Stark had never suspected how glorious it would be just to feel clean again. She ran her fingers, now free of the wretched bindings, through her hair and exhilarated in the lack of dirt, blood, and tangles. The back of her head was still painfully sore and the long gash there remained scabbed, but she could tolerate that. Her skin was still a mosaic of bruises, but at least the dirt had been scrubbed from it, and she even wore a clean shift, with the promise of a dress to come. For all of this, and the absence of her gag, she had to thank Barbrey Dustin.

She would have liked to think of the woman as an ally, but she knew better. Lady Dustin was playing her own game and making the best use of Catelyn that she could. She had washed and combed out Catelyn’s filthy hair herself only because she wanted no maids aware of her presence here, and Catelyn had endured many snide remarks about her hair’s color and abundance during the procedure. She suspected the brush strokes had been rather more forceful than strictly necessary as well, but the result was well worth it. She kept her part of the bargain and did not shout or cry out. Lady Dustin didn’t need to know that she would have kept silent in any event. She remembered well how hard the guard had hit her head when she tried it before, and she would take no chance of any of those men hitting her belly like that.

She laid her hands gently over her sixth child, wonderingly briefly if a tiny girl or a tiny boy grew within her. Of course, a boy would be most welcome, another potential heir for House Stark, and Catelyn allowed herself to imagine a little boy with dark hair and grey eyes just as she had with each of her pregnancies. With Bran and Rickon both alive, though, (and she refused to believe anything else of Bran now), she felt she would be just as pleased with another little girl and wondered vaguely how her blue eyes would look on a girl with Ned’s and Arya’s dark hair.

She sighed. In truth, the babe was the primary reason she was anxious to get a dress. She had learned with each pregnancy that her belly swelled earlier, as if it remembered the expansion required previously and sought to get an earlier start on it. As of yet, she noticed nothing but the slight rounding that was always present since Bran, but still she wanted more material over her than the thin shift, as if more layers of cloth could somehow keep her babe safer.

“I know the way. You needn’t follow me like a dog.” She heard Lady Dustin’s unmistakable voice coming from the direction of the stairs. A moment later she could see the woman through the little window in her door. She carried a torch and a bundle which she set down while she raised the bar outside the door. Then she picked it back up and came into Catelyn’s little cell.

“Don’t you look lovely,” she said when she entered.

“Your sarcasm grows tiring, Lady Barbrey,” Catelyn sighed.

“I’m not being sarcastic,” the woman said shortly. “You do look rather alarmingly lovely, even with your hair unstyled, your face all scarred, and standing there in nothing but that shapeless shift.” She sighed. “What you heard was disgust, not sarcasm.”

Catelyn remained silent at that, and Barbrey thrust the bundle at her. “Here. It’s one of mine. You are almost as tall as I, although certainly . . .curvier.” She rolled her eyes. “I had my maid add some extra material to the bosom.” She eyed Catelyn’s chest. “I hadn’t remembered you as quite so well endowed.”

Catelyn willed her face to remain as frozen as Ned’s could be, and not betray the flash of panic that statement caused her. This babe must remain her secret. “I am not so large breasted as some,” she said off handedly, “Only more so than you.” She could see that her remark bothered Lady Dustin. _Good,_ she thought. Kept off-balance, the woman was less likely to turn her considerable acumen toward puzzles Catelyn would just as soon she not attempt to solve.

“Go ahead and try it on,” Lady Dustin said. “I can’t very well take you out of here in that ratty old shift.”

Now Catelyn was the one off-balance. “Take me out of here?” she said, with an edge of hope creeping inexorably into her voice.

Barbrey laughed. “Oh, don’t sound so happy about it. Winterfell is largely deserted save for Freys, what with everyone gone off to fight old Stannis. Roose wants to see you, Lady Stark.” She put a nasty emphasis on the name ‘Stark.’ “I am to bring you to him. The men still here may wonder who you are and where I got you, but I’ve a cloak outside to hide your face and that infernal hair, so you won’t be recognized. Now get dressed.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Snow was falling again. Forcing the horses to plod through the thick stuff on the ground was quite difficult enough without the beasts and their riders being pelted by the icy flakes that were driven almost horizontally in the frigid wind. Brienne shivered, but the man who rode just ahead of her seemed impervious to the cold. He drove them on toward Winterfell relentlessly. She knew some of the men grumbled, but none had openly protested as of yet.

They were all northmen save herself, of course, and they understood far better what winter here could do. She supposed that while that made them far better prepared than she for a journey such as this, it also gave them more to fear. She had never actually seen a man frozen solid, after all.

For all his haste, Lord Stark was not a reckless man, and while she could see that each stop pained him, he never the less halted the column frequently and had them all dismount to move their limbs about and secure again the various cloaks and wraps which covered them. He had lectured Brienne most severely about frostbite and frequently adjusted the scarf wrapped about her face himself, leaving her barely enough opening at the eyes to see as she rode.

At night, they huddled around fires that were increasingly difficult to make as the wood was mostly damp, and no one was allowed to sleep in long stretches because they had to get up and move their arms and legs. Only their sheer exhaustion made it possible for them to sleep at all in the miserable conditions, and Brienne had not actually seen Lord Stark sleep once.

She saw him raise his arm to call for a halt, and Lord Reed rode his horse up past hers, stopping beside Lord Stark to say something she couldn’t quite hear. She saw Lord Stark nod, and then Reed turned his horse back. “We’re stopping for the night,” he said as he passed her. “It’s a good sheltered spot here, and the horses need rest.”

She nodded at him and dismounted from her horse as he rode back down the line to pass the word. Her limbs were stiff with cold. She watched Lord Stark dismount very slowly, favoring the bad leg far more than he normally did, and she walked to him.

“Let me tend to your horse, my lord,” she said.

Nothing of his face was visible beneath his scarf except his grey eyes, but she could see the hint of a smile in those despite the lines of exhaustion around them. “You are not my squire, Lady Brienne,” he said.

“No, my lord,” she replied. “But the men all want to see you and hear your voice. Surely, you have things to discuss with Lord Glover and Lord Reed. Allow me to see to the horse, my lord, and you can do more important things.” _Like walk the stiffness out of that leg and then sit and rest it by the first fire we get going,_ she thought, but she did not say that.

He looked at her for a moment as if he might argue, but then he handed her his horse’s reins. “I thank you, my lady,” he said simply and walked toward a group of men directly behind them.

In what Brienne felt was a remarkably short time, they had their camp set up for the night, and several fires offered light and warmth as the last vestiges of daylight slipped away. The days seemed much shorter now, Brienne noticed. The men spoke in hushed voices, but they seemed in reasonably good spirits as this was the earliest they had stopped at night, and they were looking forward to the prospect of more rest than usual. Various pots had been brought out and a variety of different things now sizzled over the fires. She gratefully accepted a bowl of some form of stew and was about to sit down by a fire to eat it when she heard her name called from the direction of another fire.

Turning, she saw Robett Glover standing up and hailing her. “Lady Brienne!” he called again. She nodded her thanks to the man who had given her the stew and went to join Glover. As she approached, she saw that only three men sat at this fire: Glover, Lord Reed, and Lord Eddard Stark.

“My lords,” Brienne said with a bow when she reached them.

“Sit down, Brienne,” Lord Stark said quietly. “If the weather holds, we are within a few days of Winterfell. We have been discussing what we can do once we get there.”

She sat down and waited for him to continue.

“We cannot take Winterfell with so few men by any traditional assault. It’s my own castle. I know it’s defenses better than anyone, and it simply cannot be done. We must have some other plan.” His voice sounded tired. _And grey,_ she thought, remembering the first time she’d heard him speak.

“Have you made one, my lord?” she asked. Failing to free Lady Catelyn from Winterfell was not an option, and she knew perfectly well that Lord Stark felt the same. He must have some plan in mind.

“Robett has been telling us what he knows of Theon Greyjoy’s conquest of Winterfell,” Lord Stark said. “The boy’s plan was devilishly simple. He took my castle with no more than thirty men.” The man’s face was cold and hard and his grey voice colder than the wind as he spoke through clenched teeth.

“But how is that . . .” Brienne started to say.

“It was trickery,” Robett Glover interrupted. “You know that we have an ironborn boy in White Harbor, my lady. He cannot speak, and he can write only little yet, but from what he could tell us and from what Lords Reed and Stark know from survivors of the Bastard of Bolton’s attack on Winterfell, we have pieced the tale together. Theon Greyjoy had the larger part of his force attack Torrhen’s Square, knowing that Winterfell would send aid. Ser Rodrik Cassel must have taken almost every fighting man he had. Greyjoy’s men simply swam the moat in the dark of night and climbed the walls.”

“You think we could draw the defenders away, my lord?” Brienne asked, directing her question to Lord Stark.

“No,” he said shortly. “Roose Bolton would not be so foolish. He will never leave Winterfell unguarded. If Stannis Baratheon should attack, however, it is possible his defenders would be rather too occupied to man every inch of the wall.”

“You think we could swim the moat and scale the walls, my lord?” she asked him.

He smiled at her. “The moat is likely frozen now, my lady. Swimming would be unnecessary.”

She nodded. “Winter is coming,” she said, echoing the words she’d heard from him and the Lady Catelyn on numerous occasions.

The man actually laughed out loud. “Well spoken, my lady, but not entirely accurate.” He looked up into the night sky. They were relatively sheltered in thick woods here, but snow continued to fall. “I fear winter has come, my lady. I need no white raven from the citadel to tell me what my own senses can. Winter has now arrived in the north, and I fear we shall not see spring for a very long time.”

He sat silently then for quite a while before saying almost too quietly to be heard, “I cannot scale a wall, useless as I am.”

Brienne knew he spoke of his leg, and knew as well that he hated the infirmity it caused him. She chose not to acknowledge his words as she could not think of anything to say that would not distress him further. Instead she simply stated, “I care not if it is winter, my lord. I shall scale any wall you bid me, in the service of the Lady Catelyn.”

He smiled at her then, one of his rare, real smiles that transformed his frozen face into something entirely different. She had seen it only a few times before, always directed toward her lady. To have that smile bestowed upon her made her feel oddly honored and humbled at once.

“I know you will, my lady,” the Lord of Winterfell said softly. “That is what I have been telling these gentlemen.” He turned to Robett Glover and to Lord Reed, who had been strikingly silent throughout the conversation, and said, “Leave us, my friends. I would speak to the Lady Brienne privately.”

Brienne felt awkwardly self-conscious as the men rose to walk away. She was conscious particularly of Lord Reed’s eyes upon her until he was far away from the fire where she now sat alone with Lord Eddard Stark.

“If Stannis indeed besieges the castle, we may make use of that,” Lord Stark said as soon as the other men had left. “If not, I shall approach the gates under a flag of parley. While I engage Bolton in talk of whatever it is he intends to demand of me, perhaps then you can gain access to the castle over the wall into the godswood.”

She nodded. “You can tell me where to climb, and where to go once I am in,” she said, her mind already working through the mission in front of her.

“Of course,” he said. “I would do this myself if I could, my lady.” The bitterness in his voice was palpable.

“I know, my lord,” she said quickly. “But I am sworn to the Lady Catelyn. It is fitting I should go, and I am honored to do so.”

“They thought I was crazy, you know,” he said wryly. “Well, Robett, anyway. Howland is hard to read sometimes, but I think he agrees with me, more or less.”

“You mean about sending me.”

He nodded. “We’ll send others over the wall as well, of course, but honestly, I want them only to draw attention away from you. You will find her. I know it.”

The certainty in his voice surprised her. “I will certainly try, my lord.”

He laughed then. “Try,” he said. “Where Catelyn is concerned, trying for you means you shall continue until success or death. That is why I trust you to find her, my lady.” He looked at her then for a long time, and Brienne felt herself begin to blush under his gaze. “I have known many knights, my lady. Some were as brave and true as the songs would make them out to be, as my daughter Sansa would have once believed them to be . . .most were not. Many were without any true honor at all. I tell you this, though. None were truer than you, Lady Brienne of Tarth. I told my daughter, Arya, that a lady could not be a knight. I was wrong.”

Those grey eyes had not left hers as he spoke and did not look away now. Brienne felt something she had not felt since Renly had named her to his Rainbow Guard, and, in truth, she thought perhaps that even that had not felt quite the same. She pulled Oathkeeper from its sheath and laid it on the ground before him.

“I swear by my blade that I shall not fail you, my lord,” she said fervently. “I shall give the last breath in my body to see the Lady Catelyn returned to your side.”

He nodded once, and then they both sat silently, looking into the fire. Strategy and plans would wait. For now, nothing more need be said.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The moon was a crescent. He could see it in the dark sky beside a thousand sparkling stars. The air was bitter cold, but no snow fell this night, and the sky was cloudless. A gust of wind rippled his fur, and he looked up at the moon and howled for the smaller wolves of his pack. He wanted to hunt.

_Let him be safe._

The wolf did not hear that voice. Only the broken boy inside the wolf heard it, and it jarred him out of Summer’s skin and back into his own. He did not open his eyes, but he could feel the warmth of the cavern and knew himself to be in his bed, covered in furs. He was aware of the crackling of the fire and the soft breathing of Meera, Jojen, and Hodor sleeping around him. No one there had spoken.

_You are not my gods, but I ask you for my husband and my children. They belong to you as much as to me. Keep them safe._

Bran Stark felt his heart speed up. He wanted desperately to open his eyes, but he feared if he did, the voice would vanish. She could not be here. This had to be a dream, even if he wasn’t truly asleep. He didn’t know how her voice had found its way to him while he dreamed with Summer. That had never happened before. He had only ever heard his father’s voice when he dreamed with the trees. And his father was dead. The Eddard Stark in his tree dreams was but an echo. He thought Robb was dead, too. Summer had felt that Grey Wind and Robb were gone, and Bran felt it with him.

But Mother . . .That was her voice. He knew it. He hadn’t heard it since before he fell, but it was her voice. He tried to calm his thoughts and think of the godswood at Winterfell. She couldn’t be there now, of course. Winterfell was burned and empty, but its weirwood was the only one Bran could easily find when he wasn’t seated on his own weirwood throne in the cavern beside Lord Brynden. He had to try to hear her again. He wanted to see her.

Bran opened his eyes and saw the godswood at Winterfell. There was snow on the ground, and she knelt down in it with her head bowed. Then she lifted her eyes, staring right at him. Staring at the heart tree, he thought. The cloak she wore was not hers, at least not any Bran remembered, and her long braid had fallen forward over her shoulder where she had bowed her head. _Mother._ He couldn’t help himself then. He began to cry.

His mother’s expression changed slightly, and he saw her reach forward and touch the heart tree. When she drew back her hand, he could see the red weirwood sap on her fingertips. “Red tears,” he heard her whisper. Then she touched her own face, and Bran noticed for the first time that she had marks there, red lines against her pale skin as if she had been clawed by ravens.

“We must go. I don’t know what possessed me to bring you here, but we cannot stay.” That was a woman’s voice, sharp and cold. Bran did not recognize it, and he could not see the speaker clearly as she stood back among the other trees. He would not take his eyes off his mother, in any event.

His mother stood then, and he noticed that she kept one hand protectively over her belly. He wondered if she were hurt. “Do not forsake the Starks of Winterfell,” she whispered so quietly that Bran felt he would not have understood her had he not been watching her face so closely.

“Mother!” he cried out, desperate to reach her. A wind rattled through the branches and his mother looked up, a questioning expression on her face. Then she smiled, and Bran thought she must have heard him, really heard him. But she only turned and walked away.

He nearly cried out again after her, but then he felt something. He knew something. He couldn’t explain it or even understand it, but he had never been more certain of anything in his life. He opened his eyes, his own eyes and lay blinking in the firelight of the cavern.

“Meera,” he said. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and looked at the girl who slept near him. “Meera,” he hissed again more loudly.

She stirred sleepily. “Bran?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep and confusion. “It isn’t time to wake yet. Go back to sleep.”

“We have to get up. We have to get out of here.”

“What?” That had startled her fully awake. She sat up and grabbed for her three pronged spear. “What threatens us?”

Bran shook his head. “Nothing. I mean, nothing like that.”

She laid down her spear and sighed in some exasperation. “Then what do you mean by waking me in the . . .” She really looked at him then. “Bran! You’ve been crying! Did something frighten you? Was it a dream?”

 _Gods!_ He hated her talking to him like he was no older than Baby Rickon! Even if he was just a broken boy, he was still a Stark of Winterfell and a prince besides! “It was a dream, but not a dumb nightmare. I’m not a baby,” he said, painfully aware that his protest sounded very childish.

She eyed him calmly. “What is it then?”

“We have to go to Winterfell.”

“What!?” She looked at him like he had taken leave of his senses. “Bran, you are supposed to be here. We came all this way so you could be a greenseer. And Winterfell is burned. You saw it yourself. There’s no one there.”

“My mother is there.”

“Bran . . .” she looked at him with sympathy now, and he hated it. “Your mother is in the Riverlands with your brother, Robb. She couldn’t possibly . . .”

“My brother Robb is dead!” he interrupted angrily.

Now she stared at him. “You don’t know that,” she said.

“My brother Robb is dead,” he repeated more quietly. Jojen and Hodor had both stirred at his previous outburst. “I do know it. I haven’t wanted to admit it, but I’ve known it for a long time. Since before we went past the Wall. Summer felt it when Grey Wind and Robb died, and . . .so did I.” It hurt to say it.

Meera looked at him and nodded. His connection to Summer, at least, was something she believed in. “I am sorry, Bran.”

“But my mother is in Winterfell. I saw her there. I heard her in the godswood.”

Meera shook her head sadly. “Bran, Lord Brynden told you that the things you see can be from any time. I am certain you saw your mother, but that doesn’t mean she’s there now.” She hesitated, “And if your brother is truly dead, Bran, I fear your mother may be captive or killed herself. We know she was with him.”

Bran shook his head. “No. Mother is alive. This wasn’t a tree memory. It was different. She was different.” He had to make her understand. “She looked . . .older, maybe. And she had scars on her face that she never had before. And . . .” Suddenly it hit him. “And she NEVER prayed in the godswood. She didn’t even like to go there! Something has changed.”

“Bran . . .”

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. I’ve heard that all my life, but I just left there anyway and . . .” As he said the words, that strange sense of knowing came over him again, the one he couldn’t really understand. “There is a Stark in Winterfell,” he whispered.

“Bran, there isn’t anyone . . .”

“My mother is . . ."

“Even if your mother is in Winterfell,” Meera interrupted loudly, causing Hodor to mutter and Jojen to sit up dazedly, “she isn’t truly a Stark. Osha would never take Rickon back there, and your sisters are far away. If your brother Robb is truly dead, there cannot possibly be a Stark in Winterfell. This was just a dream.”

“What dream?” Jojen said sleepily.

“Hodor,” muttered Hodor.

He was right about this. Bran knew he was. He didn’t know how he knew it or even what he knew, but it was important. “There is a Stark in Winterfell. With my mother.” _Do not_ _forsake the Starks of Winterfell._ “And I need to go back there.”

“No!” Jojen cried. “We’ve come all this way, Bran! You must be a greenseer. It’s your destiny and you cannot change it!”

Bran sighed. “You’re right, Jojen. I am a greenseer, and I’ll probably end up just like Lord Brynden. And I know everyone expects me to know things and do things and take Lord Brynden‘s place. But I‘m not ready to do that.” It killed him to say the next words, especially in front of Meera. “I’m still a boy. I’m not yet a man grown, and I’m just a cripple. But I am a Stark of Winterfell. And the one thing I do know is that right now, I need to go home.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“We have to go back,” Jon repeated for the millionth time, knowing that Perwyn would ignore him as he had every time before. It had snowed again in the night although the sky was relatively clear now, and the horse was unable to carry both of them through the drifts. Jon sat in the saddle as Perwyn led the beast slowly along, clearing a path as best he could.

“Perwyn, you know we have to go back. There will be chaos at the Wall now, and we cannot have the Night’s Watch and the wildlings battling each other when White Walkers and wights may be massing for an attack.” Jon’s belly ached and the wound seeped blood whenever he rode, but as it had been almost a fortnight now since he’d been stabbed, and he’d developed no fever, he knew he would recover. _Stabbed._ He still felt cold all over when he remembered Bowen Marsh’s eyes as he struck with that dagger. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised at the betrayal. The men had made it plain enough they believed he was betraying them. Yet he had been surprised. And hurt.

Perwyn stopped and actually turned around to look at him. “There will be chaos, yes. And I have no doubt they are all at each other’s throats. But, Jon, that will be the case now whether we return or not. The only thing we achieve by returning now is hastening our own deaths. And before you go all noble and tell me that doesn’t matter, it does.” He paused then and raised his brow as if challenging Jon to argue with him. “You know there are still many brothers loyal to you. Your death would plunge the Night’s Watch even further into discord and violence. You know that’s true.”

Jon thought for a moment and realized there was some truth in what Perwyn said. “What’s your plan, then? Where are you taking me?”

Perwyn actually laughed. “Do you realize that’s the first time you’ve bothered to ask me that since you woke up?” He shook his head. “Thank the gods you’ve been to weak to protest too strongly, or I’d have had to knock you out a dozen times to keep you from running back to the bloody Wall.”

Jon glared at him silently.

“If you want to know where I’m taking you, you could ask your bloody wolf. I’ve been following him since the first night. He seems to go generally south, which is good, and he manages to find decent shelter for us.”

Jon nodded. He chose not to tell Perwyn he already knew that much. He had been with Ghost quite often while his body had been unconscious. The direwolf was definitely leading them somewhere specific, but Jon wasn’t sure where. He only knew that the animal had resisted strongly all of Jon’s attempts to get him to lead Perwyn back toward the Wall.

“As for my plan, well, I intend to get you to your father.”

Jon laughed bitterly at that. “My father will take my head,” he said.

“I don’t believe that,” Perwyn countered.

“You haven’t watched him behead deserters from the Night’s Watch,” Jon said darkly. “I have. There is no other option.”

Perwyn sighed deeply. “I’ve thought about this a lot, Jon. You didn’t desert the Night’s Watch. You fled for your life from a pack of murderers. All you’ve wanted to do since you woke up is get back to the Watch.” He paused. “If that letter is true, and Stannis Baratheon is truly dead with his force vanquished, we don’t have any help coming for the Night’s Watch. Lord Stark is the one man who might actually listen to our needs. The way I see it, you haven’t deserted the Watch, Jon. You’ve gone to get help, and if you return with the might of Winterfell at your back prepared to take on the Others, our brothers of the Watch may sing a different tune.”

“It’s a pretty song, Perwyn,” Jon said wearily. “But I don’t know that anyone shall sing it. What might of Winterfell? The Bastard of Bolton sits in Winterfell with Stannis’s pretty sword and Mance Rayder in a cage. Thank the gods that Arya seems to have escaped him at any rate. I would like to find her and see her safe. And I‘d like to kill Ramsay Snow!” He shook his head. “Beyond that, I see nothing but a blade above my neck.”

“Your father had already accumulated quite a force by the time he prepared to march on Riverrun, Jon. And I’ve no doubt he collected more men in the Vale. We’ve heard his army marches north. For all we know, he’s taken Moat Cailin already.”

“Moat Cailin can’t be taken from the south,” Jon said sullenly.

“Gods, but you are determined to be glum. Fine then, I take you to your death, Lord Snow. We’re simply two honorless deserters in search of a blade sharp enough to separate our heads from our shoulders. I won’t say I haven’t done enough to deserve such a fate.” Perwyn turned angrily and began pulling the horse forward again.

Jon sat silently on the horse and considered the possibility of finding his father. The almost overwhelming desire to see his father’s face just one more time could not quite extinguish the shame and guilt of knowing how much pain it would cause Ned Stark to be the man who had to swing the sword over his own son’s neck.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned’s solar. Her son’s murderer actually waited for her in Ned’s solar. The strange sense of peace she had found in the godswood, the certainty that her husband’s gods had heard her, deserted her as she braced herself to come face to face with Roose Bolton.

Barbrey had led her from her little cell wearing the somewhat ill-fitting dress and the large hooded brown cloak. She had gasped upon emerging at the top of the stairs to see that an entire side of the First Keep had indeed collapsed. Lady Dustin had laughed at her reaction. “Oh, there’s much worse, my lady, I assure you.”

They had walked through the courtyard together with Catelyn’s guards following them at a discreet distance, and Catelyn had seen evidence of destruction all around her. Rather than taking her directly into the Great Keep, Lady Dustin had seemed to take pleasure in walking her around it to see the devastation of the Great Hall. A new roof had been put on it, but it seemed at odds with the original stone of the building, and it broke Catelyn’s heart to see it.

Her dismay over the Great Hall paled, however, in comparison to her heartbreak over the devastation of the small building in front of it. Her sept. The sept that Ned had built for her. The beautiful home he had made for her gods before she had ever loved him or thought of Winterfell as her home. It was ruined. Every window broken out, and not a wall left standing in its entirety. She had fallen to her knees and wept, not caring about Lady Barbrey’s scorn.

“I had no idea you were quite so devout,” came Barbrey’s voice. “Stand up. You are making a spectacle of yourself, and I have no wish to draw more Frey eyes to us than necessary.”

Catelyn could care less about Frey eyes. She would have liked to have gone into her sept and prayed to the Warrior to guard and strengthen Ned and to the Mother to protect all her children, but devotion to the Seven was not truly the cause of her bitter grief over the little building’s destruction. Ned had built it for her. There was so little between them then, and he had given her this sept. He had made her gods welcome in Winterfell when she had felt alone and betrayed. And she had opened her heart to him just a little in return. _Oh, gods, Ned!_ He filled her heart now, and the thought of Bolton’s bastard destroying his gift made her angrier than she could bear.

She had merely stood back up though. Turning to Barbrey, she had said in a steely voice, “What of the godswood, and the heart tree?”

Barbrey had raised her brow. “I did not know you kept the old gods as well, Lady Stark.” Again that nasty emphasis on her name. “I do not pretend any devotion to the gods on my part, so I have not visited your godswood, but I understand it is largely intact.”

With that, Catelyn had walked briskly in the direction of the nearest gate to the godswood, leaving Barbrey and her guards to follow after. She hadn’t really known why she needed to go there. The gods knew she had rarely sought the place out in all her years at Winterfell, but she was drawn there now. Without a thought for Lady Dustin or anyone else she had walked directly to the heart tree of Winterfell and fallen on her knees before it, heedless of the snow which soaked her skirts.

She had bowed before that ancient weirwood face which had always frightened her and prayed, first by simply being silent, as Ned had told her to do in the woods outside the Twins. Then she began asking Ned’s gods to keep her family safe--Ned, and all her children--Sansa, Rickon, Arya, Bran--she asked protection for them each, one by one. Silently, she asked protection for the babe within her as well.

She knew she had no right to ask anything of these strange gods. They were not hers, and she was not theirs. But her children were of the north. Surely they had a right to their protection. And Ned, to her, was the north. Surely these gods would aid him and his children.

As she prayed, the face on the heart tree had actually begun crying. Weirwood sap, Ned would have said, trying to allay her fears. But she had seen tears, tears as red as blood, and they had only begun after she had asked protection for her children. She had been heard.

Barbrey had demanded she leave then, but Catelyn had left the godswood with a sense of connectedness to Ned and her children that she had not expected to find. An almost overwhelming awareness of her love for them had strengthened her until she had walked into Ned’s solar and seen the man standing there.

Roose Bolton’s pale eyes and even paler skin stood out against the black doublet he wore. Those eyes regarded Catelyn with an air of cool calculation. “Lady Stark,” he said in his too quiet voice, “How pleasant to see you still among the living.”

Catelyn’s head swam and her vision blurred. _Jaime Lannister sends his regards._ She was standing in Ned’s solar, but she was back in the Twins. _Jaime Lannister sends his_ _regards_. This man was standing quietly in front of her, but he was driving his sword through Robb’s heart. _Jaime Lannister sends his regards._ The world spun out of control, and she felt herself slipping away.

 _No!_ She couldn’t disappear. She couldn’t fall into that black hole. Ned wasn’t here to pull her out, and she needed to remain strong for her children . . .for her babe. Her hand went to her belly, and she steadied herself. “Lord Bolton,” she heard her voice say, all ice and iron courtesy.

“Moat Cailin has fallen,” the man said softly. “Your husband’s army marches this way. And yet, my messenger sends no word of Lord Stark, himself. How is that?”

 _Ned is not with the army,_ she thought. Aloud, she said, “You had me kidnapped and have kept me locked up, my lord. Surely, you don’t imagine I have been exchanging letters with my lord husband.” She kept her voice light, even as her mind’s eye saw Robb falling to the ground as Bolton removed his bloody sword from his body.

“I try not to imagine anything, my lady,” he said, walking toward her until his face was mere inches from her own. “I prefer to know.” His breath was stale, and Catelyn had to make an effort not to flinch away from him.

“I cannot help you,” she said simply.

“Oh, I believe you can,” he said. “Whether you will it or no.” He had stared into her eyes as he spoke, and Catelyn had refused to look down, in spite of how disoriented she felt. Now he looked behind her. “Barbrey, my dear, have you told our guest about our royal prisoner?” he asked.

_Royal prisoner? Have they captured Stannis Baratheon?_

“I have told her nothing, my lord,” Lady Barbrey said. “I thought you would prefer to tell her whatever you wished.” Catelyn noticed a certain deferential tone to Barbrey’s voice. She was afraid of this man, whether she admitted it or not.

Roose Bolton pulled his thin lips into a small, tight smile. “Perhaps you have heard of the King Beyond the Wall, my lady? Surely Lord Eddard must have mentioned him. Mance Rayder, the man’s name is. It would seem Lord Eddard’s bastard hasn’t been terribly diligent about his vows to the Night’s Watch. First he let this man lead a horde of wildlings through the wall and then he sent him here to steal my son’s bride.”

 _Jeyne Poole? Jon Snow sent a wildling king to steal Jeyne Poole?_ Catelyn’s mind worked feverishly. _Arya,_ she thought. _Jon doesn’t know the girl isn’t Arya._

Catelyn didn’t respond. She simply waited for Bolton to speak again.

“We captured the wildling along with several women he had helping him. He told us quite a lot while he watched them being flayed. Little Lady Arya escaped, however, along with Theon Greyjoy.”

“Theon?” Catelyn gasped, her horror at the thought of the flayed women bringing the memory of the strip of Theon’s flesh Bolton had shown them at the Twins strongly to her mind.

“Yes,” Bolton said in his cadaverous voice. “Your sons’ murderer has now absconded with your daughter.”

It was too much. Bolton knew Bran and Rickon were alive. He had to know, for his bastard was with Theon Greyjoy when he faked their deaths. She couldn’t let Bolton see that she knew her boys lived, but she couldn’t let that remark go unanswered. She couldn’t.

“How dare you speak of the murder of any of my sons?” Her voice shook with rage. “You should never speak of my sons at all, Kingslayer!”

He didn’t flinch. He only regarded her quietly a moment, and then replied, “I am sure I don’t know what you mean, Lady Stark. I had heard you went quite mad at the Red Wedding. It would seem your memory has been affected.”

Catelyn repressed the urge to leap at the man and put her hands around his throat. “My memory is fine,” she said in a voice as low as his own. “I know who you are, Roose Bolton.”

Now the man’s smile actually showed his teeth. “Hopefully, your lord husband does as well, my lady.” He turned and walked away from her to sit in Ned’s chair. _How had that_ _chair survived when so much had been lost?_ Catelyn wondered pointlessly.

Bolton looked up at her. “Your husband will come to Winterfell, my lady. Whether he is hidden within his army or somewhere else entirely. My man made it clear to Bronze Yohn Royce that we have you here.” He paused. “I had my son send a letter to your husband’s bastard. It contained some truth and some things I hope will become truth.” He shrugged slightly. “In any event, it should be adequate to get him to come down from his Wall. Should he do that, I fear I shall have no recourse as Warden of the North but to execute him. That is the penalty for deserters from the Night’s Watch, is it not, Lady Stark?”

Catelyn said nothing, and Bolton chuckled. “Well, I suppose the demise of your lord husband’s bastard won’t bring you to tears, Lady Stark. Perhaps you should thank me.”

“Perhaps I should kill you,” she said in a flat voice. In truth, she didn’t know how she felt about the man’s plot against Jon Snow. _Jon sent someone for Arya._ But she was thoroughly tired of this man sitting in her husband’s chair, living in her home, and treating her family as pieces in his sick game.

He chuckled again. “Perhaps you should,” he agreed. “But I don’t intend to allow it.” He looked again to Lady Dustin. “Barbrey, escort Lady Stark to her chambers. They are far too warm for my lady wife’s liking. Her being with child causes her to prefer colder air, I have found. Keep Lady Stark well guarded, and keep her well away from that fat merman.”

She did not speak to him again as she left the solar with Barbrey Dustin, but Catelyn Stark vowed that whatever else occurred in Winterfell, Roose Bolton would die.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

 _Home._ He could see the walls in the pale moonlight. He dared go no closer than this for now. Robett and Howland had been livid that he’d come this far. But no one knew the lands around Winterfell as well as he did, and he knew he could come here undetected.

 _Catelyn._  She was there. Somewhere just beyond those walls, Roose Bolton held his wife captive in her own bloody castle. Ned Stark’s vision darkened and his heart thundered in his ears just thinking about it. He thought about the last time he’d seen her at Winterfell. She had sat at Bran’s bedside with her hair all undone, her eyes red, and her face gaunt and pale with exhaustion. He’d begged her to go and sleep, and she’d refused. She’d feared Bran would die, and she didn’t want him to die without her there holding his hand.

It occurred to Ned that while Bran had lived, Robb had not. And she’d been with him. She hadn’t held his hand, but he’d heard her voice. Robb had not been alone among his enemies. For Catelyn’s sake, Ned would take that dreadful day from her if he could, but for Robb’s sake, he was glad she had been there. She would never have their children suffer alone, and yet she had suffered alone too much.

 _No more,_ he thought. He was restless and knew he would not sleep at all. There was no sign of Stannis Baratheon’s army around Winterfell, so tomorrow he would ride to his front gate under a banner of parley, and they would discover what Roose Bolton had to say. Then he would do whatever was necessary to get her back. Brienne was prepared to play her part, but first Ned had to know more about Bolton’s defenses. How many men were currently in the castle? Where was he weak?

He shook his head. There were too many things he didn’t know. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a wolf howl; a lonely, restless sound. He listened closely, but heard no answering howl from the wolf’s mate. Lonely indeed.

He turned his horse back toward the camp. There were no fires this night. No warmth. They were far too close to Winterfell to risk the light. He prayed that Catelyn was warm wherever Bolton had her, and that Sansa and Rickon were safely hidden in the little hut outside White Harbor. He prayed for Arya and Bran wherever they may be, and that once he had Catelyn back, they could try to find their two missing children. He would get Catelyn back. He simply could not accept any other possibility.

He heard the lonely wolf howl once more just as he reached the camp, and Ned Stark couldn’t help but consider the animal a kindred spirit on this restless night.

 


	36. The Web of Wyman Manderly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter is kind of long. Even for me. :)

“He’s leading us southwest.”

Perwyn twisted around in the saddle at Jon’s words. “That is what I thought, but with the sky always clouded, I haven’t seen the stars lately, and even the sun hides. Are you certain?”

Jon nodded. “You told me Ghost led you off the road to your right.” He paused long enough for Perwyn to nod in confirmation. “That’s west. The Kingsroad runs southwesterly for a long way between the Wall and Winterfell. If we turned eastward at all or even due south, we’d reach the road again, and we haven’t seen it.”

Perwyn nodded. “And the one direction I am positive we aren’t headed is north, so we’re either going along the same direction as the Kingsroad at some fixed distance from it or moving away from it more to the west.”

“We’ll pass to the west of Winterfell if we continue this way,” Jon said thoughtfully. “We’re somewhere in the Wolfswood now.”

“Should we turn to the left and strike out for the road?” Perwyn asked him. “See if we can tell where we are in relation to Winterfell from there?”

Jon thought for a moment, but shook his head slowly. “No,” he said. “Ghost knows the way to Winterfell. If he isn’t taking us there, he has a reason for it.”

“He’s a wolf, Jon,” Perwyn said carefully. “Perhaps his reason is that the Wolfswood offers him more prey than the road.”

Jon shook his head again. “I can’t explain it, Perwyn, but sometimes Ghost . . .knows things.” He looked his friend in the eyes. “And you know that’s true, or you’d have never followed him in the first place.”

Perwyn laughed. “Perhaps, I was just looking for any help I could get. You certainly weren’t much use at the time.”

Jon smiled. Not for the first time, he silently thanked his father for sending him Perwyn Frey. Initially, he’d not been disposed to trust Perwyn at all, as he could not forget the Freys were responsible for his brother’s death. His father’s first letter had encouraged him to give the man the benefit of the doubt, however, and Perwyn had never given Jon cause to regret heeding that advice. He had grudgingly come to admit that Perwyn had even been right to take him from the Wall. It mattered little that his own life was forfeit if he could get his father to rouse the north to aid the Watch in its defense against those things. Jon shuddered at the memory of the wight he had killed, and he unconsciously flexed and extended his burned hand. Without a lot more help, the Night’s Watch had no chance against the White Walkers now that winter had come.

 _That letter_ , he thought, recalling the day Perwyn Frey had handed it to him, his name on the outside so clearly written in his father’s hand. He’d thought perhaps some sympathetic gaoler in King’s Landing had allowed Lord Eddard the privilege of writing to his family members before they took his head, and it had taken this long for his letter to reach the Wall. He’d sat down to read it, expecting Perwyn to leave him alone to do so.

“You’ll want me to stay,” the man had said simply.

He’d read the words on the parchment three full times before he’d looked up again at the man, with his hand shaking violently. Not able to speak, he had simply asked the question with his eyes.

“He lives,” Perwyn had said. “I was sent here by his word, and he bid me answer any questions you have, although I don’t know all his tale. I do know he’s likely taken Riverrun by now, if his battle was successful.”

“Riverrun was liberated by the northmen who took the Twins,” Jon had whispered. “We had a letter to that effect. There was no mention of my father.”

“He didn’t think it news for a raven. He wanted you to be able to speak with someone when you learned they lived.”

In his shock, he had almost missed the word “they.” When it struck him, he had leapt from his seat and clutched at the front of Perwyn’s coat across his desk. “They?” he had demanded, hope springing up wildly in his chest. “My brother lives? Robb survives as well?” If his father were not truly dead, then surely his brother’s death could also be lie. He’d said “they.”

The look on Perwyn Frey’s face at his outburst had immediately dashed that hope, though. He saw the truth there even before the man spoke. “I . . .I am sorry, Lord Commander. Your brother, his grace, King Robb was slain at the Red Wedding, and as you have heard, your lord father has brought House Frey to justice. He beheaded nine men there, including my father, Lord Walder.”

Jon had nodded, his heart sinking back down into his belly. “They, you said. They lived.”

Perwyn had looked surprised. “I referred to Lady Stark,” he said. “Lord Stark said he had written of her survival in his letter as well.”

 _Lady Stark?_ Jon blinked and looked back at the letter, skimming to the line where his father had written he lived. Frey was correct. _I live, Jon, along with my lady wife, Catelyn. Our survival will no doubt surprise you, but I hope it gladdens you. Ser Perwyn shall tell you more of it._

He had read it three times and not even noticed the words telling of Lady Stark’s survival. He had been so overwhelmed by his father’s _I live_ that he saw nothing else. He had wondered at the time, and still wondered, if he’d have seen the name if it had been Robb who lived.

Not that he begrudged Lady Stark her survival. He didn’t. He’d have preferred it had been Robb who lived, if it had to be only one of them. He couldn’t deny that, and his realization of it had taken him back to the day he left Winterfell and the words she’d spoken to him at Bran’s bedside. _It should have been you._ Those words had frozen his blood at the time, and he’d despised her for her hatred of him. How ironic that he now understood how she had felt then, even if he couldn’t quite forgive the words.

He was glad she lived, for his father and his sisters. His father cared for her, he knew. And his sisters would have need of their mother after all they had suffered. But for his own part, he simply didn’t feel anything for her at all. He hadn’t even noticed her name in the letter.

“You’re awfully quiet back there all of a sudden.” Perwyn’s voice shook him from his reverie and brought him back to the present. “You haven’t passed out on me again, I hope. I haven’t got you tied on.”

“Ha. Ha.” Jon said dryly. “I was only thinking. I can take the reins for a bit if you want to switch. I’ll let you sit and think silently.”

“I try not to think,” Perwyn admitted. He started to say something else, but then suddenly stopped the horse. “Listen,” he said. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Jon asked, but Perwyn held up a hand to silence him, and Jon listened. Somewhere in the distance ahead he heard a mixture of sounds. There were voices shouting, although the sound was too far away to be very loud here, and the words could not be distinguished. There were other noises, too, and Jon concentrated on making them out. Horses, metal, horns.

Somewhere ahead in the Wolfswood, someone was fighting a battle.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn awoke very early. She wasn’t sure how long she had slept and was rather surprised she had slept at all after the events of the previous day and night. She sat up in the bed. It wasn’t her bed. Her bed had apparently burned. This one was smaller and far less comfortable, but better than the dirt floor beneath the First Keep. She looked around the room. There was nothing of cloth in the room save the bedcovers, and the only other pieces of furniture were a small, plain table with two unupholstered wooden chairs. Her beautiful dressing table with its enormous mirror was gone. She didn’t know if it had been destroyed or taken away for Fat Walda Frey.

The black scorch marks on the walls showed as clearly in the grey, early morning light as they had by the torchlight when Barbrey had brought her here last night. She had wanted to weep when she saw them, but refused to give the other woman the satisfaction of witnessing her grief again. Now, she allowed the tears to come as she thought of countless other mornings she’d awakened in this room. Mornings spent laughing with Ned, arguing over windows opened or closed, forgetting the chill of the air as he made her shiver more pleasantly with his touch. She closed her eyes and could almost feel his fingers in her hair when he’d twist it round his hands as he lowered her back to the bed on those mornings when neither of them wanted to let go of each other yet. Afterward, he’d grab her brush when she sat before that beautiful mirror, now gone, and tease her about the tangled state of her hair as he brushed it. Never mind that he was responsible for it. _Oh, Ned._

How she had longed to return to this room. She had dreamt of it night after night. But never like this. Never as a prisoner. And never alone. _I need you, my love._

She swallowed hard then, and stopped her tears for she had no time for them. She rose to dress, walking to the one familiar object still in her bedchamber. When Barbrey Dustin had showed her the large trunk, she had almost been unable to keep from crying. It was scorched and the clasp was twisted and misshapen, but it was intact. Catelyn remembered it had been kept inside a large armoire. Perhaps the fire had burned itself out on that, and had not enough energy left to devour the chest. She didn’t truly know how it survived, only that when she opened it, her clothes lay folded there unscathed. These were every day skirts and shifts and dresses. Her more formal gowns had been kept hanging up and no doubt had perished with the armoire.

She had lifted the garments and run her fingers over them while Barbrey Dustin watched. “Be glad nothing fit Fat Walda or she’d have taken the lot,” she’d said. Then she had left, telling Catelyn she would be back in the morning to bring her something to break her fast before doing whatever it was Roose Bolton had wanted her out of her little cell for.

Catelyn had sat awake on the unfamiliar bed for a long time trying to think of what she could do to help her situation. At some point, long after everyone should have been abed, she’d heard a soft knock at her chamber door. For one wild, heartstopping moment, she’d imagined it was Ned, coming to her after a meeting with some bannerman or another which had gone too late, or coming from his own chambers to tell her apologetically that he couldn’t sleep, although it had been years since he’d bothered retiring to his own chambers at all except on the rarest occasions.

She knew it wasn’t Ned, of course. But the memories were so strong that when she slowly opened the chamber door, it took her disoriented mind several moments to reconcile the figure standing there with her expectations.

Standing in the dark corridor without any torch at all, was the fattest man Catelyn Stark had ever met.

“Lord Wy . . .” she started to say, but the man actually put his hand to her mouth.

“Shh,” he hissed. Then thrusting something into her hand, he whispered, “Hide it well.” Then he turned, and walked away through the corridor, moving more quickly than she’d have thought possible.

She had looked after him for a moment, and waited to see if anyone else would appear. No one came. The corridor was deserted. She had closed the door and walked to the candle she still had burning to examine the object he had given her, although she knew already from its feel that it was a dagger. Lord Wyman Manderly had come to her chamber in the dark of night to give her a weapon.

She looked at the little blade in the candlelight and saw nothing particularly remarkable about it. She did see, however, that a small piece of parchment was wrapped around the hilt. She unwrapped it and found a note written upon it.

_Come to the Broken Tower as soon as Lady Dustin comes to you in the morning. Tell Barbrey I bid her to bring you._

It wasn’t signed, but Catelyn had recognized Lord Manderly. That was why he had risked coming himself, to be sure she would believe his message. After all, he had helped Ned when he first returned to Westeros and he had sent Lord Seaworth for Rickon. But Barbrey Dustin? She had said herself she was Lord Bolton’s creature. Catelyn had held the dagger in her hand, pondering what she should do long into the night.

As she dressed now, she strapped the dagger to her leg, well-hidden beneath her skirts. She had no intention of allowing Barbrey Dustin to know she had it, although she had decided to show the woman Lord Manderly’s note. She had no real option here but to trust the Lord of White Harbor and hope he proved as true as Ned believed him to be.

Barbrey Dustin came alone and entered Catelyn’s chamber without knocking. She carried a small tray of food, and Catelyn simply nodded toward the little table, knowing the woman resented having to serve the duties of her chamber maid. She knew it was petty, but she took some small satisfaction in Lady Dustin’s irritation all the same.

“Well, it fits you better than my gown at least,” Lady Dustin said, looking Catelyn up and down. Catelyn knew the gown was a little tighter over her chest than it had been, but she hoped no one would note that. Otherwise, it fit perfectly. It was hers, after all.

She walked slowly to the table and sat down without speaking. Silently, she began picking at the food the other woman had brought.

Barbrey sighed. “What’s this? You’re not speaking to me today? Gods, Catelyn Tully, you should be thanking me! I am the one who got you out of that pit below that shell of a keep. Roose wants you kept well, but he’s a man, which means he was much too stupid to realize on his own that keeping you like an animal wasn’t the best way to do that.” She shook her head. “Still nothing to say?”

Wordlessly, Catelyn extended her arm and handed Barbrey Dustin the little piece of parchment. Then she watched the color drain from the woman’s face as she read it.

“Lord Manderly delivered that to me personally last night,” Catelyn said calmly.

Barbrey Dustin went even paler. “Gods damn the man!” she cried. “How dare he . . . I told Roose not to trust him and he doesn’t, but he doesn’t fear him enough, either! Stupid man! Lord Too Fat To Sit a Horse couldn’t ride to battle with his men, of course. But without his swords around him, he’s no threat. No threat at all! He’ll never even know she’s here, he said. Ha! He’s fat, not blind and deaf!” Lady Dustin was pacing back and forth, almost ranting now, and certainly speaking more to herself than she was to Catelyn. Lord Wyman’s message had rattled her indeed.

She turned back to Catelyn suddenly. “What did he say to you? Was he alone?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” Catelyn replied. _Hide_ _it well._  She felt the dagger against her leg. “He simply shoved the parchment at me and left. And yes, he was alone.”

“He has to be working with someone,” Barbrey said thoughtfully, turning to walk in circles again. “All the Manderly men are gone with Ramsay. None of the Freys can abide the man. Who is it? Someone had to tell him, but who?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about,” Catelyn said, interrupting the woman’s musings. “But are you going to take me to the Broken Tower?”

“I don’t know that I have a choice,” the woman said bitterly. “Bids me. He bids me. Gods damn the fat pig! Would that Hosteen had gotten through all his chins when tried to cut his throat!”

Catelyn’s surprise must have shown on her face, because Barbrey actually laughed. “Oh, I forgot. You don’t know about that little altercation. It’s not really important, but it does seem that Freys have an alarming inability to properly cut anyone’s throat.” She gazed at Catelyn’s neck meaningfully.

“A fact for which Lord Wyman is, no doubt, as grateful as I,” Catelyn replied evenly. “Now are we going to meet him?”

Barbrey smiled at her then, and it was not a pleasant smile. “Oh, yes, my lady, I suppose we must. But you needn’t look so pleased about it.” She narrowed her eyes. “Make no mistake, Lady Stark. Wyman Manderly has far less interest in your personal safety than Eddard Stark does. Oh, he’s your husband’s man, without a doubt. And if he knows you’re here, it’s entirely likely he knows your bloody husband is alive as well. But while he will endeavor to act in what he feels are the best interests of House Stark and House Manderly, it doesn’t follow that he’ll consider your life terribly important. It’s your husband he needs. He’s the Stark of Winterfell, and he can make little Starks with any woman. You, my dear, are expendable to Wyman Manderly.”

Catelyn remembered Robett Glover’s letter. Lord Wyman had offered Ned one of his granddaughters to be the Lady of Winterfell. He wouldn’t wish Catelyn harm, and he would try to protect her if he could. She knew that. But he would sacrifice her if he thought it necessary to keep Ned safe and preserve House Stark. _And I would do the same,_ Catelyn thought. _But for the babe._

Barbrey Dustin laughed. “You really should stop grabbing at your belly every time you think of it. The pup isn’t likely to fall out quite yet.”

Catelyn went cold, and stared at Lady Dustin without replying.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked. I’m not blind, you know. And I remember how Bethany’s teats seemed to grow larger almost daily when she was first with child. That gown will likely not fit you for long.” Catelyn could tell Lady Barbrey was enjoying her distress.

“Lord Bolton . . .” she said. “Does he . . .”

“He doesn’t know,” Lady Barbrey said before she could finish the question. “I’ve no reason to tell him. Not yet, anyway. But I doubt you’ll be careless with your own life. It’s why I knew I could trust you to behave if I convinced Roose to move you to the Great Keep.”

“Thank you . . .for that,” Catelyn said quietly.

Barbrey Dustin laughed again. “Now, you thank me.” She looked directly into Catelyn’s eyes. “You really shouldn’t.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Sansa Stark looked at the young woman in disbelief. “What do you mean we need to go to Winterfell?”

Arya’s face was alight with excitement, and fierce determination shone in her eyes. Sansa knew well that her sister was prepared to run all the way back to Harmon Wade’s shop, steal the first horse she saw, and ride for Winterfell alone without any further explanation from Wynafred Manderly. She was actually somewhat surprised that Arya hadn’t tried it already.

“My father has received a raven from his father. It is time for the northmen to learn little Lord Rickon lives.”

“Rickon is not the lord of anything,” Sansa said. “My father is Lord of Winterfell. And are you telling me that Lord Manderly sent a raven from Winterfell instructing Ser Wylis to send my brother there? Lord Bolton holds Winterfell! He’ll kill Rickon if he learns he’s alive.”

“No, of course, the letter didn’t actually say that,” their visitor said. As she shook her head, her long, brown braids moved back and forth. “I fear I am making a mess of this, Lady Sansa. Perhaps I should start at the beginning.” She looked toward the little hut.

Sansa sighed. She and Osha had come outside when Rickon had shouted that Dak was returning “with a girl!!” Arya and Rickon had already been outside with the wolf, of course, and Donnell was gone fishing.

“It’s cramped inside,” she said, “but at least it’s out of the wind. We should go inside.”

“I’m not going in,” Rickon said immediately. As sad as it made her, Winterfell was just a word to him. He likely had few memories of the place. The prospect of returning there didn’t do to him what it did to Sansa and Arya, and he had little interest in sitting in the hut listening to a stranger talk to his sister.

“I’ll stay outside with him,” Osha said quietly, and Sansa nodded her thanks.

“Come, Lady Wynafryd,” she said to the older girl. “My sister and I are anxious to hear all you have to say.”

“Milady?” Dak asked, obviously concerned that she meant to exclude him.

She sighed again. “Of course, you are coming, too, Dak.” As if she could have prevented him had she wanted to. He was a good lad, deferential to her always, but in his own way, he was as wild as Arya and Rickon, particularly when he was with Arya and Rickon, and at times, the three of them together were almost more than Sansa could bear.

She led the other three into the hut, and promptly sat on the floor, as there were not enough chairs for everyone. The others followed her example.

“Now, Lady Wynafryd, tell us precisely what Ser Wylis has heard from Winterfell.”

The young woman shook her head slightly. “I’ll have to start before that for it to make any sense at all,” she said. “You know that your lord father came to my grandfather when first he returned to Westeros after his escape?” Sansa nodded. Her parents had told her all of this, and she had told much of it to Arya, although how much Arya ever actually listened to her was debatable. “Well, after he sent Lord Eddard on his way, he increased his efforts to get all the information he could from that reaver boy, Wex. That’s how he learned what truly happened to your brothers.” Sansa nodded again. “There are Lannister spies all over White Harbor, and then those awful Freys came, and I had to pretend to be besotted with that horrid Rhaegar.”

Wynafryd Manderly rolled her eyes and made a face at that, and Sansa actually laughed. She’d forgotten how pleasant it could be to simply talk with another girl. She loved her sister, but feminine conversation was not Arya’s strong suit. Arya now made a rather rude sound of impatience, encouraging Wynafryd to continue.”

“Anyway, it was all very dangerous, and we couldn’t talk openly very often or in very many places. But before my grandfather left with the Freys for . . .” She looked at Arya. “Well, for your wedding, I suppose, only it wasn’t you, was it?” Arya just glared, and Wynafryd continued. “Grandfather and Father worked on setting up a means of communication. Just very basic things, of course. Robett Glover worked with them as well, before Grandfather made a big show of sending him out of White Harbor because his lady wife had bent the knee to Stannis Baratheon. He actually sent him here, of course, and he continued to communicate with Father and his men through Harmon Wade. He even still came up to see Father through the Wolf’s Den sometimes, but that became more and more difficult.”

She paused then. “The raven?” Sansa encouraged.

“Yes,” she said. “Grandfather knew any ravens sent or received would have their letters read by the Boltons, and it’s not much better here, knowing that Maester Theomore reads them all.” She made another face, and Sansa got the distinct impression that Wynafryd Manderly did not trust her maester very much.

“So when Lord Seaworth returned with little Lord Rickon, my father sent a raven to Winterfell asking if there had been any word of Rhaegar or the other Freys because I was so distraught over their disappearance.”

“The Freys disappeared?” asked Sansa, confused. “And you were distraught about it?”

“Of course not,” Wynafryd Manderly said matter-of-factly. “My grandfather had them killed. And I couldn’t be more pleased about it.

”This pronouncement chilled Sansa just a little, but she noticed Arya looking at Wynafryd with a new appreciation. “But what does that have to do with . . .”

“Nothing!” Wynafryd said. “It was just something safe to put in a letter, and they had decided before Grandfather left that it would be the message sent when Rickon was returned. If he was returned.” She smiled at Sansa and Arya then. “And I am very glad for you both that he was, and that you are both here as well.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said. “But what is this new letter from your grandfather?”

“Well,” Wynafryd said slowly. “There were to be many northmen at this wedding. Most went only because they feared Bolton, not because they truly support his claim. But Bolton backed by the Lannisters and the Freys was very strong. Grandfather wasn’t sure how many of the other houses he could persuade to act against him, especially since so many houses lost their leaders when they went south with the Young Wolf. He didn’t even know who would be speaking for some of them.”

“And?” Arya had finally spoken. She was leaning forward, listening to Wynafryd intently, and impatient with even the smallest pause.

“He planned to do something. Grandfather, I mean. He’s really very smart, you know. Anyway, when he had things ready at Winterfell for Rickon Stark to reappear, he planned a message to send.”

Sansa thought for a moment. “But your grandfather knows my father is alive. Why wouldn’t he want him to come to Winterfell rather than Rickon?”

“He had to leave for the wedding without finding out where your father was. And we had no way to tell him once we knew. And he was confident that Lord Stark would be heading for Winterfell eventually in any case. In the mean time, producing his heir would certainly cement the loyalty of the other northmen and convince them that Grandfather spoke the truth about everything.”

“So now he’s done whatever it is he wanted to do, and just expects us to send Rickon along?”

“Yes, of course,” Wynafryd said. “He sent the letter about the bad wine, demanding that my father dismiss the man that had packed that cask. Of course, it was packed on purpose, to give excuse to send that raven.”

Arya grinned. “Your grandfather purposely served bad wine to the Boltons and Freys?”

“Of course, he did. The letter wouldn’t have made sense if he didn’t.” She grinned back. “I dare say he enjoyed serving it.”

“I don’t know,” Sansa said. “Perhaps, Lord Wyman has been successful, and perhaps not. I mean, why should coded messages still be necessary if Bolton is defeated?”

“Maybe he’s not quite defeated yet,” Arya said. “Maybe Lord Manderly needs us there so all Father’s bannermen will know the Starks of Winterfell still live, and then they’ll rise up and kill every Bolton and Frey in the castle. Father always said there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. And there isn’t one there now! That’s what’s wrong! We shouldn’t just be sitting here day after day in this stupid little hut! Father is out there fighting for Mother. We can fight for Winterfell!”

“Arya!” Sansa cried in dismay. “Fight for Winterfell? Rickon’s scarcely more than a baby, and you and I are ladies, for all that you carry that little sword around. What can we do, besides get ourselves captured or killed?”

Her sister’s grey eyes went very dark. “You have no idea what I can do,” she said. “You have no idea what I have done.” Without another word, Arya stood and walked out.

Sansa stared after her. She had watched Arya stalk out of the hut about a hundred times since she’d first arrived, but this time she was afraid. She was afraid Arya truly meant to leave.

“Lady Sansa,” Wynafryd Manderly said softly. “We would not put you in danger. My father means to send you with an escort of his most trusted men, and you will not actually approach Winterfell until it is discovered to be safe. But it is a journey of some days from here to Winterfell, especially now that winter has arrived in truth. Whatever my grandfather has done, or is doing, it would seem prudent to get you closer to your castle, my lady.”

Sansa had not taken her eyes from the door, but she nodded. “I thank you, Lady Wynafryd,” she murmured. “You must let me think on this.” _I must_ _decide what is best,_ she thought. _I must be the lady my father expects me to be._ She felt very young and unsure, however, and wished that her parents were there. “Dak,” she said, “Will you . . .”

“I’ll see where she is,” he said and went outside.

“I should be getting back to Harmon’s shop,” Lady Wynafryd said after Dak had gone. “My father will worry. He wouldn’t have sent me if he could have trusted anyone else. He’s no craven, my father. But since his captivity, he is more . . .cautious. Particularly with Wylla and myself.”

Sansa smiled at her. “Sometimes, since they returned, my parents look at me as if they’d like to lock me away, or at least never let me out of their sight.” She thought of her sister’s dark words. “I suppose this war has changed all of us in some way.” She stood up then. “I’ll send Dak with you.”

“That isn’t necessary. I can find . . .

At that point, Dak reentered the hut with Donnell Boden.

“My ladies,” Donnell said courteously, bowing to both of them.

“She’s just standing down by the water like she does,” Dak said to Sansa.

“I’ve had a good catch, Lady Sansa,” Donnell said. “Osha is cleaning them now.” Turning to Wynafryd Manderly, he said, “It is a pleasure to make you acquaintance, Lady Wynafryd. I am Donnell Boden, in service to Lord Eddard Stark.”

Sansa blushed. She should have introduced them. Wynafryd’s message and Arya’s reaction had driven common courtesy completely from her mind. As Wynafryd returned Donnell’s greeting, she decided at least one thing. “Ser Donnell,” she said. “I would like you to escort Lady Wynafryd back to Harmon’s shop.” Before Wynafryd could protest, she turned to her. “As you walk, I’d like you to tell him all you told us. Donnell can be trusted implicitly, and I would value his counsel in this matter.”

Lady Wynafryd nodded, and after some brief farewells, she and Donnell left the hut. When Dak made to follow them, Sansa stopped him.

“I need to speak with you, Dak,” she said, and the boy turned around. “What did she mean?”

“What, milady?”

“Arya. I don’t know what she has done. What did she mean by that?”

Dak looked uncomfortable, but said nothing.

Sansa touched his arm. “Dak, I don’t mean to ask you to betray her in any way. But I am worried about her. I fear what she may do.”

“She isn’t helpless,” Dak said then. “You can’t treat her like she is. She can’t stand that.”

“I know she isn’t helpless, Dak, but she is still just a girl, and she can’t just . . .”

“No,” Dak said interrupting her. “I mean, yes, she’s a girl, but not just a girl.” He was silent then for a long moment before seeming to come to a decision. He looked carefully at Sansa. “Have you heard of the Faceless Men of Braavos?”

“The assassins? Of course, I have.”

“That’s who she lived with in Braavos.”

Sansa was horrified. “No,” she said quietly.

Dak nodded. “They’re not just assassins, though. They’re kind of like priests. They worship the Many Faced God and see themselves as his instruments.”

“They kill people for payment,” Sansa said. That’s all she knew of the Faceless Men. That, and that they were considered among the most dangerous men in the world.

Dak nodded again. “She studied with them. They were training her.”

Now, Sansa truly felt ill. “Are you saying my sister is a killer?”

“No!” Dak said. “I mean . . .I don’t know. She never told me she actually killed anybody. But they were training her. They took her eyes before I met her.”

“What?” Sansa’s head was spinning. “How do you take someone’s eyes?”

“That’s what she called it. They took her sight, I mean. Gave her something to drink that made her blind. You know how sometimes I forget and call her Beth, and none of you know why I do that?” He sighed. “When I met her, she was a beggar. That’s why her head’s shaved. She was Blind Beth, and she went all over Ragman’s Harbor by herself when she couldn’t even see. She’s not helpless.”

Sansa sank down into a chair, feeling that she might fall if she remained standing. An assassin? A beggar? Blind? _Gods!_ _No wonder Arya never speaks_ _about herself!_ “She told you all of this?” she asked Dak weakly, feeling somewhat wounded that she trusted this boy with her secrets, but not her own sister.

“Some,” he said. “She had to tell me something because she was a blind beggar and then she wasn’t, and she had to explain that, but she never liked to say much. She never told me anything about how she got to Braavos in the first place or even out of King’s Landing. She did say she was there when your father was executed, or supposedly executed.”

Sansa closed her eyes tightly against the memory of that day. Even knowing it hadn’t been her father’s head that Joffrey held aloft couldn’t erase the horror of the experience. “What am I to do with her?” she asked quietly, not entirely sure if she was asking Dak or herself.

“I think we should go with Ser Wylis’s men to Winterfell,” Dak said. “She doesn’t want to leave you or your brother, but she can’t just sit here. I don’t think any of us really wants to just sit here, do we?”

Sansa slowly shook her head. “Gods help her, Dak. I knew it must have been awful for her, but I never dreamed it was all so terrible all the time.” She realized she had tears on her face only when Dak looked distressed.

“Not all the time, I don’t think, Lady Sansa,” he said quickly. “I think she liked being Cat. That’s the only thing she’d actually talk about much other than being little at Winterfell.”

“Cat?” Sansa asked. That was what her father called her mother.

“She was sent out from the temple of the Many Faced God to work for some fishmonger. She called herself Cat, and I think she was okay then. For awhile, at least.”

“Cat,” Sansa whispered. “Oh, Arya.” She stood up then and took Dak by the hand. “Thank you for telling me these things, Dak. I promise I’ll say nothing of it to Arya. And thank you for being a true friend to my sister.”

The boy grinned at her. “She’s not so bad when she’s not calling me stupid.”

Sansa laughed and wiped her cheeks with her hand. “Go outside now,” she told him. “I’ll bet Osha is already cooking that fish Donnell caught. When he comes back, we’ll eat and then discuss what we do now.”

When Dak had left her alone in the hut, Sansa sat back down to think. The boy had been right when he said that none of them wanted to stay here doing nothing. Sansa missed her parents so badly at times she couldn’t breathe. She wanted to find them. She had promised her father she would keep Rickon safe, but Father didn’t know about this plan of Lord Manderly’s. Surely, he’d want them to play their part in it. And Arya. He and Mother didn’t know about Arya at all. It would be wonderful for them to find her at Winterfell.

Restless, Sansa stood again and walked to the door. Opening it to look outside, she could see her sister far down the beach near the edge of the water. She wondered just how many terrible secrets Arya kept hidden. She wondered if Arya’s secrets gnawed at her heart the way her own did. If she hadn’t told Cersei Lannister her father’s plan, she wouldn’t have had him arrested, and Arya never would have fled King’s Landing or gone to Braavos. _I’m so sorry, Arya. I never meant to do this to you._

When Donnell Boden returned, Sansa still had more questions than answers, but she’d decided one thing. She, Arya, and Rickon were Starks. They were going to Winterfell.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned, Brienne, and five others returned to the camp just after the sun truly rose above the horizon. He had taken them as close to Winterfell’s walls as he dared in the grey half-light just at dawn to show them where to climb. He’d drawn maps of the castle on the ground by firelight and shown them the most likely places Roose Bolton might hold Catelyn. Of course, that assumed those places still stood. Even from a distance, he could see the evidence of the fire, and he vowed that the Bastard of Bolton would pay for that. First, however, he would recover his wife.

There was some disagreement about when Brienne and the others should make their attempt. Brienne wanted to go in as soon as Ned called at the gates, believing that surprise and distraction were her greatest allies. Robett and Howland thought perhaps the climbers should wait; that Ned and the men with him might gain more knowledge about where Catelyn was being held during the parley. They argued that Bolton would likely offer some terms, and it would be reasonable of Ned to withdraw to consider them. Upon his return to Winterfell, Brienne and the others could go over the wall.

Ned, himself, was torn. He was not reckless by nature and certainly would prefer to have all the information he could before sending anyone into that castle. But Bolton had his wife. Any delay in a rescue attempt meant more time for Catelyn to remain in that man’s hands. More time during which she could be harmed. He understood Lady Brienne’s desire for haste all too well.

He was still pondering the merits of these two possible courses when he saw Robett Glover riding to meet them. “My lord,” Glover said. “We have apprehended a man you will want to speak with!”

“Apprehended?” Ned asked. “Where?”

“West of Winterfell. The men we had sent around to the other side of the castle last night found him before dawn. He was headed for the Wolfswood.” Robett seemed very excited about something.

“Had he come from the castle?” Ned asked.

Glover nodded. “Come see for for yourself.”

As soon as they reached the perimeter of the camp, Ned dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting man, striding after Robett toward a group of men gathered together. As he approached them, a white haired man suddenly cried out and fell to his knees.

“Lord Stark!” he said. “I did not truly believe it possible.”

Looking down at the man’s face, recognition suddenly came to Ned. He hadn’t seen him since the Greyjoy rebellion. “Torrhen,” he said. “Torrhen Alwynd.”

The man smiled. “You remember me, my lord.”

Remember him? Ned wasn’t likely to ever forget him. Torrhen Alwynd had served House Dustin since long before Robert’s Rebellion. He had ridden south with Lord Willam and fought by his side until after they broke the siege at Storm’s End. Willam had sent the man home then, before traveling on with Ned to the Tower of Joy. He had been at Barrrowton when Ned returned Willam’s mount to Lady Barbrey Dustin, and he was one of the men she had sent to answer the call when Ned fought again beside Robert against Balon Greyjoy.

“You come from Winterfell, Torrhen? What word do you have of my lady wife?”

“She is there, my lord,” the man said, slowly rising to his feet as Ned extended his hand to him. “I did not know for sure it was her until yesterday. She had been kept in an old cellar beneath the First Keep, but Lady Dustin removed her yesterday, and I followed them. She fell down and cried at the destruction of that sept outside the Great Hall, and I remembered you had built that for your lady wife who keeps the Faith of the Seven.”

Ned felt as if he had been punched in the gut at the man’s words. Catelyn’s sept destroyed? What else of their home was gone?

“They went to the godswood after that, and I followed after, at a distance. Her hair fell out of the hood of her cloak, and I could see that red color when she came walking back out with Lady Barbrey. I only ever saw her the once, my lord. At the feast you held at Winterfell after we returned from Pyke. But I remember that hair. So I told Lord Manderly.”

“What of Lady Dustin?” Ned asked sharply, pushing the image of Catelyn in the godswood of Winterfell out of his mind. He needed to think clearly now, and picturing her there with her hair falling down around her face did not encourage rational thought.

Torrhen Alwynd looked at his feet. “ My lord,” he said. “Lady Barbrey has managed Barrowton well, and I have done my best to serve her faithfully.” He hesitated. “But, my lord, she is clearly aligned with Lord Bolton in this present time, and I cannot . . .Lord Willam would not . . .my lord, I would serve House Stark in the name of Lord Willam Dustin!”

The man fell to his knees again, and Ned was silent for a bit, not knowing precisely how to respond. Willam Dustin had been a good man, one who had gone to his death simply because Ned asked it of him. The war had been won, and yet Willam Dustin rode on with him for Lyanna’s sake. Ned again extended his hand to Torrhen and bid him rise.

“Lord Willam was a valiant man, Torrhen,” he said softly. “I deprived Lady Barbrey of her lord husband, and I fear she has never looked kindly upon me since. I suppose she has reason.” He paused. “Roose Bolton murdered my son,” he said then, looking the man in the eyes. “The Freys orchestrated that travesty of a wedding, but it was Bolton’s sword that took the life from my son, who was your king. I am the Lord of Winterfell, liege lord of the house you have served these many years. There is no dishonor in giving your service to me now.”

He watched Alwynd’s face as he spoke. The shock at his words about Bolton’s murder of Robb was clear, but then his features hardened with resolve. “I am your man, my lord.”

“Why were you leaving Winterfell?” Ned asked him.

“Lord Manderly sent me. He wanted me to get word to his men that Lady Stark was alive in Winterfell, and to see if the battle had gone according to plan.”

“Battle?” Ned asked. “Whose plan? I would have you tell me everything, Torrhen.”

“Aye, my lord,” the man said. “But you may want to sit down. There is much to tell.”

Ned sighed. The sun was rising higher, and all he really wanted to do was get to Catelyn, but he needed to hear what this man had to say, and so he sat down. “Speak, Torrhen,” he said. “I would hear all of it.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

As Barbrey Dustin led her from the Great Keep, she admonished Catelyn to keep the hood of her cloak pulled well up around her face. Several men were milling about the courtyard, and some of them nodded to Lady Dustin, but none attempted to impede the progress of the two women until they approached the First Keep.

“Who’ve ye got there, Lady Dustin?” a man wearing livery with the Frey sigil on it called out.

“Keep your head down and that hood well over it,” Lady Barbrey hissed at Catelyn. Then she approached the man. “What business is it of yours with whom the Lord of Winterfell spends his time?” she said boldly.

The man laughed. “The Lord of Winterfell’s off fighting old Stannis to get his little bride back. Who’s this chit?” He moved toward Catelyn, and she instinctively recoiled.

“She’s the one that’s been kept under there,” Barbrey said, waving an arm toward the First Keep. “Surely you noticed someone was kept there?” she asked, arching a brow.

“Well, yes . . .but” the man started.

“And surely you aren’t unaware of how much Ramsay Bolton likes his little playthings.”

“The young Lord Bolton’s not here,” the man protested.

Lady Barbrey sighed, as if completely frustrated by his stupidity. “Of course, he isn’t. That is why the old Lord Bolton summoned his toy last night.” She gave the man a meaningful look. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, you know.”

The man seemed to consider that for a moment, but then he grinned.

“And now, I am to put her back where Ramsay keeps her. If you gentlemen will excuse us . . .” Barbrey Dustin grabbed Catelyn’s arm and pulled her along toward the First Keep. Once they had gone around the other side of it and were out of sight of the man, however, they continued right past it to the Broken Tower, the entrance to which also lay out of sight of any of the Frey men.

Inside the entry room of the tower, seated on a chair that did not belong there, was the Lord of White Harbor. “Lady Barbrey, I must thank you for bringing Lady Stark to see me,” he said with exaggerated courtesy. “Lady Stark,” he then said, turning to Catelyn, “You cannot begin to imagine how happy I am to see you. Although, I am sorry for the circumstances in which you find yourself.”

“It would seem all of us find ourselves in strange circumstances this morning, my lord,” Catelyn responded. She knew that Barbrey Dustin wanted no part of this, and was still not sure precisely why Lord Manderly had been so confident the woman would comply with his request.

Lord Manderly laughed, causing his multiple chins to quiver. “Quite so, my lady. Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures.” He looked up at Lady Dustin, who stood frowning beside Catelyn. “Wouldn’t you say so, Lady Barbrey?”

“You have some gall, Wyman Manderly, summoning me so. What’s to keep me from going to Lord Bolton with word of your little meeting with Lady Stark?” Lady Dustin responded.

Manderly chuckled. “How do I know Lady Stark is here, my lady, except for your having told me?”

“I did no such thing!” Lady Dustin protested.

“You and I know that,” Lord Wyman said with a smile, “but Roose Bolton does not. And he is a suspicious man by nature. Whatever he does to me, should I tell him you are my informant, he’ll not trust you again.”

Lady Dustin looked daggers at the man, but said nothing, and Catelyn realized he was right. Roose Bolton was as cautious as he was cunning and calculating. He did not trust easily and did not forgive those who crossed him. As far as she could tell, Barbrey Dustin was one of the only people in Winterfell who had been informed of her presence. Once Bolton learned that Manderly knew as well, she’d be the first person he’d look toward. _Keep_ _her well away from that fat merman,_ he had said to Lady Dustin.

“What would you have me do, Lord Manderly?” Catelyn asked the man now.

“Nothing, my lady,” said Lord Manderly. “I would have you stay in one piece, for I believe Lord Stark would prefer that. I brought you here to tell you what is currently happening in the Wolfswood to the west.”

Catelyn listened intently, and she noticed Lady Barbrey leaning forward eagerly as well. Apparently, she didn’t know what the man was about to say either.

Manderly noticed Lady Barbrey’s curiosity, and he laughed at her. “You’ve done well to do as I asked, Lady Barbrey. Perhaps you’ll be able to keep that lovely head of yours on your shoulders yet.”

“What do you mean?” Barbrey hissed.

“You know our men were sent out against Lord Stannis,” he said. “What you don’t know is that once battle is joined, a good number of those same men will turn their swords on the Bastard of Bolton rather than Stannis Baratheon.”

Barbrey Dustin looked pale. “What men?” she whispered.

“My own, of course,” said Lord Manderly. “And the Cerwyns, Tallharts, and Umbers. Whoresbane was a question for awhile, but when my men ran into his brother Mors outside the castle during that snowstorm, he had some interesting things to say--such as that their nephew Lord Jon had been freed from the Twins. He took some convincing about that, but he came around.”

“You traitorous pig,” Barbrey hissed.

This merely elicited a laugh from Lord Manderly. “Lady Stark might beg to differ as to which of us is the traitor, Lady Dustin.” Turning to Catelyn, he said, “I have sent word to White Harbor to have your son Rickon sent to Winterfell. He lives, my lady, and has been returned, along with his direwolf. I had thought to use the direwolf as proof of his identity, but your recognition of him will help establish him as well. I hope that with the aid of Lord Stannis’s forces, our victory over Bolton in the Wolfswood will be complete, but if the remaining northmen have any doubts after that about joining our cause, the rightful heir to Winterfell will likely convince them. And you and I, of course, can testify to the survival of Lord Eddard, as well. Do you, perchance, know when he expects to arrive with his army? The larger force we can mount, the better, as Bolton still has a castle full of these damnable Freys.”

Catelyn’s head spun as she tried to process all that the man said. “I know Rickon lives,” she said. “Robett Glover contacted us, and we sailed to White Harbor.”

“We?” Manderly asked. “Lord Stark was in White Harbor with you?”

Catelyn nodded. “We were all together. Then I was taken by Hosteen Frey.”

Manderly looked at Barbrey Dustin. “Does Bolton know this?” he asked sharply.

Lady Dustin hesitated, but then shook her head. “He was puzzled as to why his messenger couldn’t speak with Lord Stark when he met his army, but he doesn’t know where the man is.”

Lord Manderly laughed out loud. “Likely the man’s outside the walls! We hold his castle and his wife for gods’ sake! He’ll want them back!” He pursed his lips. “If only I could get a message to him,” he muttered. “But Torrhen’s already gone.”

“Torrhen!” Lady Dustin exclaimed. “Torrhen Alwynd? My man?”

Lord Manderly smiled very broadly. “Torrhen Alwynd is Lord Willam’s man, Lady Dustin. Never mind that the good lord’s corpse has been rotting in Dorne all these long years. House Dustin has always been loyal to the Starks of Winterfell, and Torrhen’s known Lord Willam since he was born. He knew Lord Rickard before Lord Eddard, and he knows well where his own lord’s loyalties lie.”

“His lord’s bones lie in Dorne, as you said,” Barbrey spat. “House Dustin received nothing but death from the Starks of Winterfell. We owe them nothing!”

“Spoken like a true Ryswell!” Lord Manderly hooted. “Always grasping and grabbing for more than your due. Concerned about debts and payment rather than justice or honor. I am an accomplished liar, my lady, but at least I know the lies from the truth, and while I’ve done despicable things, I know where my duty lies at the end of it all. You would do well to learn the same.”

“How dare you speak to me so?” Lady Barbrey demanded. “I am the Lady of Barrowton, and I have done as well as anyone could for the people there. Don’t speak to me about truth or honor because I know all men lie.” She looked at Catelyn. “Ask her! She knows. Even her honorable lord husband brought her a bastard to raise! All men lie, and Starks are just men like any other. What gives them a right to demand anything of me?”

“Nothing,” Catelyn said softly. “Nothing. I am not demanding anything, Lady Barbrey, but I ask you, what will you do now? Will you betray us to Lord Bolton?”

Barbrey Dustin laughed bitterly at that. “I’m the only one who’s been betrayed here, Lady Stark. By the Starks long ago, by our fat lamprey lord here, and even by my own man, it seems. But I am not a fool. It would appear the balance of power resides with Lord Manderly here for the moment. If Roose suspects I’ve betrayed him, he’ll kill me without thought so I suppose I shall now have to play my part in Lord Pig’s game and hope he can win it. Then hope that your lord husband will look kindly on me for whatever assistance I’ve given to you.”

“I thank you for that,” Catelyn said.

The other woman’s eyes blazed. “Don’t you dare thank me, Catelyn Tully! I care nothing for you or your lord husband or any of your damned wolf pups including that one you haven’t yet whelped. I do what I must for myself and my house. No more!”

Catelyn stood very still. Barbrey’s words rang in her ears and she wondered if Lord Wyman had heard and understood them.

“Wolf pup?” she heard him ask and realized he had heard Lady Dustin all too well.

Barbrey laughed. “Oh yes,” she said. “Our dear Lady of Winterfell is with child. Perhaps I should have mentioned that to you.”

Lord Manderly looked at Catelyn. “Is this true?”

She considered lying, but knew she couldn’t. Barbrey Dustin would call her out on it, and she’d never be able to keep the truth from her face. She nodded.

“Is it Lord Eddard’s?” he asked bluntly.

Catelyn felt the crimson staining her cheeks and knew it to be equal parts anger and shame. Obviously, Manderly knew something of what had happened to her or he would never have asked the question.

“I am sorry, my lady,” he said, “but I must ask. Hosteen Frey talks when he drinks, and I have wasted a great amount of good wine on the man to hear his talk. I heard from him that his father kept you alive, and I heard other things concerning your treatment at the Twins as well, Lady Stark.”

Catelyn felt hot and cold at the same time. She could feel Barbrey Dustin’s shocked eyes on her and thought that perhaps this was one thing Bolton hadn’t told the woman. Wyman Manderly sat there judging her, and she felt guilty standing here in front of him. _I am guilty of nothing._ She remembered all those rough hands and mouths, the violation of every part of her, and closed her eyes to keep it out. But she could see them all the more clearly with her eyes closed. She was back at the Twins. _Open your eyes, Cat. Look at me._ That’s what Ned had told her, but Ned wasn’t here. _Ned doesn’t find me guilty._ She felt used and filthy and ashamed. _Open your eyes, Cat,_ she heard his voice. _I can’t! I’m afraid._ Her heart felt like it might beat out of her chest, and she reached desperately for her husband’s unwavering belief in her. _Open your eyes, Cat._

She opened her eyes and looked directly at Lord Manderly. “Of course it is my husband’s child,” she said coldly. "I am scarcely a moon gone, and I bled more than once after leaving the Twins.” As Lord Manderly continued to look at her with an odd mix of sympathy and suspicion in his expression, she added, “I have nothing else to say about it, Lord Manderly. If you have need to further question the legitimacy of any of my children, you may do so with my lord husband when he arrives. As you have said, he is undoubtedly nearby, and he will be more than happy to set you straight about it.”

The Lord of White Harbor at least had the decency to look abashed then. “I . . .I meant no disrespect, my lady,” he stammered. “I only know that you have suffered greatly.” Catelyn realized he was staring at her face just below her eyes as he said that.

“Yes, my face is scarred, my lord. I am well aware of it. I do not need you to remind me of my hurts.” She drew a breath. “I do thank you for your efforts on behalf of my lord husband and House Stark. You say this man, Torrhen, is gone. Where did he go, and when do you expect this battle to be finished and your men to return?”

He seemed taken aback for a moment by her abrupt change of subject, but then answered her readily enough. “Torrhen has been sent to inform my men of your presence here. It gives them one more reason to fight and win. He will return directly with news of the battle. It is likely already engaged at this point, and I suspect it is occurring no more than two days west in the Wolfswood.”

Catelyn nodded. “Then we have nothing to do but bide our time for the present. Lady Barbrey and I should go.”

Barbrey had been uncharacteristically quiet for awhile. “We’ll have to go carefully. I need to get you back to the Great Keep, but we don’t want to run into that same Frey man as before since I had to tell him I was locking you up under the First Keep.”

“That won’t be a problem.” Lord Manderly rose and walked toward the rotting door that opened to the staircase leading to the next floor of the Broken Tower. “Come out, gentlemen,” he said. Turning back to Catelyn and Barbrey, he said, “Surely, you didn’t think I’d come alone.”

The two men who appeared behind him wore Frey armor, but Barbrey Dustin laughed and shook her head when she saw their faces. “You’re Tallharts!”

One of the men smiled at her, but neither spoke.

“They are Freys with their helmets on, as long as they approach no one too closely. They will go ahead of you and see that your way to the Great Keep is clear.” He turned toward the men. “Can you do that?”

The smiling man nodded. “Yes, my lord, and when you see one of us standing just this side of the old Guards Hall, you'll know your way is clear as well."

“My lady, you must let no one know of our meeting,” Lord Manderly said as they turned to go.

Turning back to face him, Catelyn felt the dagger strapped to her leg and remembered his words from the night before. “Never fear, my lord,” she said. “I’ll hide it well.”

She smiled at him, and she knew the Lord of White Harbor understood her perfectly.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“We should ride immediately, my lord!” Robett Glover exclaimed. “Everything is changed now, and we can help Lord Manderly and Lord Stannis achieve victory in their battle!”

Brienne watched Lord Stark’s face closely as Glover made this pronouncement. Nothing showed on it, and he did not speak at once. He would never abandon his lady wife and ride off to this battle! She could not believe that of him.

“You’re right, Robett,” he finally said slowly, “in that much has changed.”

“My lord,” Brienne said, unable to keep silent. She hadn’t said a word as Lord Stark and his men had questioned Torrhen Alwynd extensively about the double cross Lord Wyman Manderly had planned for Ramsay Bolton and his men. “Surely, you don’t mean . . .”

Lord Stark simply held up his hand, and she fell silent again.

“But one thing has not changed,” Lord Stark continued. “The Lady Catelyn is still held by Roose Bolton at Winterfell. Her safety is my priority.”

Brienne relaxed marginally, but Glover pushed on. “My lord, once we have crushed Bolton’s bastard, the castle is ours for the taking. With Stannis’s men, Manderly’s men and ours, Bolton can’t hope to hold Winterfell with only his Freys to defend it!”

“No, he cannot,” Lord Stark agreed, and Brienne saw that his eyes had gone very dark. “So, tell me, Robett, what precisely will Roose Bolton have to lose in that situation?”

“He . . .” Glover fell silent now.

“Nothing,” said Lord Stark in a voice like ice. “And I promise you this, Robett, I have no intention of leaving my wife in the hands of a man with nothing to lose.”

General silence greeted these words. A moment before, the men had vibrated with excitement, looking forward to the prospect of a battle. Now they all simply stared at Lord Stark, waiting to hear what he would say next.

“What shall we do, my lord?” Howland Reed asked quietly.

“We shall recover both my wife and my castle, gods willing,” he said, and Brienne heard the iron in his voice. He had a plan now. She leaned forward eagerly.

“I shall go to the gate in all haste with a dozen men or so, no more, under a flag of parley as we had planned. Lady Brienne and the others will go over the wall into the godswood as planned. The castle is largely emptied of northmen now, and the Freys are Riverlanders who care nothing for the old gods. The godswood is likely to be deserted which can only aid us. Torrhen tells us the walls of the castle are lightly manned, and the men walking the walls will be drawn toward the main gate by our arrival, but your approach will still be dangerous for there is no cover near the castle walls. You must cover yourself in all white and stay down in the snow as we discussed. A storm would actually be helpful in this, but it doesn’t appear we are to get one. This is a very dangerous thing I ask of you.” He paused then.

Brienne immediately fell to her knees in front of him. “I will not hesitate, my lord. I am honored to fight or to die for Lady Catelyn.”

The men chosen as climbers quickly kneeled and pledged themselves to the mision as well, although Brienne knew it was not so much out of devotion to Lady Catelyn as it was not wishing to appear more craven than a woman.

“I’d like to go over the wall, too, Lord Stark,” came Torrhen Alwynd’s voice.

Brienne looked at the man. He had to be in his fifties, at least, although he looked hale enough.

“I would have you do so, Torrhen, if you can make the climb,” Lord Stark replied.

The older man scoffed. “I’m old, not crippled. I can climb a wall.”

Lord Stark’s face was ice, but Brienne saw the brief flicker of pain in his eyes, and silently cursed the stupid man for his thoughtless words.

“I would have you lead all of these,” Lord Stark was saying with a sweep of his arm that encompassed all the climbers save Brienne and two others, “from the godswood to the Hunter’s Gate. If you can take that gate and raise a signal that it’s done, we can get everyone else inside. Torrhen, you should have free movement within Winterfell as a member of Lady Dustin’s party. Can you reach those inside who are working with Manderly and gain their assistance?”

“I can, my lord,” the man stated confidently.

“You two,” Lord Eddard now said, turning toward the two men left with Brienne. “You say you have both been inside Winterfell before. Can you find the Great Keep?”

“Yes, my lord,” one of them said quicky. “I know the way there from the godswood.”

Lord Stark nodded. “You and Lady Brienne will go there. Torrhen says my lady wife is now being kept in her own chamber. I shall tell you precisely how to go. Once you have her, you are simply to take her anyplace you can find safely away from any fighting. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” all three of them said together.

Then Lord Stark looked specifically at the two men. “You are to follow any order Lady Brienne gives you, do you understand me? She is sworn to protect my lady wife and I trust no one more. You will do as she commands.” His voice was grey iron, and it allowed for no dissent.

The two men looked vaguely displeased, but both replied, “Yes, my lord,” once again, and Brienne felt rather overwhelmed by Lord Eddard’s words.

Lord Stark then turned to Robett Glover and Howland Reed. “Robett, I’d have you lead the bulk of the men through the Hunter’s Gate. It is a small gate, and you’ll not be able to get through quickly in large numbers. I fear that once we are discovered, any Frey archers on the wall will have an easy time targeting you.”

“Let them try,” Glover said grimly.“We’ll get through.”

“Howland, I would have you with me.” He looked hard at the crannogman. “Once it becomes clear to Bolton what we have done, our position will be the most exposed. We will not be able to retreat faster than arrows fly, so our only hope of protection will be to press against the wall and hope that someone inside can get the gate open. We may be lost.”

“You will not be lost, Lord Stark!” one man cried out. “We shall let no enemy reach you!”

Brienne looked at the men around her and realized that every one of them would ask for the chance to be one of those who rode to the main gate of Winterfell with Lord Eddard Stark, in spite of the high likelihood they would die on this day. She would demand to ride with him herself were it not for the Lady Catelyn. As she silently asked the Warrior to keep him safe, she realized she prayed for him not only for the sake of her lady, but because he was worth it. She had seen a great deal of dishonor and deceit since King Renly’s death, and had discovered most men to have at least some measure of both.

This grey lord of the north who stood quietly among his shouting men, asking them to follow him without demanding it or promising them success, was actually worthy of the sacrifice some of them would undoubtedly make. Brienne managed to catch his eye and silently gave him her promise again that she would not fail Lady Catelyn, who was also more than worthy of that vow. He acknowledged her with the smallest possible nod of his head and a determined light to his grey eyes before turning away to speak of something with Lord Reed.

Brienne went to wrap the white scarves she had obtained from various men around her clothes and wondered about this Lord of White Harbor. All she knew about him was that he was reportedly too fat to even sit a horse. Now she prayed he was truly as clever as he was fat. Much depended on the extent of his influence inside Winterfell, and she hoped that Lord Wyman’s web was large enough to trap all the enemies it needed to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope it wasn't too terribly long, but things are kind of complicated here! As always, thank you for reading, and all comments are appreciated.


	37. Wolves at the Gate

Hosteen Frey limped into Roose Bolton’s solar. His leg still burned with every step, and the redness around the cut from the wolf bitch’s blade had spread further. The poultices made by that sorry excuse for a maester that Lady Dustin had brought from Barrowton didn’t help at all, and Hosteen found himself desperately missing Maester Brenett although he’d never actually liked the man. At least the maester at the Twins was competent in treating wounds. He wondered sourly if the man was happier serving his traitorous, treacherous, lying half-brother than he had been serving his father.

“How kind of you to join us, Ser Hosteen,” came Roose Bolton’s eerily quiet voice as he entered.

Hosteen saw his half-brother Aenys already seated in the solar. He looked around, but did not see Barbrey Dustin. That was unusual. “Bart just told me you wanted me, my lord,” he said gruffly. “Where’s Lady Dustin?”

“She is occupied keeping an eye on Lady Stark. She convinced me to remove her from her cell beneath the First Keep. She seemed to think Ned Stark would be rather less amenable to civil negotiations if he found his wife bruised, filthy, and half dressed.”

“He’ll negotiate well enough if we’ve got a knife to her throat,” Hosteen retorted. “Where’d you put her?”

“In her old bedchamber here in the Great Keep,” Roose said with the hint of a smile. “Although I don’t think she’ll find it a kindness. The rooms are somewhat changed from what she knew. Lady Barbrey tells me the woman fell down and wept when she saw what had been done to that little sept of hers. She’s quite broken, I fear.” He eyed both Freys. “And after the treatment she received at the Twins, it’s no wonder.”

“No more than she deserved,” Hosteen started to say, thinking of the wound to his leg.

At the same time, Aenys said, “You would seek to judge our house on its treatment of hostages, Bolton? After what your bastard did to those spearwives?” Aenys shuddered.

“Spearwives,” Bolton said coldly. “Not a man south of the Wall gives a damn about them or about Mance Rayder. The men won’t love Ramsay for his cruelty to them, but they didn’t love him anyway, and it’s given them more reason to fear him. But none of them would challenge him over spearwives.” He paused. “Ned Stark’s wife is another matter entirely, as House Frey has learned to its dismay.”

“It’ll be Stark who’s dismayed,” Aenys said darkly. “Once Stannis Baratheon has been defeated and killed, your position here will be more secure. Hosteen and I shall take our men here south to get our men at Moat Cailin and then march on the Twins. That turncloak, Olyvar, shall die.”

Hosteen said nothing. He merely looked at the Lord of the Dreadfort. There was something hidden in his cold, pale eyes. Something he hadn’t yet revealed.

“You forget yourself, Ser Aenys,” Bolton said quietly. “We have to make an accord with Ned Stark, remember? Marching on the Twins and killing his little puppet is hardly the way to accomplish that.”

“And you think that woman is?” Hosteen asked then. “She can’t be trusted.”

Bolton let his eyes flicker briefly to Hosteen’s leg. “I don’t intend to arm her,” he said with a ghost of amusement in his cool voice. Hosteen felt his hand clench instinctively on his sword hilt and Bolton saw the movement as well. “I wouldn’t recommend that, Ser Hosteen. I am not Wyman Manderly.”

Gods, he hated this man. Hosteen relaxed his hand and looked Bolton in the face. “What of Manderly? Once his men return, do you think he’ll be content to let you hold Stark’s wife?”

“I think Lord Manderly will do what is in the best interests of Lord Manderly,” Bolton replied. “It shall be my task to make him understand what that is.”

Aenys sighed. “You plot and scheme, but this could all come to naught. I tell you, if Hosteen and I combine the forces here with our force at Moat Cailin, we can drive the damned Tully puppets out of the Twins. Then Stark will be forced to remain below the Neck and come to the aid of Riverrun. You needn’t be a part of it. We could even take the wolf bitch with us, if you like. I’m more than happy to claim that we’ve had her all along. These northmen of yours will never love us anyway after the Red Wedding. I can negotiate whatever terms you like with Eddard Stark. Your role in it need never be mentioned to Stark‘s bannermen here.”

 _That was cleverly thought out,_ Hosteen had to admit. Aenys did have a certain cunning. Anything that had him marching away from Bolton and the godsforsaken north would be all right with him. But he feared Bolton trusted them too little to let them out of his grasp. Much less to give them his prized redheaded hostage.

“A well conceived plan, Ser Aenys,” Bolton said, and Hosteen looked up at him in surprise. “But I fear it is too late. Moat Cailin has fallen.”

“Fallen?” Hosteen gasped. “What do you mean?”

“I had a raven from the man I sent to treat with Ned Stark. His army has taken Moat Cailin.”

“Gods!” Hosteen cried. “We had more than enough men to hold the Moat. It cannot have been taken from the south!”

“It wasn’t,” Bolton spoke in that same quiet, flat, almost dead voice that made Hosteen want to ram a fist into the man’s face. “It was taken from north and south together.”

“What?” asked Aenys. “There are no armies in the north save those with you and Stannis’s men out in the woods. Who came from the north?”

Bolton sighed. “Ned Stark, of course. Or some of his men at any rate. Before the Red Wedding, Robb Stark had made a plan for an assault on the Ironborn at Moat Cailin. He intended to march there after his uncle wed. I was not with him when he outlined it to the other lords, as he did so before reaching the Twins. He spoke to me only briefly about it after my arrival, stating he would speak to me more fully after the wedding.” He paused then. “As you may recall, he never had the chance to do so.”

“What plan?” Hosteen demanded. “There is no other way through the Neck.”

“Really?” Bolton raised his brows slightly. “Then where did the northmen who took the Twins from your father come from precisely? I assure you they did not pass Moat Cailin.”

“The frogeaters,” Aenys muttered under his breath.

“Precisely,” said Bolton with a nod. “The savages who live in those swamps know all the ways through them. I would not have thought there were ways suitable for an army, but apparently I was wrong. And if the boy knew this, his father undoubtedly does.”

“Our men,” Hosteen asked then. “If Moat Cailin is truly fallen, what has become of our men?”

Bolton shrugged as if that mattered little to him. “Killed or taken captive I would assume. If Stark attacked from both north and south, there would have been little room to flee.”

“Our men would not flee!” Hosteen said angrily.

“Perhaps not,” Bolton said. “But this would have been a pitched battle, against armored foes with swords. Not a rout of drunken wedding guests wielding legs of mutton.”

“Gods damn you!” shouted Hosteen, and this time he almost had the sword drawn when a loud rap at the door caused all three men in the solar to stop and look toward it.

“My lord!” called an agitated voice. “Lord Bolton!”

“What is it?” the Lord of Dreadfort called back in a voice only marginally louder than his normal almost inaudible tones.

“May I come in, my lord?” came the voice again. “I have tidings of great import.”

Bolton sighed, and nodded his head toward the door. Hosteen was closest to it, and much as he hated being ordered about by Bolton like some sort of servant, he was curious. He opened the door, and a man wearing Bolton armor almost fell into the room, dropping to his knees before Lord Bolton.

“Did I not say I was not to be disturbed?,” Bolton asked the man coldly.

“But . . .my lord . . .riders,” the man stammered.

“Riders?” Bolton asked. “Returning from the Wolfswood?”

“No, my lord.” The man shook his head and his face wore a look of consternation. “From the other direction . . .about a dozen men riding toward the gate facing the Kingsroad. They are still a ways off, but we spied them through a lens . . .and they carry a white direwolf banner--the banner of House Stark.”

“From the east?” Bolton asked.

“It must be someone after the woman!” Hosteen said. “She wasn’t alone. I told you my man said there was a camp nearby. They must have figured out I didn’t take her to the Dreadfort.”

Bolton narrowed his eyes. “Get her,” he said. “Bring her to the wall at the gate.” He paused. “And make sure that hair of hers is down and uncovered. I want her recognized.”

“I daresay I’ve been many places in Winterfell, but I do not know the way to Catelyn Stark’s bedchamber,” said Hosteen dryly.

Bolton actually laughed. “No. I forgot what an honorable man you are, Ser Hosteen.” The sarcastic emphasis on the word ‘honorable’ made Hosteen’s fingers itch to grab his sword again, but he restrained the impulse. Bolton turned to the man who had come with the news. “Take Ser Hosteen to my lady wife’s former rooms.”

The man nodded, and turned toward the door, not even looking back to see if Hosteen would follow. Seething inwardly, Hosteen threw a last black look toward Bolton and followed the servant out the door in search of the damned wolf bitch.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The battle in the woods was as chaotic as it was bloody. Jon and Perwyn had crept as close as they dared and still were unsure precisely who was fighting whom. Apparently, fierce fighting had already taken place where they now stood and then had moved somewhat to the south and east. Jon could identify the sigils of Baratheon, Karstark, Bolton, Ryswell, Manderly, Hornwood, and Cerwyn among the corpses that littered the ground although he recognized no individual. Others of the dead clearly belonged to the mountain clans he’d sent Stannis Baratheon to recruit for his cause. Most were simply unidentifiable. He knew that some of the bodies on the ground were likely not quite dead yet, but none made any sound, and there was nothing he could do for them in any event.

“Jon, look at this,” Perwyn called softly. Jon walked to where Perwyn stood beyond another dense grove of trees and saw a man he did recognize lying on the ground, staring toward him with sightless eyes. This one he did know--Godry Farring, one of the Queen’s men. The dead man whose hand still clutched the hilt of the sword in Farring’s side wore the armor of House Karstark. “What of you make of that?” Perwyn asked him.

“It would appear Alys Karstark spoke truly,” Jon said. He wasn’t surprised by that. More puzzling were the dead Manderly and Cerwyn men intermingled with dead Bolton men. Jon couldn’t imagine how those bodies had gotten so tangled up together other than by fighting one another. Had the Boltons somehow lost the loyalty of some his father’s bannermen? And if all these men still fought, did Stannis Baratheon still live? Was the letter from Ramsay Bolton a lie after all?

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud crashing through the trees to his right. He and Perwyn turned at once with their swords drawn to see four rough looking bearded men dressed in leather and furs come into view. The man in front was considerably older than the rest and froze when he saw Jon.

“Lord Stark?” he asked incredulously. Then he shook his head. “No, you’re just a pup, but you are a Stark, ain’t you lad?”

“What are ye yapping about? They’ll be on us in a minute,” said the man directly behind him.

“Aye,” the older man replied. “Good a place to turn and meet ‘em as any. String your bows, boys!” The last was directed toward the final two men in the group. Then he turned back to Jon. “What’s your name, Stark boy? We’ve only got a minute or less.”

“I . . .I’m Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Jon replied, trying not to sound as young and confused as he felt.

“Ah, you’re the Ned’s bastard!” the man cried, but it somehow didn’t sound like an insult coming from him. “Fine then. We’re from clan Norrey, and we’ve managed to get a stupid bunch of Bolton bastards to chase us off this way. You and your friend are welcome to help us kill ‘em.”

Before Jon could respond, he heard the unmistakable sound of two arrows being released and then heard soft thuds and louder grunts as they hit their marks. Emerging from the trees not far from where the mountain men had appeared were close to a dozen men, now having to leap over the fallen bodies of their two comrades who’d been taken by the arrows. The Norrey bowmen had already restrung and were firing again, and the other two clansmen stood with their swords at the ready. The old man grinned at Jon when Jon nodded to Perwyn and the two of them took places beside them.

After that, it was all metal on metal or metal on leather or flesh. Jon was aware of little but his own sword as he slashed at the men who came at him. Longclaw hit its mark and one man fell in front of him just as Jon felt a blade slash through his own cloak and shirt and tear the flesh of his own side. He wasn’t wearing armor. Before he could turn his blade on that attacker, he felt the iron fall away from him, and looked to see the man fall to the ground as Perwyn Frey removed his bloody blade from the man’s back.

“You all right, Jon?” Perwyn shouted.

Jon nodded. He felt slightly dazed, and there was a buring sensation in his left side, but he didn’t think he’d been cut very deeply. He forced the pain from his mind and turned back toward the attackers. In truth, there was little left to do. New corpses now littered the ground around them, and Jon watched as one of the Norrey bowmen calmly shot down two fleeing Bolton men. He didn’t see the other bowman, and then realized that the old man and the other swordsman were kneeling over someone. It was the second bowman, his head cradled in the old man’s hands. From the amount of blood on the ground around him, he’d been wounded badly somewhere.

“You did good, Amos,” the old man was saying. “You’re a fine archer, lad. None better.”

“I . . .I tried . . .Grandfather,” the wounded man said. Up close, Jon could see this archer was little more than a boy in spite of his full beard. His face was now very pale and his eyes were glassy.

“You did good,” the old man repeated. “I’m proud of you. Now rest.”

The young man closed his eyes, and after a minute the old man laid his head on the ground and stood up. “He’s gone.” His eyes were dry, but his face wore a sadness that seemed to Jon to be almost too deep for tears. “Let’s go join the others.”

“Wait,” Jon said. “What has happened here exactly? Who fights this battle?”

“Well, Jon Snow, a lot of men fight this battle. Figuring out who fights for whom is the tricky part.” The old man smiled grimly. “What brings you off the Wall? The Night’s Watch takes no part in squabbles such as this.”

“No.” Jon said. “I fight here not as a man of the Night’s Watch, but as a son of Eddard Stark.”

“You’re a deserter?” the man asked, incredulously.

“No.” It was Perwyn who replied. “Lord Commander Snow was attacked and almost mudered by criminals who seek to subvert the Night’s Watch. I dragged him from the Wall unconscious. He has received word that his lord father lives and would seek him out to ask his aid for the Watch. Our peril is great, and since Lord Stannis rode south from the Wall, we do not have enough men to defend the realm against the creatures of winter that threaten from the north.”

“Your friend talks a lot,” the Norrey man said to Jon.

Jon smiled. “He does. But he speaks the truth. I remain a man of the Night’s Watch. Should my lord father doubt my word on that, he may deal with me as he sees fit, but I must find him and ask his aid. The need is great.”

“You said you fought as a son of Eddard Stark.”

“I did,” Jon said simply. “I am a man of the Watch, but I cannot forget who my father is. You fight for him and for my sister Arya. Your grandson died for them. I can’t simply stand here and watch. If that condemns me, so be it.”

The mountain man grinned broadly then. “It don’t with me, lad. But what’s this about Lord Eddard being alive? The Lannisters took his head down in King’s Landing, we heard.”

Jon nodded. “That’s what everyone heard, but it isn’t true. My father managed to escape somehow. I have a letter to that effect written in his own hand, and Perwyn here saw him before he came to the Wall. So you haven’t heard from him? He’s not in this battle?”

The man shook his head, and Jon felt disappointed. He knew it was unlikely his father would be among those fighting here in the Wolfswood, but he couldn’t help but hope for it. Surely, his father would not stand for Arya to remain in the hands of the Bolton bastard. He remembered that letter. “My sister. The Lady Arya. I had word that she escaped Winterfell. Is she among your men?”

The man shook his head again. “There was a girl come from Winterfell along with a broken shell of a man. But it weren’t the Ned’s little girl. Seems the bastard had him a false bride all along.”

 _Not Arya?_ Jon felt sick. He didn’t want his little sister in the hands of Ramsay Snow, but he didn’t want her missing or dead, either.  _Arya was never at Winterfell? Where is she? Where is Mance?_

He felt Perwyn grab him round the waist and started to protest until he realized he couldn’t actually stand.

“Gods, boy! You’re bleeding all over yourself! Why didn’t you say something?”

Jon couldn’t say anything. He let Perwyn lower him to the ground and felt the men pulling his clothing away from the cut in his side.

“Ain’t bad,” the old man said. “But I got nothing to clean it with. See if you can find some untouched snow, and we can pack it with that and then wrap him tight. That’s better than nothing.”

As the other men worked on his wound, Jon fought to stay conscious. “Who’s fighting whom?” he said. “You said something about that.”

The old man chuckled as he pulled some cloth torn from his dead grandson’s breeches tight around Jon’s torso. “Well, Ramsay Snow and a bunch of those sniveling northmen old Roose has kissing his boots came out to attack King Stannis. Only when we met them, all of his mermen from White Harbor immediately turned on him, and some of the other northmen with them, too. Looks like they were just waiting their chance. And the others with them who didn’t seem to know what was happening didn’t look to anxious to attack us once it started. Battle would’ve been over right away, I think, if not for that bastard Arnolf Karstark.”

Jon pushed away the handful of snow one of the Norrey men was putting to his mouth. “He betrayed you,” he said.

“He stabbed King Stannis. And then his men fell on those men the king had around him. Those knights of Red Ralloo.” He spoke of Melisandre’s red god with obvious contempt. “Karstark should’ve had his men come after us first. Those southron knights were never worth much anyway.”

“Stannis . . .Stannis is dead?” Jon choked.

“I don’t know if he’s dead, but he was stuck pretty bad. I saw him being dragged back toward the village we’ve been holed up in forever.”

“And the battle?” Perwyn asked. Jon had almost forgotten that his head was lying in Perwyn’s lap as the old man bound his wound. “How does the battle turn now?”

“Oh, we’ll win it, all right,” the old man said. “No thanks to that poxy bastard Karstark. I’ll take his head myself if he isn’t killed already--for Amos there, and all the other brave boys that didn’t have to die today, but for what he done.”

“You truly think the battle is won for Stannis’s side?” Perwyn pressed again. Jon was glad he kept asking because he desperately wanted to know more, but he didn’t feel quite able to talk. He was thirsty, and now he opened his mouth for the snow he was offered.

“I know it. I don’t think all the northmen with Bolton were with the mermen when it started, but most of them seem to be now. And we’re not bad in a fight, ourselves. There’s a few more men to kill and die before it’s all done, but the day is ours.” Jon heard the man shift his weight, but wasn’t sure where he moved to because he couldn’t seem to open his eyes. “We’d better get this lad back to the village,” the man was saying. “If the Ned is alive, I don’t reckon he’ll thank me for getting his boy killed.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The door to her chamber flew open with a bang, and Catelyn found her arm held tightly in the grip of Hosteen Frey before she had a chance to react. “Lord Bolton wants you,” the man snarled at her.

She hadn’t laid eyes on the man since he’d attacked Sansa and herself by the camp outside White Harbor, and the image of him with a knife to Sansa’s throat came vividly to her mind. Without any thought at all, her free hand came up and slapped him hard across the face. He jerked hard on the arm he held, throwing her down onto the floor. She saw him raise his fist above her and instinctively curled up to protect her middle.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” came Lady Dustin’s voice from somewhere behind Frey. The man made a startled sound, and even in the midst of her anger and fear, Catelyn realized he hadn’t known the other woman was in the room. “Roose doesn’t want her beaten,” Barbrey Dustin continued. “Of course, after the state she was in when you brought her here, you’d think he’d know to send some other lapdog after her this time.”

Now he whirled on Lady Dustin. “I am no man’s lapdog!”

As Hosteen Frey turned away from her, Catelyn had to force herself not to grab for her concealed dagger. Killing this man now would gain her nothing, regardless of how badly she wanted him dead. She slowly got back to her feet as Lady Dustin replied to him.

“As you say, ser. But why has he sent you for Lady Stark? He left her to my keeping and said nothing of taking her out of these rooms today.”

In fact, she and Barbrey had only just returned to these rooms, and Catelyn wondered what would have happened had Hosteen Frey arrived to find her gone.

“Riders,” Frey said through clenched teeth. “Riders approach beneath a direwolf banner. He wants her on the wall where she can be seen.”

 _Direwolf banner? Ned!_ Catelyn’s heart sped up with equal parts joy and terror. He had come for her just as she knew he would, but what was he riding into? She honestly couldn’t tell whether the true power in the castle at this point lay with Bolton or Manderly. Did Ned’s arriving while Manderly’s men were gone play into Bolton’s hand? She wondered if the Lord of White Harbor could somehow communicate to him that not all was as it appeared in Winterfell.

“Surely, Stark’s army can’t have arrived from Moat Cailin yet. We only just had the raven. Of course, the man did apparently survive his own beheading. Perhaps he has learned to fly, as well,” Barbrey said dryly.

Barbrey Dustin knew Ned had been with Catelyn in White Harbor. She’d been there for the discussion with Wyman Manderly. Was she attempting mislead Frey somehow or merely taking pains to appear completely innocent of Manderly’s plots should they come undone?

“These aren’t from the Moat. They come from the east, apparently. Likely they’re the men who were with her when I took her. I’d laid them a trail to the Dreadfort, but it appears they’ve discovered the truth, somehow, and turned our way.”

Lady Dustin turned to Catelyn then. “Who was with you, Lady Stark? Who rides to our gates?”

Catelyn said nothing. Frey was looking at her now, too, and she could see the angry red mark her hand had left on his face. He laughed. “Doesn’t matter, bitch. We’ll see for ourselves who it is soon enough. Come on.” He reached out to grab her again, and she moved toward Barbrey. The woman was no friend, but Catelyn couldn’t stand the thought of Hosteen Frey touching her again.

“Such a disrespectful way to speak to a lady, Ser Hosteen. Hardly proper behavior for a true knight,” Lady Dustin chided him.

“What else do you call a she-wolf?” he shrugged.

“I shall walk with Lady Catelyn,” Barbrey said firmly. “You come along behind us, and if she tries anything, you can stop her. Let me get our cloaks.”

“Not hers. He wants her hair out,” Frey said.

“She’ll freeze without a cloak. She can leave the hood down. And here.” Barbrey stepped behind Catelyn and began undoing the cord that held her single braid in place.”

“What are you doing? We’ve got to go,” Hosteen demanded.

Barbrey’s deft fingers had already removed the cord and now they were combing through Catelyn’s hair, freeing it from the braid. “You want all her hair to show, don’t you? And it’ll keep her warmer if it can fall down around her ears.”

“You’re awfully keen on taking care of her,” Hosteen commented.

“I don’t give a damn about her,” Barbrey snapped. “Or about any Stark. But I do know how to take care of assets I’ve been given to protect. Perhaps you should learn to do the same.” With that she turned to grab her cloak and Catelyn’s, and led Catelyn toward the door with Hosteen Frey trailing behind them.

The blast of cold air that hit them as they left the Great Keep caused Catelyn to automatically reach for her hood, only to have it yanked out of her hands from behind by Hosteen Frey. “Down, remember?” he hissed.

She didn’t answer and realized that she hadn’t spoken since the man had entered her chamber. She pulled her cloak tightly around her and continued walking beside Lady Dustin toward the East gate, with her hair blowing about her. _Just like the_ _Twins,_ she thought. Only at the Twins, she had been resigned to her fate. She’d been silent because she had nothing to live for, nothing to lose. Now she was silent because she had everything to lose--Ned, their children, this new babe--and she was afraid if she opened her mouth, she would start screaming and never stop. She couldn’t do that. She had to think.

The East gate was open and they passed through it to walk across the bridge over the frozen moat toward the gate which led to the Kingsroad. That outer gate was closed, however.

“Lady Stark! How kind of you to join us!” Roose Bolton called down to them from the top of one of the turrets at the gate.

She looked up and saw him standing beside two men in plate armor. Bolton wore only leather, and she wondered if Ned had any archers with him skilled enough to kill the man from below on horseback. She knew he wouldn’t try it, though. Not with her there.

Frey gave her a shove in the back. “Up the stairs, my lady,” he said with exaggerated courtesy.

When she reached the top of the turret and looked out, she saw a group of horsemen, ten, she counted, approaching from the northeast, coming over the countryside rather than traveling the Kingsroad. They flew a white peace flag as well as a large white banner with a dark grey sigil on it. While it was still too far away to see the detail, she knew it was the direwolf of Stark.

Roose Bolton handed her a long tube with lenses, just like one Maester Luwin had had. Catelyn wondered if it was the same one. “Use that to look at those men, Lady Stark. Tell me if you recognize them.”

Catelyn didn’t need any lens. Ned rode at the head of the little party flanked by the two banners. She was almost certain the man carrying the peace flag was Howland Reed, but she was in no doubt about her husband’s identity. He had recognized her as well. She had seen the shift of his position on the horse when he saw her. She swallowed hard and tried to push the image of him charging toward her through the courtyard of the Twins out of her mind.

“Go ahead, Lady Stark.” It was a command rather than a request, and Catelyn lifted the instrument to her eye. _Oh, gods!_ She could see Ned’s face clearly. He was looking at her, and she suppressed an urge to wave. One of the men beside him was Howland Reed as she had thought, but she did not see Robett Glover, Donnell Boden, or Brienne, and wondered what that meant.

“Who are they?” Bolton asked quietly.

Catelyn lowered the eyepiece and looked at him. Surely, he’d looked through it himself, and he knew well enough what Ned looked like. “You know perfectly well who it is,” she said just as quietly.

He smiled at her then, although it was an unpleasant expression completely without warmth. Then he turned to Ser Hosteen. “It would appear you stole Ned Stark’s wife right from under his very nose, my friend.” He laughed. “I wonder if you would have had the courage to do so if you’d known it.”

Hosteen did look pale, but then responded boldly, “I fear Eddard Stark no more than I feared his son!”

At that, something in Catelyn snapped. “You fought for his son, you foul Frey bastard! You fought for him, swore yourself to him, and then betrayed him so that this . . .this . . .monster could murder him!” She had turned toward Roose Bolton as she said the last and so did not see Hosteen Frey reach for her hair to jerk her back toward him. She cried out at the sharp pain in her scalp and he clapped his other hand over her mouth as she fell against him.

Then she became of aware of two sounds. The first was Roose Bolton’s low chuckle, and the second was the sound of hoofbeats at a gallop. She twisted her head around within Hosteen’s grasp to look again at the riders. Ned was far ahead of the others now, riding at full gallop, although the others had spurred their horses after him. _Gods, Ned, no! They’ll kill you!_

“Well, Barbrey, it would appear you are correct in your estimation of Lord Stark’s reaction should his lady wife be threatened,” Bolton said, still with a chuckle in his voice. “Hold her tightly, Hosteen, but stand at the front and let them see she’s not harmed. Archers!” he called to the men on the wall with bows. “If they do not slow their horses by the time they reach the Kingsroad, start shooting at them--but not at Stark. I need him alive.”

Hosteen Frey shoved her forward against the front wall of the turret top, facing her husband and his men. He held her tightly against him, pinning her arms to her sides with his own arms. He had removed his hand from her mouth, but she did not scream. She watched her husband ride closer and wondered again where Brienne was. And Donnell. Within the castle, she wondered about Wyman Manderly. Surely he had heard what was happening here. Roose Bolton stood beside her staring down at Ned as intently as she did. Catelyn closed her eyes and prayed that someone other than Bolton knew something more about this situation than she did.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark had only one goal in his mind--to get to Catelyn. His heart had had leapt when he saw her there among the men at the gate of Winterfell, at least well enough to stand on her own. Then a man had grabbed and pulled her by her hair, and now his horse could not run fast enough.

“My lord! Ned!” He could hear Howland Reed shouting after him, but his rage and terror left had left him almost incapable of comprehending the man’s words. “You must wait!”

 _Wait?_ He was to wait while yet more men abused his wife? He kicked the horse again.

“You’ll get her killed! You’ll get us all killed!” Howland yelled at him.

Ned forced his mind to focus on his friend’s words, and he looked again toward Winterfell. Men on both sides of the gate now had bows trained on them. Catelyn stood on one of the turrets facing him. A man held her from behind, but otherwise did not appear to be harming her. He was close enough now to recognize Roose Bolton standing beside her with his arms held up in a gesture clearly indicating that Ned was to slow his approach.

He closed his eyes, willing the blood pounding in his brain to cool, and reined in his horse. Howland was beside him almost immediately. “I thought we had lost you when that man pulled her hair,” Reed said quietly.

Ned was silent, but turned to look at his friend with barely contained rage.

“We cannot stray from the plan, my lord,” Howland told him, not flinching from the cold grey gaze. “Our hope lies in trusting everyone to do their part.”

“How can Brienne get to her now? She’s not tucked away in her room. She’s right there! Surrounded by men and swords and bows!” He turned to look back at the gate. Bolton had lowered his arms now that Ned’s men had stopped, and simply stood there, too close to Catelyn, waiting. “That man killed my son, Howland,” he said quietly, “and he stands there in my castle, holding my wife.” He heard the low growl creep into his voice as he said the last and felt the rage building again.

“And we cannot get her back by breaking ourselves against that gate,” the crannogman said warningly. “Ned, play your part here. We must all play our parts if we have any hope of success.”

He nodded then. Reforming their small company, he led them toward the gate of his home at a slow pace, with Howland and the peace flag and the young man carrying the direwolf banner. The archers kept their bows trained on them, but none fired, and soon they were within the shadow of Winterfell’s walls.

Looking up, he could see the faces on the turret clearly. Roose Bolton’s pale face was almost expressionless as he looked back down at him. The big man holding Catelyn was obviously a Frey, Hosteen he thought. He knew Aenys Frey somewhat better and it wasn’t him. Cat looked right at him, her face a bit whiter than usual, but her jaw set determinedly. Her eyes met his, and even with the distance between them he could clearly see both the fear and the impossibly stubborn courage in her blue gaze. He closed his own eyes momentarily lest the sheer magnitude of his feelings overwhelm him. Then he looked steadily back and addressed his first remark to her.

“Are you well, my lady?” he called up to her.

“Yes, my lord!” she shouted down without hesitation. “As well as can be expected with such a plague of vermin infesting our castle!”

Some of Ned’s men actually laughed out loud at her response, and Ned felt his own mouth twitch, but his amusement was spoiled by the rough way the Frey jerked Catelyn back after she spoke. He was about to shout at the man when he caught her shaking her head at him almost imperceptibly.

“To what do we owe your visit to my son’s castle, Lord Stark?” Roose Bolton called down now.

“It’s my castle, Bolton. And that’s my lady wife that Frey is treating so discourteously. I would have them both back.”

“Would you now? I am not inclined to give them to you, I fear. Winterfell was given to my son, Ramsay, by good King Tommen himself. It’s his. And as Warden of the North, it’s my position to protect ladies from condemned traitors rather than hand them over to them, I think.”

“Come out and treat with us, Bolton. No need to keep shouting from walls,” Ned called back, choosing to ignore the man’s remarks.

“I have nothing to hide, Stark! Have you?” the man answered back.

“Not at all! I merely recall you’ve never cared for shouting, and I wished to be courteous!”

Catelyn laughed at that, and Ned looked at her. The Frey tightened his grip around her as if her laughter were somehow dangerous. “Is it necessary for him to treat my lady wife so roughly?” he called to Bolton. “She isn’t likely to go anywhere at the moment.”

“He mislikes me!” Catelyn called down before Bolton could answer. “I stuck his leg and it wounded his pride!”

So, this was Hosteen Frey. Sansa had told him how Catelyn had gotten the man to release their daughter. He remembered both Sansa and Brienne telling him of the brutality of the man’s attack, and he feared for Cat now. She appeared to be deliberately goading the man. Why?

Roose Bolton laid a hand on the man’s arm as he jerked Catelyn again. Frey seemed to say something to her, but Ned couldn’t hear what it was. She merely looked away from the man, and Ned thought he saw something cross her face as she looked back toward the East gatehouse within, but she was too far away and the expression was gone too quickly for him to be certain of it.

Bolton and Frey appeared to be having some sort of discussion now. Bolton had stepped in front of Catelyn, and he couldn’t see her clearly. He looked around at the other people on the turrets and walls and realized there was another woman there. Barbrey Dustin stared down at him from near the back of the turret with undisguised contempt in her expression. He did not see Aenys Frey anywhere.

“I’ve come here under a flag of peace, Lord Bolton!” he called up. “In spite of this vile man’s abduction of my lady wife. I give you a chance at terms. Will you come treat with me or not?”

Bolton turned toward him then, moving just enough to allow him to see Catelyn clearly once more. She was biting her lower lip. _What are you thinking,_ _Cat?_ Hosteen Frey shoved her forward and held her tightly by her arms.

“Perhaps, we could allow you to enter the castle, Lord Stark. I would guarantee your safety here, and we . . .” Bolton started to say.

“No!” Catelyn shouted, interrupting him. “You must not trust our son’s murderer, my lord! And these Freys are worse than animals!” The venom in her voice on the word ‘Frey’ was palpable, and it was not lost on the man who held her.

“Bitch!” he shouted furiously. “You will not speak again!” Then Ned saw the big man raise his fist and strike his wife so hard that she fell against Roose Bolton and then crumpled to the ground behind the short wall and out of his sight.

“Cat!!!!” he screamed.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

It was too easy. It couldn’t be this easy. Brienne looked around her. The godswood of Winterfell was an eerily quiet place, and it seemed entirely deserted save for her companions. One by one, they came over the wall and gathered together silently. Their journey to the castle had been uneventful, although Brienne was very wet and cold from crawling through the snow. She now was removing her white coverings and saw the men doing the same. The western walls of Winterfell had been rather woefully unguarded, and the moat had been frozen solid as Lord Eddard had said it would be. Now, as Torrhen Alwynd came over the wall, the last of them to do so, Brienne felt an odd sense of disquiet. The godswood appeared almost untouched by Winterfell’s troubles except for broken panes of glass near the back that she assumed were once part of a glass garden.

“This way,” Torrhen said to the group, once all the white clothes had been gathered behind a large tree in the godswood.”

“We make for the Great Keep,” Brienne told him.

He nodded. “Yes, but the Hunter’s Gate is close at hand. Come as I show these the way, and then I can help you. It will cost you no time.”

Brienne hesitated. She wanted to get to the Lady Catelyn now, but the man did know people inside Winterfell. If things were not as expected, he could help. She turned to the two men assigned specifically to her. “We will go with them first.” To Torrhen, she said, “Quickly.”

When they reached the gate leading out of the godswood, she could see clearly how damaged Winterfell truly was. A fallen turret stood beside the Hunter’s Gate, and the walls all bore black stains. There were men around the gate, but not many, and they were not looking toward the godswood. The area around the gate housed the kennels and was enclosed by walls, so it was not easily visible to other people in the castle. Lord Eddard had planned this well.

Using the advantage of surprise, Lord Stark’s men dispatched the men at the gate without much difficulty and with a minimum of noise save for the barking of the dogs, and that did not draw anyone to them. It seemed the attention of the castle was elsewhere. Brienne hoped that was a good thing.

As the other men opened the gate, Torrhen called to Brienne and her two companions. “Take the clothing and armor of the dead. You will pass more easily as Freys.”

Brienne raised her eyebrows. “We’ve been doing it for some time,” Torrhen said. “These men wore no helmets. See if there are any in the gatehouse. Covering your faces will help quite a lot.”

Brienne chafed at yet another delay, but saw the sense in what the man asked. None of the actual armor fit her, but both of the men found some they could wear. She put on a coat with the Frey sigil that fit passably enough, and they all found helmets. As Torrhen finally led them out into the main courtyard, Brienne could hear the sound of horses. Robett Glover’s men were riding out of the Wolfswood. They had ridden past Winterfell far enough to the north to escape detection in order to wait there for their signal to approach. Their arrival would definitely attract attention within the castle, and Brienne felt the need to find and recover Lady Catelyn even more urgently.

“I shall leave you here,” Torrhen said once they were in the courtyard. “I must find Lord Manderly. The Great Keep is just there,” he said pointing.

“I know it,” one of the men said with a nod, and so they parted ways.

There were people in the courtyard, but no one paid them any attention as they walked nonchalantly toward the Great Keep, and Brienne began to believe that her unease had been for naught. Then, just before they reached the Keep, she saw three people leaving it, two women and a man, and she froze. She did not recognize the first woman, but the man was that Frey villain who had taken her lady. And the second woman, with a mass of auburn hair blowing wildly in the wind was unmistakably her own Lady Catelyn.

“That’s her,” one of the men beside her hissed unnecessarily.

“They’re moving her,” said the other. “There’s only the one man. Let’s take her!”

Brienne looked around the courtyard again. There weren’t a great number of men about, but all of them were armed. “No,” she said. Attacking Hosteen Frey in the middle of the courtyard is not an option. We’ll be swarmed. Let’s follow them.”

They continued walking a good distance behind them until the other three passed through the East Gate. _Oh, gods,_ thought Brienne, _They’re taking_ _her to show to Lord Stark._ There were a great number of men around the gatehouse, though, so she knew they could not pass there unquestioned. She changed her direction just slightly and began walking toward what appeared to be a ruined tower or keep. Whatever it was, it had been very large at one point, but now a good portion of it lay in rubble on the ground. She hoped she could find enough cover from prying eyes there to stop and formulate a plan, and she hoped as well that it appeared to anyone watching now that she knew where she was going. The two men with her followed without question, and she silently thanked Lord Eddard for his orders to them. She wondered if he was outside the gate now or only just approaching.

“The First Keep has fallen,” said the one man beside her. “It was abandoned, but intact when I was last here.”

She nodded. “What is the long building there?” she asked.

“Guards Hall. But it looks different. It must have been damaged in the fire to the point of needing some rebuilding.”

“And what’s beyond there?”

“Just a lichyard, and I’ve heard the Stark crypts, but I’ve never seen those.”

“Good.” She couldn’t imagine there being a tremendous crowd in a lichyard.

Once they passed around the ruins of the First Keep, they were indeed out of sight of anyone by the East Gate or in the courtyard. As Brienne started to discuss options with her men, however, she was startled to see someone emerge from a rundown tower just past them that looked like it was missing its top.

The man looked startled to see them as well, and turned and called to someone behind him. Two more men emerged and Brienne was glad beyond belief to recognize one of them as Torrhen Alwynd.

“Torrhen!” she called.

“Lady Brienne! I though you were getting Lady Stark from the Great Keep,” Torrhen said, as he approached her, obviously confused.

“She isn’t there. We saw them take her out the East Gate. There are too many men there for the three of us to pass unnoticed or take by force.”

Torrhen nodded once. “Come on,” he said and turned back into the tower. The two men with him obviously now accepted that Brienne and her men were not foes because they allowed them to pass. Brienne noticed they wore Frey sigils, but doubted they were any more Frey men than she was.

Inside the dimly lit tower, a man sat in a single chair. One look at him was enough for Brienne to identify him even though they had never met. He was simply the most enormously fat man she had ever seen. “Lord Manderly,” she said.

“You must be Lord Stark’s lady knight that Torrhen was just starting to tell me about. I would hear Lord Stark’s plans from you,” the man said.

“I don’t have time for that,” Brienne said simply. “Hosteen Frey has taken Lady Stark through the East Gate and I must get her back.”

Manderly looked at Torrhen and his men. “That’s where Bolton is then. He wants to taunt Stark a bit from the walls. He doesn’t know he’s under attack from the west yet.”

“Yes, Glover’s men are probably coming in the Hunter’s Gate as we speak,” said Brienne, “but there aren’t many of them, and Lady Stark is . . .”

“Lady Stark is not my primary concern,” Manderly interrupted.

“She is mine,” said Brienne firmly, “and she is Lord Stark’s. Either help me to help her or give me leave to go, my lord. I have no time.”

“I have just learned that Aenys Frey has been alerted to men riding from the west,” Manderly said, in what appeared to be a complete non-answer to her statement. “Rather than inform Lord Bolton, he has simply gone to see what transpires there himself. I am sending a small number of men to fall upon that fool and his men once he engages Glover. Numbers aren’t everything. He shall be surprised and attacked from within and without. I believe we shall win.”

“And when Hosteen Frey learns . . .” Brienne felt cold.

“If he is within reach of Lady Stark when he hears of it, he’ll likely kill her. He isn’t a cool-blooded man like Bolton,” the Lord of White Harbor said rubbing his multiple chins.

“I must save her!” Brienne cried.

“I have no men to give you, my lady.” He regarded Brienne a brief moment. “But if you insist on making the effort, perhaps I can get you past the gate.” He withdrew a roll of parchment sealed with an elaborate merman insignia and handed it to her.

“What is this?”

“Nothing of importance. But if Torrhen presents it to the men at the gate and tells them I bid him to take it and you to Lord Bolton personally, they will likely let you pass. What you do after that is up to you. I will tell you that two of the archers on the wall are mine. Otherwise, you shall be friendless there.”

She nodded. “Come on,” she said to Torrhen and her men. Turning back to Lord Manderly, she said, “Thank you, my lord”

“I wish you good fortune, my lady,” the man replied.

Marching directly up to the men at the East Gate caused Brienne’s heart to beat so loudly she was certain it could be heard by everyone near, but these men appeared to be primarily Bolton or Dustin men and did not question that the three strangers with Torrhen were Freys.

The captain there looked at the seal on the parchment. “What’s Lord Piggy want now?” He looked at Brienne and her companions. “If this is another greivance against the Freys, Lord Bolton doesn’t have time for it. He’s got Eddard Bloody Stark out there! The old wolf’s alive, do ye believe it? And it seems that wench they’ve had locked up under the First Keep is the old wolf’s wife!”

Torrhen shook his head. “I don’t know any of that. I only know Ser Aenys Frey sent these three to Lord Manderly and when he heard what they had to say, he sent them on here right away.”

Now the captain looked dubious. “Aenys Frey sent men to Wyman Manderly?”

“I know,” Torrhen said, “I couldn’t believe it either, but the old piece of suet looked white as a ghost after he talked to them, wrote this out for Lord Bolton, and said it was urgent. I won’t be the man what keeps them out.”

Brienne could see the captain wavering and she thanked all the gods for Torrhen Alwynd’s clever tongue.

“Go on, then,” the man finally said. “His lordship’s atop the turret at the Kingsgate.”

As they walked across the bridge over the frozen moat, Brienne could hear someone shouting something from outside the closed outer gate. Then, from above, she heard Lady Catelyn’s voice clearly. “He mislikes me. I stuck his leg and it wounded his pride.”

There, on the turret, she could see Lady Catelyn being jerked roughly by Hosteen Frey. Roose Bolton was there, too, but they were all looking outward. As Frey bent to mutter something in Lady Catelyn’s ear, she twisted slightly to look away from him, and Brienne realized she was looking down toward the bridge. Quickly, she raised Oathkeeper in front of her. The flash of recognition on her lady’s face was fleeting, but she had seen it. Lady Catelyn knew Oathkeeper and knew Brienne was there.

As Brienne contemplated her next move, she heard the shouting from outside the gate again and now recognized Lord Stark’s voice. She put herself in front of Torrhen as they reached the stairs and started to climb. Then Lady Catelyn cried out again, shouting a warning to her husband laced with insults of Bolton and Frey.

Just as she climbed high enough to see onto the top of the turret, Hosteen Frey’s fist smashed into the side of Lady Catelyn’s head, and she fell against a man who must be Roose Bolton before collapsing to the ground. Even as she heard Lord Stark’s anguished shout from below, Brienne was already bounding up the last few steps to leap on Hosteen Frey.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Jon woke up not knowing how long he’d been asleep. He knew one thing with absolute certainty, though. “Winterfell,” he croaked.

Perwyn Frey leaned over him as he opened his eyes. “You’re awake,” he said. “It’s not quite Winterfell, but it is indoors, at least.”

“No,” Jon croaked, and licked his lips. “My father . . .my father’s at Winterfell.”

“Jon,” Perwyn said, “We don’t know where your father is. I’m afraid you lost a bit more blood than we’d thought, and since you hadn’t completely recovered from your previous wounds, well . . .you’ve been out for hours. You’re a bit groggy still.”

“No!” Jon said, his voice louder and more firm. He did know his father was at Winterfell. He could still feel the snow beneath his paws as he’d watched his father and the other men ride to the Kingsgate. He saw the woman on the tower fall when the man hit her. He heard his father cry out and smelled his fear and rage. _Lady Stark,_ he thought. _The woman was Lady Stark._

“Jon,” Perwyn was saying, with a concerned expression on his face.

“Perwyn, listen,” Jon said, pushing himself into a sitting position in spite of the pain that knifed through his side and the way the room spun around at the movement. “My father has ridden to Winterfell. His wife is there. I think she’s been hurt.”

That startled Perwyn. He had always seemed oddly protective whenever he spoke of Lady Stark. But still, he shook his head. “You were dreaming, Jon. We fought in the woods, remember? You took a cut to your side, but you’ll be fine. We did win the battle.”

 _The battle._ That had seemed so important before, but now, he simply had to get Perwyn to believe him. He tried to make his eyes focus on their surroundings. They were in some type of long room with a low ceiling. There were numerous pallets laid on the floor with wounded or dying men in each.

Jon dropped his voice. “I did dream, Perwyn. I dreamed of Ghost. He went to Winterfell.”

Perwyn shook his head again. “It seems everyone’s at Winterfell. Jon, I’m going to get you something to drink.”

Jon grabbed his hand, and held him there. “You don’t understand, Perwyn. I dream of Ghost a lot. In my dreams, I am Ghost, and when I wake, I discover that the things Ghost has seen have actually occurred.” He stared hard at his friend. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Perwyn looked back at him without replying.

“I’m not mad, Perwyn. And I can’t explain it to you. But you know it’s true. I am connected to Ghost. And I’m telling you that Ghost went to Winterfell. You haven’t seen him here, have you?”

Perwyn shook his head.

“He’s coming back now,” Jon said, “but I don’t know how close he is. He probably won’t come around all these people in any event. But he went to Winterfell, and my father is there, and so is his wife. We need to send men there.” He paused. “Does Stannis live?”

Perwyn nodded. “I don’t know if he’ll live long, but as of now, he lives. He won’t be marching to Winterfell any time soon. That’s for certain. And Jon, there are things you need to hear.”

Jon sighed. “ Later, Perwyn. First, find me our friends from clan Norrey. They’ll believe me. And they’ll go.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Her vision was still dark as she reeled from the pain in her head, but it was clearing. She had been prepared for the blow and moved away from it even as it landed so that the crushing force was reduced somewhat. She struggled to focus her mind against the pain and grabbed at the hem of her skirts. She didn’t need her eyes to find the dagger on her leg.

She’d heard Ned shout her name. She knew he would be hurling himself at the gate now and prayed that those men with him would do their duty and protect him. She heard a clash of metal close by and knew that Brienne had attacked Hosteen Frey. _Gods protect her, too,_ she prayed. Roose Bolton still stood beside her. Catelyn could hear him barking orders at his archers. _Keep close to the wall, Ned,_ she thought, _and keep covered._

Her vision was returning and she could see that no one was looking down at her. Presumably, they all thought her unconscious or even dead. Bolton was so close she could touch him, but he had not noticed her movement, so now she pulled herself up along the wall until she was on her knees behind him. Taking the hilt of the dagger in both hands, she reached above her and plunged it into his flank, just below his ribs with all the force she could muster. She felt his clothing and skin resist briefly and then give way, allowing the blade to sink into his body all the way to the hilt. He grunted and pitched forward onto the wall, and she twisted and turned the blade within him, seeking to cause the most damage she could. She saw with satisfaction that his already ghostly face was going whiter with every passing instant, although his eyes remained open and he worked his mouth silently. She pulled herself up on him and hissed into his ear, “For my son.”

Then she felt herself being jerked up and backward and thought at first Hosteen Frey must have escaped Brienne, but she turned to see a white haired man thrusting a long knife into her already bloody hands. “Here, my lady,” he said urgently. “Hold it to Lady Dustin‘s throat, and demand they open the gates.”

Catelyn was dizzy from the sudden change in position to standing, and she struggled to make sense of the man’s words. “The gate,” she said hoarsely. _Ned. Ned is outside the gate._

As she turned toward Barbrey Dustin, she saw a bowman on the other turret loose an arrow toward her. The old man who’d given her the knife grabbed her again, almost throwing her into Barbrey, and she heard the soft thud as the arrow meant for her hit the man’s back. “The gate, my lady,” he whispered as he fell to his knees and then his face.

Catelyn wasn’t sure she could move, but then she saw Barbrey Dustin staring at her wide-eyed, as if she were a demon from one of the seven hells, and she reached out and grabbed her, holding the knife at her throat as she had done to Jinglebell a hundred years ago.

“Tell them to stop shooting,” she hissed in the woman’s ear.

Barbrey hesitated only briefly before shouting. “I yield the gate! Cease your shooting!”

Some men stopped at once. Others ignored her. “Open the gate!” Catelyn yelled. “Open it now, or I swear I shall open her throat!”

Catelyn saw the archer take aim at her again, but then he was inexplicably felled by an arrow from another of the archers on the wall. Two men in Frey armor had now climbed the stairs of the other turret and were attacking any there who had not laid down their arms. Hosteen Frey lay in a pool of blood, but Brienne continued to battle against two men trying to force their way up the steps. Some of Ned’s men rode back and forth on horseback, continuing to fire arrows at those on the wall. She saw one of them fall off his horse as he was struck by an arrow himself. She couldn’t see Ned and hoped that he was alive and safe.

“Lord Bolton is dead!” she shouted. “Open the gate to the rightful Lord of Winterfell!”

Suddenly there were men pouring across the bridge from the East Gate, and her heart fell. What few allies she seemed to have here could never stand against a fresh wave of men. Then she looked more closely and realized she recognized these men. These were Robett Glover’s men!

“Hold very still, Lady Dustin,” she said quietly. “I would prefer not to kill you, but I will not hesitate to do so if my hand is forced.”

“My lady, get down below the wall,” Brienne shouted at her, having finally dispatched the two men on the stairs. “Some archers remain! I shall guard the stairs.”

As she sank to the ground, dragging Barbrey Dustin with her, Catelyn realized they were the only two living people left on top of the turret. Bolton’s body lay not far away, and one of his armored men lay over the wall with several arrows protruding from gaps in his armor. She did not see the other armored man and wondered if he had fled or fallen to the ground below. The unknown old man who had saved her lay face down, and Hosteen Frey lay on his back staring sightlessly at the sky.

Scattered sounds of fighting continued below, but more clearly than those, she could hear the gate being opened. Sitting there with Barbrey and the dead, she suddenly felt very tired. The pain from Hosteen’s blow to her head returned with a vengeance, and she wondered how she had forgotten about it. She still held the knife at Barbrey’s throat, but she doubted she had strength left to wield it. She wondered if the other woman knew that.

“Cat!” She heard his voice, and new strength filled her instantly. She started to leap to her feet, but remembered Brienne’s warning about the archers. “Ned!” she cried. “I’m still up here!”

She heard his footsteps rushing up the stairs, and then he was there, falling to his knees beside her and crushing her against him, heedless of the blood all over her hands and her cloak.

“Are you well, my love?” he breathed in her ear. “Are you whole?”

She nodded against him, unable to speak for a moment, and then choked out, “And you? You are not hurt?”

“No, my lady.” He held her away from him then and just looked at her. “I am very well now, indeed.”

Barbrey Dustin started laughing. “How very sweet,” she said. “I may be ill.”

As Ned stared at her, she continued, “Your little trout wields a mean dagger, Lord Stark. I’d heard all about what she did to that idiot at the Twins, but I never realized she was such an accomplished killer.”

Ned looked at the carnage around them. “I killed Bolton,” Catelyn whispered. “For Robb.”

He took her bloody hands in his and nodded. Then he softly kissed the top of her head. “What happened to Torrhen?” he asked, indicating the white haired man.

“One of yours?” Catelyn asked.

“One of mine, theoretically,” Barbrey Dustin said coldly.

“Oh!” Catelyn exclaimed, remembering the conversation with Manderly. “The arrow was meant for me. He pushed me away.”

Ned’s grip had tightened on her when she said that. “I owe him much,” he said softly. “ Who killed Frey and the two on the stairs?”

“Brienne’s work,” Catelyn said. “Did you see her at the foot of the stairs?”

“See her?” Ned laughed then. “She nearly took my head off with that sword of hers when I approached until she saw who I was!”

Brienne herself and two others appeared then, walking up onto the turret top. “My lady,” Brienne said, dropping to her knees before the odd little trio of Ned, Catelyn, and Barbrey. “The castle is Lord Stark’s.”

Ned looked startled at that. “The entire castle? What of Ser Aenys and the rest of the Freys?”

“Fled,” Brienne said. “When Glover’s men came in the Hunter’s Gate, and Lord Manderly’s men joined their cause, it seems Ser Aenys didn’t feel compelled to fight any longer for Roose Bolton. He and any Frey that could find a horse left by the South Gate and rode away. Shall you order a pursuit, my lord?”

Ned shook his head. “Where can he go? Surely, he’ll want to go to Moat Cailin, and our armies march there even now.”

Barbrey Dustin started laughing again. “Moat Cailin has already fallen to your armies. Didn’t you know? I fear poor Aenys faces a rather poor welcome anywhere he rides to the south.”

“Does that grieve you, Lady Dustin,” Ned asked her coldly.

“I had men at that wedding, too, Ned Stark!” Barbrey said coldly. “Dustin and Ryswell men died that day for your boy. The Others take all Freys and Starks for all I care.”

Brienne stood up and pointed her sword at Lady Dustin. “What shall I do with her?” she asked.

Ned looked at Catelyn, and she sighed deeply before replying to Brienne. “Take her to the Great Keep, Brienne, and find a room for her. Any but mine. Set a guard on her at all times, but treat her kindly.”

“Do you expect gratitude from me, Catelyn Tully?” Barbrey asked, as Brienne pulled her to her feet.

“I expect nothing from you, Barbrey Ryswell,” Catelyn replied, and Brienne led the woman down the stairs.

“What shall I do with her?” Ned asked when she was gone.

“I honestly don’t know. She hates us, and she certainly shares some of the guilt in affairs here. But she was blameless in Bolton’s initial betrayal. She spoke truly about the Red Wedding. And while it was not done for my benefit, she has assisted me here.”

Ned sighed. “We shall leave her for another day. Shall we inspect our castle, my lady?”

“It’s bad, Ned,” she told him gently. “I fear very little was untouched by the fire.”

He nodded, and then rose to stand pulling her after him. “It is still Winterfell,” he said, pulling her close to him, “and we are the Starks of Winterfell. We are home, Cat.”

She smiled at him and almost told him her secret, but then his expression turned anguished, and he looked at her almost angrily. “What were you thinking before? You were goading him, Cat! I thought I’d lost you when he hit you. When you fell . . .” He was shaking, and she put her arms around him.

“Hosteen Frey was all bluster. He’s clever enough, but only when he’s not angry. I needed him to not be thinking cleverly. As for getting him to hit me, well, I’d seen Brienne, and I couldn’t think of another way to get to the ground and get my dagger. I am fine, my love. My head will likely pound tomorrow, but I am fine. Truly.”

He looked at her for a long time, as if afraid she might disappear, and Catelyn decided to wait to tell him about the baby. Instead, she smiled at him and said, “Would you please escort me into your castle, my lord?”

He kissed her then, a long, deep kiss that spoke of fear, longing, and their days apart, but mostly of a love she could depend upon above all else. Leaving her breathless and virtually boneless when he finally pulled away, he returned her smile. “I would be honored, my lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for continuing to read. Please feel free to leave any comments.


	38. More Secrets Kept and Shared--Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This section got VERY long so I've broken it into two chapters. This means that some things people have been looking forward to will be in the next chapter rather than this one, but it won't be too much longer. :)
> 
> As always, all the characters belong to GRRM, and I thank him for creating them!

There were men there. Lots of men. Her small cousins wished to go no closer, but she felt something there, and she was drawn to it. She turned her face toward the north and howled. For a brief moment, all was silence, but then an answering howl came from somewhere in the distance. _Brother,_ she thought, the girl’s word feeling foreign in the wolf’s mind. It was not her black brother, although he was coming this way. She could feel it. She had felt him for so long that he was easy to find. And now, she knew where he was. _The girl knows where he is. The wolf only feels him._ But he was not this close yet. It could not be his howl. She had other brothers, barely remembered. One had died in the bad place of the towers and bridge. The other two had gone so far north they couldn’t be felt, but now . . . She howled again and ran northward, not directly toward the place with lots of men, although it still somehow called her; but to the west of it, so her small cousins followed. She ran toward the howl that sounded like brother.

“Arya, get up.”

_No, I have to find my brother._

“Come on, Arya! We might get there before sunset if we leave early enough. Winterfell, Arya! Home!”

 _Winterfell. That was the name of the place._ She opened her eyes groggily. Her girl’s eyes. Her sister was staring down at her. “I was there,” she said quietly. “Winterfell. And my brother was there, too, close by.”

Sansa looked confused at first, but then she asked quietly. “Wolf dream?”

Arya sat up and stared at her.

“Look, Arya. I know about Rickon’s dreams. Mother told me, remember? I’ve tried to talk to you about it. And your dreams aren’t very quiet.”

Arya looked down. “That’s what Dak says,” she muttered. She glanced sideways at Sansa then, because she always enjoyed the fleeting look of disapproval, so like their mother’s, whenever her very proper sister contemplated that she and Dak had shared a cabin from Braavos to White Harbor. “I don’t want to talk about it, Sansa.”

“No,” her sister said sadly. “You never do. Get up, and we can all go to Winterfell, even if we can’t all have wolf dreams.” Sansa turned then and almost ran from the tent, causing Arya to realize her sister had been fully dressed, including her cloak, before waking her.

 _She knew I was dreaming, and she didn’t want to stop me._ Her sister envied her dreams. She’d never realized that before. _Stupid!_ she thought. How could she not have seen that? Lady was dead, so Sansa couldn’t dream the way she and Rickon did. She didn’t want to hurt Sansa. She didn’t. And Lady’s death was her fault. Well, mostly Joffrey’s, but some hers. Still, she couldn’t talk about her dreams with Sansa. They had to be kept just to herself.

 _That’s not true,_ a small voice said. _You’ve talked to Dak about them. And more to Rickon._ She pushed those thoughts out of her mind and began to dress herself quickly. It was far too cold even inside the tent not to bundle up in layers as soon she crawled out from under the furs. She dressed and went outside and refused to acknowledge her growing suspicion that she didn’t like talking to Sansa about it because she was the reason Sansa didn’t have wolf dreams.

The dream she’d just awakened from stayed with her, and as soon as she left her tent she sought out her little brother. She saw him with Shaggydog at the perimeter of the camp. Ser Wylis’s men were not comfortable around the direwolf, so Osha had convinced the boy to bid him stay just outside the camp rather than in his tent. Rickon didn’t like it very much, but he complied. Like all of them, he’d been glad to leave the hut on the beach even if he didn’t share their eagerness to reach Winterfell.

“Rickon!” she called. He looked up at her and grinned. He smiled at her more often than he had when she’d first arrived on the beach and it made her glad. He was still sullen and frequently angry with people he didn’t know well, which included all of the White Harbor men, of course; but with Sansa, Osha, Dak, Donnell, and herself, he was usually good natured. _Wild,_  she thought with a grin of her own, _but good natured enough._

“Rickon,” she said as she approached him, after looking around to see no one was within earshot. “Did you dream with Shaggy last night?”

He nodded. She had taken to talking to him about their dreams most mornings. She’d found that even as young as he was, he helped her understand some things about what they could do, and that talking with her seemed to help him remember his dreams better.

“There was another wolf,” she said. “Close to where Nymeria is. Close to Winterfell.”

“Winterfell?” Rickon asked. “That’s where we’re going, right? Is that where your wolf and the white brother are?”

 _The white brother. Ghost. Jon._ “Yes, Rickon. I mean, they aren’t actually in the castle or anything, but they are close to it. Are you sure it’s Ghost?”

Rickon nodded again. “That’s his name. I remember. I think. He went away when you did, right?”

Arya nodded. “Yes. Our brother Jon went to the Wall and took Ghost with him the same day we left for King’s Landing.” She swallowed the lump in her throat which formed at the thought of the last time she saw Jon. “Do you suppose Jon is at Winterfell? I mean if Ghost’s there?”

Rickon shrugged. “The wolves were close to man rock, but I don’t think they went there. I don’t know about Jon.” He screwed up his little face as if trying very hard to think of something. “I don’t know if I remember Jon. He was big like Robb, right?”

“Yes,” Arya said. “He is the same age as Robb. See? You do remember.”

“No. Osha told me that. She said I had a brother on the Wall and a brother who was King. Only Robb is dead, right? I remember him a little, I think.” He screwed up his face again and closed his eyes. “He looked like Mother, didn’t he? The same hair.”

Arya nodded.

“Does Jon look like Mother or like Father?”

 _Oh, gods! Does Jon look like Mother?_ Arya suppressed the immediate urge to admonish Rickon never to ask that question again once they were back with Mother. She wasn’t about to explain any of that to him now. Instead, she mussed his hair just like Jon had once done to her, and said simply, “He looks like Father, little brother.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The morning light was shining in the high narrow windows he had opened during the night, as there were no tapestries to block it _. Nor to block the chill,_ he thought, realizing that the room was now quite cold. It bothered him little, but he looked at the woman sleeping beside him and smiled to see her curled up like a kitten beneath her pile of furs. She must be exhausted, or she would have awakened and admonished him to close the windows long ago. Smiling at the memory of countless window arguments held in this chamber, he carefully disentangled himself from the bedcovers and went to close them now.

The room darkened considerably at that, but enough light still seeped in to allow him to look at her. _Gods, she is beautiful._ Looking at her with her hair spilling over her face, and only the barest bit of white skin on one shoulder peeking out from the furs, he felt a stab of desire. Remembering the night before, that desire grew, and he guiltily sought to turn his mind elsewhere before he forgot her exhaustion and woke her at once.

He poured himself a cup of water from the pitcher on the small table and looked about the room in the semi-darkness. He could still see the scorches on the walls, and anger flared as quickly as his desire had a moment ago as he contemplated the utter desecration of his home. He and Catelyn had walked throughout Winterfell yesterday, and his anger had increased with almost every step. So much lost. So much in need of urgent repair. He had discussed the immediate need for glass with Lord Manderly. The glass gardens had been completely destroyed, and he could not possibly feed Winterfell through a long winter without them. Of course, he had no way to pay for glass at the moment. Wyman had assured him that was no problem. He would procure whatever Winterfell needed from White Harbor or have it shipped in, and Ned could pay as he was able. Ned feared the debt would be longstanding as income was hard to come by during winter.

Manderly had shown them Mance Rayder as well. The Boltons had literally kept the man in a sort of cage out in the cold with a cloak of human skin for covering. Ned shuddered now to think of it. He had immediately ordered the man removed to a room in the Great Keep. The man had looked half-dead from exposure, and Ned hadn’t even attempted to question him. Catelyn had told him Jon had sent the man to rescue Arya. Of course, Arya was never here. Apparently, Rayder’s people had been successful in getting Jeyne Poole out along with Theon Greyjoy, of all people. Ned’s face darkened at the thought of Greyjoy. According to Lord Manderly, Theon had been grossly abused by Bolton’s bastard, but Ned could feel no sympathy for him. In any event, Rayder was a wildling, and Ned could hardly set him free until he knew more of what had transpired in the north during his long absence. For now, he would be kept warm and well fed, but under guard, much like Barbrey Dustin. He shook his head at the thought of her. Yet another person whose fate was in his hands and for whom he had no idea where the right balance lay between justice and mercy.

Sighing, he looked again toward Catelyn, and just the sight of her there lifted his mood. He remembered the expression on her face when Lord Manderly had told them a raven had already been sent to White Harbor with a coded message requesting that Rickon be sent to Winterfell. Of course, Ned had wanted to send another in plainer language immediately, but Lord Wyman had discouraged that. Apparently, he felt so strongly that his maester was a Lannister spy that he feared the children would be in danger if the man learned of their presence in White Harbor before they were safely away. Instead, they had sent out riders, but Lord Wyman seemed reasonably sure they would encounter the children already on their way here, as his son Ser Wylis had been given very strong instructions to send Rickon on whenever that message arrived. Cat had lit up like a candle at the prospect of Sansa and Rickon being in Winterfell within the week, and he had found himself warmed by her glow.

He’d also sent riders into the Wolfswood to discover what had occurred in the battle between Stannis and Ramsay Bolton. He had told Robett Glover that if Stannis had been victorious, and all was well there, he should then ride on to Deepwood Motte. He could ask no more of the man, and it had been far too long since he’d seen his own wife and children. As Galbart was still riding with Ned’s army, it would do well for Robett to see to the affairs of his brother’s seat as well. Robett, of course, had volunteered to stay as long as Ned had need of him, but he could see the anticipation in the other man’s face at the prospect of going home. He had asked leave to send a raven to Lady Sybelle telling her where he was and how he fared, and of course, Ned had given it.

Having finished his water and gone to the privy chamber to relieve himself, Ned now returned to stare at his wife. She had shifted postion slightly, and her hair had fallen back to reveal the ugly purple bruise across her cheek and temple--now even more vivid than it had been the night before. He had an almost uncontrollable desire to rip Hosteen Frey apart with his bare hands regardless of the fact that Lady Brienne had quite thoroughly killed the man already.

Frey. He would never hear that name without thinking of what Catelyn suffered at the Twins. He’d been terrified to have her back in their hands again. He hadn’t asked her. He wouldn’t do that to her, but she must have seen the question in his eyes. Once they were alone in her burned out bedchamber, she had turned to him immediately. “I was not raped here, Ned,” she said softly, looking him in the eyes. “Hosteen was a brute, but not a raper, it would seem. Other than being knocked in the head so hard that I was apparently unconscious for days, I have been treated reasonably well. You needn’t fear for me.”

He had run his hand over the back of her head then and felt the new scar along her scalp, hidden beneath the mass of auburn hair. “I always fear for you, my lady,” he’d said thickly. “I cannot help it.” He’d pulled her close then. “He hit you with his sword. Brienne thought you were . . .you were . .”

“I’m not,” she’d said firmly. “I am very much alive, and I am in my bedchamber with my husband.” She had smiled at him then in such a way that there was very little conversation after that. The memory made him feel warm all over in spite of the fact that he stood naked in the still cool room. He loved the way she responded to him, the way he knew precisely how to touch her, and where, to make her moan with pleasure. He loved that after so many years together, her body was still as intriguing to him as it had been the first time he’d touched her. He loved making her lose all control, crying out his name, looking in his eyes with a desperate hunger that only he could satisfy. Only he knew Cat as she was in those moments, and he cherished that knowledge possessively. In truth, he often derived more pleasure from giving her pleasure in their bedding than in his own release, as sweet as that was.

And he had feared that gone. When she had stiffened at his touch, and refused him after he had taken her from the Twins, he had feared that indescribable connection gone forever. Even when she’d taken him back into her bed, as she’d trembled and shut her eyes tight against memories he did not want to think about, he’d feared their bedding would never be completely free of those memories for her again. Yet somehow, it was. Had he any lingering doubts, they were gone after last night. She would always be scarred, he knew. Not all scars were visible on the skin. He had learned not to touch her unless he knew she was aware of his presence, and to recognize her cold, distant moods and how to draw her out of them slowly, carefully. But once they were alone in this bedchamber and in each other’s arms, there had only been the two of them. He realized with a start that even the old shades, his brother and his non-existent bastard’s mother were no longer present between them.

“I swear you Starks are not human. How can you stand there like that without freezing?”

He looked to see her smiling up at him from her pillow. He smiled back. “I closed the windows,” he said.

“I know. Thank you.”

He walked back to the bed and sat down, reaching out a hand to caress the hair around her face, being very careful not to press too firmly on her bruised cheek.

“I’m all right, Ned. It doesn’t even hurt this morning.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Cat.”

She laughed. “Fine, then. My head feels like someone has been using it to beat metal against in a forge. Perhaps, you would like to help me forget about that for a time.”

He stretched himself out beside her. “And how would you suggest I do that, my lady?”

“Oh,” she said, carefully twirling a strand of hair around her fingers. “Perhaps you should kiss me. Start with my lips. I do like that, but you needn’t stop there.”

He almost forgot the bruise as he put his mouth to hers with such force it surprised both of them, but as she parted her lips to allow his tongue entry, she gasped softly and put her arms around him, pulling him tightly against her. His cock was already hard, and the contact with her body, even through layers of covers made him quiver. As he pulled away from her mouth to place his lips on her neck, she gasped and arched against him.

“Oh, gods,” she breathed, and she began pushing desperately at the covers that separated them.

He raised himself away from her slightly, and she pushed and kicked the covers completely off her naked body. He looked at her in amusement. “Aren’t you cold, my lady?” he asked.

“Not in the least, my lord,” she replied.

“Are you certain?” he asked, tilting his head back down and taking one nipple in his mouth, while he rolled the other between his thumb and forefinger. He then ran his mouth down over her belly, making her shiver. He raised up again and looked at her erect nipples and the gooseflesh on her pale skin. “You look cold,” he teased. “Perhaps I should cover you back up.”

“Ned,” she pleaded, pulling his shoulders down. With a deep growl he moved lower, and was rewarded with a squeal as he placed his tongue on the sensitive spot between her legs. As he moved his tongue all around her sex, and then brought his fingers there as well to thrust inside her, she began to thrash wildly, her hips moving beneath him uncontrollably. She climaxed with a great shudder and called out his name.

He smiled and moved back up the length of her body, preparing to bury himself deep inside her, when she stopped him. “No,” she said, still breathing shakily. “You’ve done all the work so far. My turn.” With that she pushed and pulled on his shoulders to get him to flip on his back, and she straddled him. Her hair fell forward over both her shoulders, and she smiled at him as she took him in her hand and guided him inside her.

The sensation of her overwhelmed him--her hair brushing his face and chest as she moved above him, the pressure of her hands on his shoulders, and the sweet, wet, warmth of her as she moved up and down on his cock, at first with a strong, fast rhythm and then more irregularly as she came close to the edge again herself. When she came, and he felt her tighten around his cock, his own release came at once, and it was he now calling out her name, and pulling her down to lay atop him.

They lay there tangled together while their breathing eased, and then she raised up to look at him.

“Ned,” she said. “You must not worry so much for me. I am strong and healthy and I have survived a great deal.”

He chuckled at that. “Indeed you are, and you have. I would not have you abducted or held hostage again to prove your strength, though, my lady.” He grinned at her. “If, however, you should like to prove your health by such exercises as we’ve just completed, I am at your service any time.”

She swatted him on the chest. “I am being serious, my lord,” she said in her most severe Lady of Winterfell voice, which might have been more effective had she not been draped over him naked, her hair a wild and tangled mass of red.

“Serious, then,” he said, attempting to sound suitably grave while reaching up to play with that lovely mass of red tangles.

She snorted and sat up beside him, pulling his fingers from her hair. “Listen to me, Eddard Stark,” she said. “I need you to stop worrying about me because I want you to have nothing but joy in what I tell you now.” She took one of his hands and held it over her naked belly. “We are to welcome another little Stark to Winterfell.”

Her meaning struck him slowly and he sat up as well. “Cat. You are . . .you are with child?”

She simply nodded at him, her face glowing with joy and tears shining in her eyes.

“But . . .but when?”

She laughed at him then. “The Eyrie, probably.” She tilted her head and grinned at him. “You do recall several occasions there which could certainly have led to a child, do you not, my lord?”

He smiled at her in spite of himself. “Indeed, I do, my lady. But, are you well? Oh gods, Cat, your injuries! Should we have someone see to you?”

She put a hand to his mouth. “I am fine. My injuries do not seem to have troubled this little wolf pup, and it will be a long time before I require the services of a maester.” She looked at him. “I have carried five children, Ned. I know a bit about what it’s like.”

 _A babe._ He didn’t know what he felt. Rickon was five. He supposed he’d sort of accepted Rickon would be their last regardless of Catelyn’s insistence that they should have another. And then she’d been so afraid that she couldn’t. _What if she can't?_  Getting with child certainly did not always lead to a safe pregnancy or delivery for mother or babe. What if being five years older put her at more risk? He had heard pregnancy was harder on women as they got older. She was only six and thirty, but still . . .

“Ned?” His concern must have shown in his face, because she now looked worried herself. “Are you happy, my lord?"

He pulled her to him, putting his arms around her. “I am happy in all our children, my lady,” he said. “But I would not risk you.”

She stiffened and pulled away, and it dawned on him what she must think he meant. “Gods, Cat, no! I didn’t mean that. I mean . . .yes, I am happy about the babe, my love. How could I not be? But I will worry for you. You cannot possibly think otherwise. And you’ll likely find my concern quite tiresome by the time this little Stark arrives.”

“Likely,” she replied. “But I do want you to be happy, my love. The babe and I will both be fine. I didn’t realize I carried this child until I was back in Winterfell. Don’t you see? That’s a sign. This is the place of the Starks, and this little Stark wants to be here, just as much as his parents and his brothers and sisters do.”

“His?” Ned smiled at her.

“Or hers,” she smiled back. “Truly, Ned. The babe and I will both be safe.”

“I believe you, my lady.” He pulled her to him once more and kissed her forehead, feeling an overwhelming wave of protectiveness toward both her and this new child of his she carried. “I believe you.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn rubbed her temple. She wasn’t sure whether her headache was due more to the blow Hosteen Frey had given her yesterday or to the hours she’d spent here in Ned’s solar poring over various ledgers and inventories. She only knew it hurt like the devil. The indescribable joy of the morning spent in her own bedchamber with Ned seemed awfully long ago. He and Wyman Manderly had spent most of the day in the Great Hall, meeting with any number of people and planning gods knew what. She knew Ned would speak with her later about anything of importance. Once he had discovered Barbrey Dustin had brought a maester from Barrowton, he’d insisted the man look at her head, and only after Maester Jorick had pronounced her fit, had her husband allowed her to inspect the kitchen and larders in detail to see for herself the state of their supplies. She had found it rather dismal, in truth.

She had joined the men in the Great Hall for the midday meal, and Lord Wyman had heartily congratulated her, stating that her husband had shared with him the glad news of their new child. Ned stood smiling beside him, and Catelyn surmised that Lord Wyman had not repeated his concerns about the child’s paternity to her husband as Lord Wyman’s head was still connected to his shoulders. She had simply smiled and thanked the man courteously for his kind words. The gods knew they had a great deal else to thank the man for. However, she could not suppress a satisfied smile at the man’s obvious concern about whether or not she might mention his remarks to Ned.

Since then, she had been in this solar, looking at ledgers and notes Bolton had kept. She had to admit the man had been a careful administrator for all he was a vile, traitorous, kingslaying murderer. The records were in good order. They unfortunately confirmed her suspicions that they needed a lot more supplies, especially with the bulk of Ned’s army expected from Moat Cailin within a fortnight. Her fingers were rather inkstained from making order lists to be sent to White Harbor with Lord Manderly. She frowned at the stains and at her less than stellar penmanship. Easy handling of a quill was simply one more thing she had lost when that dagger had sliced her palms and fingers in Bran’s room.

She stood and flexed her hands and went to the window to look outside. Perhaps another two hours of daylight remained, she thought. Not much more. As she debated whether walking outside might help the pain in her head, she heard a horn from west of the Great Keep. The Hunter’s Gate. Was it possible that the riders Ned had sent into the Wolfswood with Robett Glover had already found Stannis’s army and returned? She hurriedly grabbed up her cloak and hurried down the stairs and out of the Keep.

As she made her way toward the Hunter’s Gate, she met Ned coming from the Great Hall. She could see Lord Wyman coming as well, but at a slower pace. Ned offered her his arm, and they went together toward the Hunter’s Gate as quickly as his leg allowed, leaving Lord Manderly to follow as best he could.

The riders were already coming in through the gate as they arrived, so obviously they had been recognized by the watchmen. Catelyn recognized the first two now as well. Indeed, they were some of the men who’d gone with Glover. As she watched the other men arrive, about half a dozen of Glover’s men seemed to be among the group, and the others were dressed in the furs and leathers she had long ago learned were the preferred dress of the clans who inhabited the mountains of the north.

One of Glover’s men, who seemed to be in charge, had seen Ned as he was dismounting, and he now walked over to him. “My lord,” he said, bowing his head. Ned acknowledged him, and he continued. “We met these men on our way to find Lord Stannis. They say they fought for him, and that the battle is won. They were sent here to find you.”

“Me?” Ned said, in some surprise. “How did they know to look for me here if our riders hadn’t yet reached them?”

“Your son told us we’d find you here, my lord,” said a gruff voice, and Catelyn looked up to see an older clansman walk toward them and fall upon his knees before Ned. “We found him in the woods during the battle.”

 _Our son?_ It couldn’t be Rickon. Rickon was nowhere near the Wolfswood. A wild hope sprung up in Catelyn’s chest. “Bran?” she asked breathlessly. “Have you found our son, Bran?” She held tightly to Ned’s arm for fear she might fall. The other mountain men had now come and knelt behind this one, and Ned bid them all rise.

The man hadn’t answered her question. She thought he seemed to have trouble looking at her, and that scared her. “Please, sir. Tell us of our son,” she said again.

“Gil Norrey!” Ned suddenly exclaimed, as the man stood there.

“Indeed, my lord. I’m honored you remember me. That last visit you paid us was a time ago.”

“It was, but I am not likely to forget men who offered such great hospitality.” Catelyn knew her fingers had to be digging into his arm, but he didn’t try to move her hand. “Have you truly seen our son, Gil?”

“Not . . .not your son, Bran,” the man said with a quick, uncomfortable look at Catelyn. “It’s the other boy. Your boy, Jon Snow, is who we found in the woods.”

 _Jon Snow._ Catelyn felt her heart plummet, and she fought to keep herself from crying out. With her hand so tightly on Ned’s arm, she could feel the pulse of excitement run through him, but she didn’t share it. _Not Bran. Only Jon Snow._

“Jon is with Stannis?” Ned asked, and she tried not feel hurt by the obvious joy and excitement in his voice. He loved the boy. The boy was a nephew he’d raised as a son. Of course, he was excited to think he was near. It didn’t mean he didn’t want Bran. She knew that. It still hurt.

“Yes, my lord,” Gil Norrey answered. “He’d have come himself, but he took a cut in the fight.”

Now, Ned tensed, and Catelyn immediately felt even guiltier about her own bitter thoughts. _Let the boy be all right,_ she prayed. _For Ned’s sake, let him be all right._

“It’s nothing serious, my lord,” the man said quickly, and she felt Ned relax marginally. “He just lost a bit of blood, and what with having just been wounded at the Wall, he’s a little on the peaked side. The boy’ll heal up good as new, though.”

“Jon was wounded at the Wall?” Catelyn asked, because she sensed Ned was reeling a bit as one revelation seemed to follow another.

“I . . .I don’t know all of that, my lady, but I know he’ll be fine,” Norrey said.

“I should go to him,” Ned said.

“There’s no need for that, my lord. He’ll be coming here,” said Glover’s man. “I fear there was other news. Lord Stannis and the northmen loyal to Lord Manderly won the day, but Lord Stannis was gravely wounded. The rest of our men rode on to their camp with two of the Norrey men to guide them. They’ll let the men know Winterfell is ours so that they can return immediately. They’ll manage transport for Lord Stannis and anyone else too wounded to ride.”

“Can Stannis be moved?” Ned addressed his question to Norrey. Catelyn knew perfectly well his thoughts were still with Jon, but he had to be the Lord of Winterfell now, not a worried uncle. _Father. He feels a father to the boy regardless that he’s Rhaegar Targaryen’s seed._

“I don’t know, my lord. But from what I’ve seen of the man, he’s stubborn as a mule. Once he finds out you’re here, I reckon he’ll be moved whether anyone thinks he can be or not.”

Ned nodded grimly. Catelyn didn’t know Stannis Baratheon well, but from what she did know, the man’s assessment of the situation was likely accurate. Ned looked again at Norrey. “But how would Jon know I am here?” he asked.

The man looked uncomfortable once more, and Catelyn began to feel a vague sense of disquiet herself. She did not want Norrey to answer that question out here in the yard among all the other men. “My lord,” she said to Ned, dropping his arm and turning to face him. “These men have ridden hard to get here with these tidings. We know that your son is nearby and not in any danger. Robett can be trusted to get him and Lord Stannis to Winterfell. Let’s send these men to the Great Hall for meat and mead, and perhaps Gil Norrey can have his portion in your solar and answer all your questions in comfort.” She tried hard to keep any hint of bitterness out of the words _your son._

Ned had looked at her sharply as she began to speak, and she knew he was looking for any sign that her interruption of this conversation was rooted in her bitterness about Jon. She met his gaze, and after a moment, he nodded. Turning back toward the men, he said, “My lady wife is quite right.” Nodding to Glover’s man, he said, “Let the men here care for your horses. You and all the men go to the Great Hall. You’ll find food and drink there.” Turning to the old Norrey man, he said, “Gil, if you would come with us, we’ll make sure food’s brought for you as well.”

They turned to go just as Lord Manderly arrived. “Wyman,” Ned said. “Go with these men to the Great Hall and hear what they have to say of your men. It appears we’ve had a victory, but it may have been a costly one. I have need to hear what this man has to say privately, but I will join you presently.”

Lord Manderly, still breathing rather hard, nodded, and turned to head back to the Great Hall while Ned offered Catelyn his arm once more and together they led Gil Norrey toward the Great Keep.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

There was probably less than an hour of daylight left when Gil Norrey left his solar. Catelyn sat quietly looking at him, and Ned put his head in his hands.

 _Warg_. That was the answer, of course. The Norrey men hadn’t seen Jon’s wolf, but he’d told them he’d dreamed his wolf went to Winterfell and saw him there, and these men came without question. Ned got the distinct impression the man hadn’t wanted to know too much about it. Thank the gods Jon had had the sense to go to the Norreys with his request. They were loyal enough and had enough respect for things not understood to have taken the boy at his word.

 _He is not a boy._ Some trouble at the Wall. The clansman had honestly not known the details about that, only that Jon had taken a knife to the belly. That had given Ned a fright, Gil assured him the knife had apparently missed anything vital. And Perwyn Frey was with him. That was good. Perwyn had apparently told Gil that Jon was seeking help from him for this trouble at the Wall, but Gil obviously suspected there was more to the story and so did Ned. The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch did not normally ride out on recruiting missions. And certainly not with a knife wound to the belly.

Ned sighed deeply. There was nothing more to be learned of it, though, until Jon and Perwyn arrived themselves, which may be another two days, longer if they traveled slowly on account of Stannis’s injuries.

Catelyn still remained silent which was unlike her. He knew that thinking even briefly that Bran had been found, only to have her hopes dashed had devasted her. He didn’t want to think too much on what she felt about Jon coming to Winterfell. For a moment, he worried that she had gone back into her silent, empty place, but she was watching him too closely for that to be the case.

“You are quiet, my lady,” he finally said.

“I don’t know what to say, my lord,” she answered.

“We will find Bran, Catelyn. Arya as well. You know I will never stop seeking them.”

“I know.”

He saw a single tear escape her blue eyes and fall down the track of one of her scars. He wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but the constant ache of Arya’s and Bran’s absence was somewhat dulled for him at the moment by the thought that he would see Jon soon. Here. In Winterfell. Jon, like Rickon and Sansa, was coming home. Just thinking about it gave him joy, and he knew it gave her nothing. He had no comfort for her. He had felt so close to her just this morning, holding her and the babe within her close against him. He’d felt nothing could pull them apart, and now he felt he could not even reach her.

He swallowed hard. “Catelyn . . .”

She shook her head. “I am glad for you, my lord. Truly.”

He had never heard anyone sound less glad in his life, but he did not hear bitterness or anger. Only a deep sadness, and he knew then she felt the distance between them as well and knew no better than he how to cross it.

“I suppose Arnolf Karstark’s betrayal is not unexpected,” she said then, changing the subject abruptly. “After what Robb was forced to do to Lord Rickard.”

Ned sighed and decided to accept the escape she offered him from dwelling on the chasm he had allowed to form between them when he first claimed Jon as his own; the one that seemed unable to close completely even with truth between them. “Robb delivered justice,” he said. “You told me all of it, and Lord Rickard’s actions were criminal. Robb could not have allowed the man to live and claim any honor in it.”

“I know that, but tensions were already high over his breaking the pact with the Freys . . .and my own attempt to trade the Kingslayer for our girls. Rickard Karstark equated his crime with mine, you know. He told Robb I was responsible for those boys’ deaths.” She shook her head. “Robb did what he had to do, but we knew it would be costly. I never dreamt it would be costly to Stannis Baratheon, though.”

She went silent again, and he knew what she was thinking about. “I have not forgotten what you told me of Stannis, my lady,” he said softly. “But I fear Robb is beyond his threats now. He is Robert’s heir. That is one truth which cannot be denied. I must hear him when he comes here. You know that.”

“He killed Renly, Ned. I know it.”

“Renly was a traitor to him,” Ned said simply.

“As was Robb, in his mind, and there was nothing honorable about the way Renly was killed whatever Stannis believed him to be.” She paused. “I haven’t told you everything, my lord. Brienne swore a vow to kill Stannis Baratheon as vengeance for Renly. When she swore herself to me, she asked only that I promise not to hold her back when the time came to keep that vow. I gave her my promise.”

That startled him. But as he looked at his wife, now dry eyed and looking at him without any apology in her voice, he realized it shouldn’t. Brienne had told him of how Catelyn dreamed of killing Cersei Lannister, and he knew well she suffered not one instant of remorse over taking Roose Bolton’s life. No, the losses she had suffered had given Catelyn far too many reasons to understand the need for vengeance. Of course, she would have given Brienne her promise. And meant it.

He sighed. “I have never known anyone who takes a vow more seriously than your Lady Brienne. I suppose we shall need to speak with her before Stannis arrives here.” Catelyn started to protest, and he held up a hand. “Oh, I don’t mean to have you forswear yourself, Cat, any more than I would ask it of her. But he will be a guest under our roof, and a wounded man to boot. I doubt she would feel compelled to murder the man in his bed here.”

“She is no Frey,” Catelyn said in response.

“No, she is not.” Brienne would do nothing to dishonor Catelyn or himself. He knew that. Still, if he did end up declaring for Stannis on the Iron Throne, having the one person he had come to trust above all others when it came to defending his family sworn to kill the man he pledged fealty would make things damned complicated.

As he considered this latest revelation, a horn blew.

“More riders?” Catelyn asked in surprise.

“That’s from the Kingsgate,” he said, and she nodded in agreement.

They were both on their feet then. Riders from White Harbor would approach the Kingsgate. Ned prayed this horn did signal the arrival of their children, for he wasn’t sure Catelyn could take a second disappointment of that type today.

The sun was almost setting as they reached the East Gate and walked the bridge to the outer wall and Kingsgate. The outer gate was open which meant the riders were known. Sure enough, Ned could clearly see the merman banner of House Manderly as well as the direwolf of Stark. He put his arm around Catelyn as they stood just inside the open gate and waited, and he could feel her excitement and longing.

Soon the riders were close enough to see clearly that one of the lead horses carried Sansa, with Rickon again mounted in front of her. Catelyn made a small sound and stood very still as if willing herself not to dash from the castle and run headlong to meet them. Ned felt rather the same way, and he wondered if she had felt like this when he had returned to Winterfell from being long away.

In an attempt to slow his racing heart, he tore his gaze away from his children and surveyed the other riders. He could pick out Donnell and Osha easily enough, and the Manderly men were recognizably soldiers, but there also appeared to be two boys, one who made Ned almost laugh, for the poor child rode as if he’d never been on a horse before. The other one looked more than comfortable in a saddle, however. In fact, he seemed to be urging his horse past the others as if he couldn’t wait to reach the castle.

Suddenly Catelyn gave a loud cry, and tearing herself from his arm, she did rush out of the castle, lifting her skirts and running for all she was worth toward the riders. The one boy actually kicked his horse and sped toward her, and Ned ran after her, fearful the idiotic boy might ride her down. But then, the boy reined up the horse right beside her, and Catelyn was actually pulling him from the saddle. Just as he reached them, she fell to her knees with her arms around the child crying, “My girl! Oh gods, my girl!”

He stopped suddenly at her words and stared at the skinny arms around her neck and the head with very short dark hair pressed into her chest. Then that head raised up to look at him over Catelyn’s shoulder and he felt as if he’d been transfixed by an arrow. Tears flowed from two grey eyes that were the image of his own.

“Arya,” he whispered.

Then he, too, was on the ground holding both of them as they cried and just looked at one another. At some point, he became aware that Sansa and Rickon had climbed from their horse and stood nearby. He beckoned them forward, and Sansa came quickly into his arms, but Rickon hung back warily. Catelyn looked up then and saw him. She released her hold on Arya who then fell completely into her father’s arms, and wiped her face with her sleeve as she stood up and looked at her youngest child. _Youngest for a little while longer, anyway,_ Ned thought.

“Rickon, you brave boy!” she exclaimed. “You’ve brought both your sisters home to me! I’m so proud of you, sweetling!” When she opened her arms to him, the little boy threw himself at her waist. Ned stood then, with an arm around each of his daughters. Arya still hadn’t said a word. She simply stared from one parent to the other as if fearful they might disappear if she took her eyes off them too long.

Cat’s eyes met his then, and he felt his heart expand at what he saw there. _This is all that matters,_ her eyes seemed to say. All the complications, the hurts, the distance that sometimes came between them--all of that paled to insignificance compared to this--to them, to this family now more complete by one. He nodded to her to let her know he understood, and she smiled.

Then she put one arm around Arya, and the five of them began to walk to Winterfell together, leaving the others to deal with the two now riderless horses.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Rickon’s limbs had grown limp and heavy with sleep by the time she’d sung it through for the third time, and Catelyn eased him from her arms into the little roughly made bed in the room he once shared with Bran. She smiled as she remembered how he’d stopped her after after the second last line of the lullaby.

“Sansa does that part wrong,” he said. “I told her, but she never changed it.” Then he’d burrowed his head against her and said, “Keep singing, Mother.”

 _Mother._ Catelyn wondered if there were any sweeter word in the Common Tongue. She looked down at her sleeping boy now and marveled at the workings of memory. He could identify a tiny deviation in the melody of that cradle song, but he hadn’t remembered how to get to his own bedchamber or how the Great Hall had once looked. Unlike the girls, he hadn’t been heartbroken by the sight of Winterfell’s devastation, although he had looked long and hard at the fallen First Keep, and Catelyn was almost certain he had whispered “Bran.”

She turned away from him now to look toward the woman sitting in the corner of the room. “I must see to the girls,” she said to Osha.

“I’ll stay with him,” the woman replied quietly.

Catelyn nodded. “If he wakes . . .”

“I’ll bring him to you, my lady,” Osha said. Catelyn thanked her, briefly scratched the head of the black wolf curled up at the foot of Rickon’s bed, and left the room, wondering if it were as difficult for the wildling woman to see Rickon in her arms as it had been for Catelyn to see him in Osha’s. The woman had been all the mother he had for some time.

“Mother!” Her daughter’s voice startled her from her contemplation, and she looked up to see Sansa walking toward her through the corridor. She opened her arms, and Sansa came into them for an embrace.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” Catelyn said. “I have missed you so much.”

Sansa hugged her tightly and then pulled back to look at her face. It still disconcerted Catelyn that she stood basically eye to eye with her. “I’ve missed you, too, Mother.”

Catelyn ran her fingers through Sansa’s hair which was loose now. “I am sorry if I’ve been taken up with your sister and brother since you arrived, sweetling. It’s only that . . .”

“They needed you more,” Sansa interrupted. “And you hadn’t seen Arya yet.”

There was no envy in her daughter’s voice, only an understanding so mature that Catelyn had a momentary pang for the jealous child that would cry injustice any time Arya had taken the last lemoncake. “Well, I need all of you,” she told Sansa now. “And I am far better for having you here at Winterfell.” She regarded Sansa’s hair. “It’s grown even more,” she said. “And the dark color continues to fade. I believe if you wash it frequently, more of the auburn will show through, and you will look more like yourself.”

Sansa smiled. “I’d like that. And at least in Winterfell, we’ll have no shortage of hot water.”

“No,” Catelyn laughed. “That is one thing we have in abundance.” She took her daughter’s arm. “Is your sister in your room? Let’s go to her.”

Sansa shook her head. “No. I mean, yes, she is there, but I think you should go without me.” She looked very serious.

“Talk to me, Sansa.”

“That’s just it. Arya won’t talk.”

This was true, Catelyn knew. Her younger daughter had said barely five words in the Great Hall while they ate, as the men cheered them all and gawked at her appearance. No one remarked upon it of course. If Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn proclaimed this dirty, nearly bald girl in badly fitting boy’s clothing to be Lady Arya Stark, no one here would dispute it. Fortunately, Shaggydog had turned up just after the children’s arrival, and he drew the mens’ attention at once. Rickon seemed to enjoy the attention and the not insignificant amount of fear directed at his direwolf, and as he entertained them by having Shaggy jump impossibly great heights to snatch pieces of meat he threw into the air, she had seized the chance to remove Arya from the hall.

Catelyn had taken her to her own bedchamber first, and Arya had gasped when she’d seen the inside of the room, much as she and Sansa had done at the Great Hall and any number of places they’d seen within Winterfell.

“I know it’s awful,” Catelyn had said, “But at least it’s warm. Too warm for your father, I fear.”

A tiny smile had threatened to light Arya’s face at that. The children had been well enough aware of their parents’ differing preferences in temperature. But the smile died before it was truly there. Catelyn had sat on the bed and beckoned Arya to sit beside her, which she did.

Catelyn had taken her daughter’s hands, and after wondering what precisely to say to her, had simply asked, “What would you like, sweetling?”

Arya had looked at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, so Catelyn had elaborated. “Whatever you want, Arya. If you want food or sleep or to talk or to be left alone.” She ran her hand over the soft brown hair that couldn’t be more than an inch in length. “You have had a terrible time, my sweetling, and you are home now. But even home must seem strange to you.”

Arya bit her lower lip, and Catelyn felt her breath catch. She’d seen Arya do that since she could barely walk. Ned swore the expression was one of her own, but she always saw only her husband in this Stark daughter of hers. “I want a bath,” Arya finally said.

Catelyn had laughed. She couldn’t help it. She turned Arya’s face up to hers and looked at it. “Yes, you are certainly my daughter, Arya,” she’d said. “I had to make certain because I have never heard you ask for a bath before in all your one and ten years.”

This time the smile had bloomed on Arya’s face although it had disappeared as quickly as it came. She shrugged. “I’m tired of being cold.”

“Then I’ve brought you to the right room. I shall go and have someone bring a tub and water. Would you like me to stay with you and help you bathe?” Catelyn tried hard to keep the hope out of her voice.

Arya shook her head, and then looked guilty. Catelyn hoped the disappointment hadn’t shown too clearly on her face, but feared it had. “I would like to just . . .be by myself . . .in your room . . .if that’s okay, I mean.”

“Of course, that’s all right, Arya,” Catelyn had assured her. “I told you, whatever you want this evening.” She’d squeezed her hands and then gotten up to leave and send someone with the bath.

“Mother?” Arya’s voice had stopped her and turned her around.

Once she was looking at her daughter again, she saw the grey eyes fill with tears. “I looked for you,” Arya said quietly. “I tried to find you for the longest time.”

Catelyn nodded. “I know you did, sweetling. And now you have found me, my brave girl. We have both come home.”

That was the last she had seen of her younger daughter as she’d returned to the Great Hall after arranging for Arya’s bath to find Ned and Rickon laughing with a skinny scrap of a Pentoshi boy to whom she apparently owed both her husband’s and her daughter’s return. Ned hadn’t even seen the boy until after they’d all gotten back within Winterfell’s walls. Like herself, he’d had eyes for none but their children. When he did see the boy, however, his face lit up with the kind of joyful recognition normally reserved for their own children. She was ashamed to admit it even to herself, but that expression had given her one moment’s brief terror that perhaps the boy was his child. She’d seen it on his face when he looked at Jon Snow often enough. She had quickly shaken her mind free of that thought which was unworthy of Ned or herself and had honestly taken a liking to this Dak, if only for his obvious concern for Arya.

By the time she’d removed a sleepy Rickon from the Great Hall and settled him to bed, she knew Arya would have long since finished her bath. Now she stood in the corridor with a worried looking Sansa. “No, Arya doesn’t seem to want to say much,” she replied to her older daughter now. “We must remember that she has suffered as much as any of us.”

“More, I think,” Sansa said quietly.

Catelyn looked at her sharply. She knew much of what Sansa had suffered. Some things the girl had told her, and others she had guessed. And, despite Sansa’s efforts to keep them hidden, she had glimpsed scars on her daughter’s back that made her shake with rage and long to demand the name of the man who had caused them because, if he lived, she would certainly see him dead. That, of course, would do nothing to heal Sansa, and so Catelyn held her tongue and waited for her daughter to share what she would. For her to fear that her sister had suffered more, though . . .

“What has she told you, sweetling?”

“Very little, Mother. She mostly just goes off by herself, or even goes away inside of herself, if you can understand what I mean.”

Catelyn swallowed and nodded. She understood that all too well.

“But Dak told me some things. Please don’t ask me, because I promised him I would never say anything. But . . .she’s been with some bad people mother. I’m afraid she’s seen a lot of death, and maybe . . .maybe even had to kill somebody.” The last was barely a whisper.

Catelyn was saddened by Sansa’s words, but not shocked. She remembered the conversation with Gendry Waters at the Crossroads Inn all too well. She sighed. “Sansa, your sister is still your sister. I don’t know what she’s seen or done, but I am certain it’s been terrible for her. We all have our secrets now, sweetling. You know that’s true.” She looked steadily at Sansa then, but Sansa dropped her eyes before nodding almost imperceptibly. Catelyn gently turned her daughter’s face back up to her before continuing. “I will not ask you for your secrets, Sansa, any more than I will ask your sister. But there is nothing you cannot say to me when you are ready. And I still have secrets of my own, sweetling. It doesn’t mean I love you less, that I cannot share them all.”

Sansa nodded. “But you will go to her, Mother? She . . .stared at me a lot in White Harbor . . .and I know it’s because I look like you. She wanted you, not me.”

“Oh, my darling girl, she loves you, too, you know,” Catelyn said, hugging her older daughter tightly. “But I shall go to her now. I believe your father had intended to retire to his solar for a bit, and I know he’d be glad of your company.”

When she knocked on the door of her daughters’ bedchamber, she was answered by a voice that sounded more like Arya’s than she had yet heard, even if it did sound older than she remembered. “You don’t have to knock, Sansa. It’s your stupid room, too, so just come in already.”

Catelyn pushed the door open. “Well, actually it isn’t my room, but I’ll come in anyway.”

“Mother!” Arya jumped up from where she’d been sitting on the floor with her back to the door. She was wearing a simple nightshift of Sansa’s that fit her reasonably well although it was, of course, too long, and with her freshly scrubbed face she looked quite pretty even with her impossibly short hair.

Catelyn spied the narrow hilt of a sword peeking out from underneath a bundle of cloth on the floor where she‘d been sitting, and smiled. “You needn’t stop polishing Needle on my account. I don’t mind.”

Arya’s eyes got round. “Your father told me about the sword,” Catelyn continued. “Mikken made it, right?”

Arya nodded and said nothing. “May I see it?” Catelyn asked.

Arya stooped and retrieved the slim blade, holding it out to her mother. Catelyn noticed her staring at the scars on her hands as she opened her palms. She’d stared at her face earlier, of course, but the scars on her hands were easier for Catelyn to talk about. “Do you know about these?” she asked, holding her left palm up to Arya as she took Needle into her right hand. She stared carefully at the sword, so that Arya could look at her hand without feeling self-conscious.

“Sansa told me,” Arya said finally. “Someone tried to kill Bran. You stopped him.”

“Well, Bran’s direwolf pup stopped him. I delayed him, perhaps.” She turned the sword at various angles. “This weighs almost nothing,” she said. “What a clever blade.”

“I . . .I didn’t think you liked swords,” Arya said hesitantly.

“I don’t,” Catelyn said, looking back at her daughter. “But I fear they are sometimes necessary. And a blade should suit the person wielding it.” She smiled at Arya. “This was definitely made for you, sweetling.”

“Sansa said I should pack it away when we got close to Winterfell. She thought it might upset you.”

Catelyn could just imagine how that conversation had gone. She supposed it was a testament to Arya’s trepidation about their reunion that she had agreed to Sansa’s request. “I suppose at one time it would have. Arya, you are not the only one changed by what has happened to us. You needn’t hide your Needle from anyone at Winterfell.”

Arya stared at her as if she had sprouted an extra head, and Catelyn laughed. “Before you become convinced I am not your mother at all, come sit in this chair and let me have a look at that head of yours. I don’t know if anything can be done with your poor hair, but I’d like a closer look at it.”

Arya complied without complaint for once in her life, and when Catelyn stood behind her and touched the girl’s scalp with her long fingers, Arya leaned back into her. Laughing, Catelyn picked up a comb obviously left on the table by Sansa. “Child, you are the only person alive who could possibly manage to tangle hair less than an inch long. And then manage to bathe without removing the tangles!”

“I didn’t always hate it when you brushed my hair,” Arya said without looking around. “Only when it hurt. Or when you got mad at me for not being Sansa.”

Catelyn caught her breath. “I fear the brushing hurt more often than not, for your hair always looked as if it had harbored any number of small creatures in it. I am sorry, sweetling, if my words hurt you even more. I never did want you to be Sansa, though, even if I did wish you’d cared as much for your hair as she did.”

“She wants to be you. Sansa, I mean. She always wanted to be you. She can’t though. She’ll never be you.”

Those words were spoken with more vehemence than she had yet heard from Arya, and Catelyn remained carefully quiet as she worked on a tiny mat above her daughter’s left ear with the comb.

“I never wanted to be you,” Arya said quietly.

The words hurt. They shouldn’t. She had always known this daughter shared little with her, and cared nothing for being a lady. She had tried so hard to make her one, and Arya must have resented her terribly.

“I never wanted to be you,” Arya repeated, “But I always knew you were perfect.”

Catelyn froze and nearly dropped the comb at her daughter’s words. Tears came to her eyes, and she managed to lay the comb on the table and move around the chair to kneel down in front of Arya.

“Oh, Arya,” she whispered. “My precious, precious, girl.”

Arya’s head had been down, but she raised her face then to look at Catelyn. “I’ll never be perfect, Mother,” she said, with a deep sadness in those grey eyes she shared with Ned. “I’m not even good.”

“Arya, sweetling, I have never been perfect. And I have done many things I would do differently if I could do them again,” Catelyn said softly.

Arya looked down again. “You’re good, though. And I . . .I’m . . .” She shook her head, unable to continue, and Catelyn remembered what she’d heard from Gendry Waters and Sansa, and she felt a heaviness in her heart at the certainty that her child had been to very dark places.

“You needn’t tell me anything, Arya. Would you let me tell you something, though?” Her daughter raised her eyes again to look at her, and nodded.

Catelyn held out a hand to her and brought her to sit beside her on the bed. Looking her daughter directly in the eyes, Catelyn took a deep breath. “The first man I killed was a brigand. One of a group of mountain men that attacked my party on the High Road to the Eyrie after I arrested Tyrion Lannister. I killed him because he was going to kill me. I slit his throat with a dagger Rodrik Cassel gave me.”

Arya’s eyes went wide with disbelief, and she stared at Catelyn without saying a word.

“The last man I killed was Roose Bolton,” Catelyn continued, and Arya gasped at the name. “I killed him to protect your father and because he killed your brother. I stabbed him in the back with a dagger, and as he was dying, I told him it was for Robb.”

“Mother . . .” Arya stammered now. “You . . . You?” She seemed lost and confused, and Catelyn squeezed her hands tightly.

“I am still your mother, Arya. I hate weapons as much as I ever have. More even. I felt terrible after I killed that first man, even though he would have killed me. I felt ill. Yet, if I had not done what I did, I would never have seen you again, so I cannot be truly sorry for it.” She paused to let her words sink in. Whatever Arya had seen and done, she was still just a child. “I felt nothing but glad when I killed Roose Bolton. If you feel that makes me evil, I shall have to accept it. He killed my child. He did not deserve to continue living, himself.”

“You are not evil,” Arya said. “Bolton was. I’m glad you killed him!” The fierceness of her daughter’s response startled Catelyn a little, but she merely nodded at her.

“Does Father know?” Arya asked.

“Of course. I keep no secrets from your father.”

“Does Sansa?” she asked, dropping her eyes again.

“No,” Catelyn said, and Arya looked up at her sharply.

“Oh, I expect she’ll learn about Bolton soon enough. Rickon likely will, too,” Catelyn sighed. “It’s rather common knowledge in the castle how he died. But Sansa didn’t need to hear me tell of these things, Arya.” _Sansa needed to hear of other things,_ she thought.

Arya was quiet a long time. “Some people deserve to die,” she finally said, and Catelyn simply nodded. “The Faceless Men of Braavos say that only the Many Faced God can judge when a man should die. It’s not for us to say.” She looked at Catelyn then, and her eyes looked far older than her years. “I think they’re wrong, Mother. I think sometimes we have to judge.”

“You could speak with your father about that if you like, sweetling. He knows more of justice than I.”

“You gave Roose Bolton justice,” Arya said.

“No,” Catelyn said softly. “His death was just, certainly. No one would deny that. But what I gave him, sweetling, was vengeance. I do not deceive myself about that.”

Arya bit her lower lip for several moments before asking, “Is it wrong, Mother, to want vengeance?”

“No,” Catelyn told her firmly. “It is only wrong to let vengeance become the reason you live. I have come to hate a good number of people, Arya, for what they have done to my family. And I would rejoice to see any of them die. Some of them have, and I thank the gods for it. But I love you more than I could ever hate anyone. And I feel the same about your sister and your brothers and your father. I hold onto that, Arya, and the dark places seem a little further away. Do you understand?”

“I . . .think so. Maybe.” She was silent a moment. “I’m tired, Mother. Do you think you could sing to me? I know I’m too old, but . .”

“You will never be too old, sweetling. Here, get under your covers.” Catelyn blew out all the candles save one, and then sat on the edge of Arya’s bed once more. She sang the Riverrun Lullaby through once, and Arya smiled.

“That’s it,” she said. “Sansa does it wrong.”

Catelyn smiled. “Rickon told me.”

“She’s not bad, though. I mean, the first time I heard her, I almost thought . . .”

“I’m here now, Arya, and so are you. Would you like me to sing it again?”

Arya shook her head. “No, I’m ready to sleep now.”

“Goodnight, my girl,” Catelyn said, bending to kiss her forehead before rising to go.

When she reached the door, Arya’s whisper stopped her. “Mother?” She turned to look back toward the dimly lit face of her daughter. “The first man I killed was really just a boy. He saw me in the stable at King’s Landing the day Father was arrested and all his men were killed. He was going to give me to the Lannisters, so I stabbed him with Needle.” Catelyn remained silent and waited for her to continue. “I don’t know if he deserved to die, but if I hadn’t killed him I might never have seen you again. I’m not sorry I did it.”

“I’m not sorry you did, either, Arya,” Catelyn said quietly.

After a long moment, Arya said, “Goodnight, Mother,” and Catelyn turned and left the room.

Halfway to her own chambers it occurred to her that Arya had said the _first_ man she killed, and her heart ached. By the time she reached her door, she realized that after praying for years to find common ground with her younger daughter, she had done just that. They’d both learned to kill. And to justify it. She closed the door to her chamber and sank down to the floor against the wall where she began to sob as if her tears would never end.

Ned found her there some time later, and rushed to take her in his arms. “Cat! Catelyn, what is it my love? What’s amiss? Are you hurt? Is it the babe? The children?”

The panic in his voice caused her to attempt to calm herself. She could imagine how she appeared to him. “I am . . .fine,” she choked between sobs. “The children . . .are fine.”

Seemingly reassured that no one was in iminent danger, he asked her nothing else, but lifted her and carried her to the bed. He lay down beside her and simply held her tightly as she continued to cry more quietly.

“I am sorry,” she finally gasped.

“You needn’t be. It has been an eventful day, my love. And I seem to recall that you always cried more easily when you carried our children.”

She actually laughed through her tears at that because he was right. She’d forgotten that. Safe within the circle of his arms, her tears finally spent themselves, and she lay quietly a moment before saying, “Arya’s path has been as dark as we feared, my love. Our girl will need us badly.”

“She spoke with you?” She could hear the concern in his voice.

“Some.” She turned to face him. “Ned, I know how badly she will need us because I know the darkness she’s lived in, and I know how badly I need you.”

He didn’t ask her any more questions. He’d listened to the boy Gendry’s tale as closely as she had. “She shall have us, Cat,” he whispered. “Whatever she needs of us. She is home now, and that’s the best thing I know.”

She nodded, and then pushed herself up to sit. “Help me with the laces, my lord. We can’t very well sleep in all our clothes.”

He smiled and sat up himself, undoing the laces at her back with a practiced hand before swinging his legs over the bed to remove the boots he hadn’t yet bothered with. When they lay beside each other again, this time beneath the covers, he brushed the hair back from her face and said, “She will be well, Cat. They will all be well. They are Starks in Winterfell, and we are here with them.”

She nodded, and he laid a hand on her belly, making her smile. “We should tell them in the morning, before Lord Manderly or someone else does,” she said. They’d always told the children about new siblings together, and she wanted very much to do that with this one as well.

“We’ll break our fast in here,” he said. “Just you and me and the children. We can tell them then.”

“I’d like that,” she said. She curled up against her husband and allowed his presence to keep her demons at bay. Sansa would be back in the girls’ room with Arya now. Catelyn prayed that Arya would not feel alone, and that she would find a way to banish her own demons to the distance.


	39. More Secrets Kept and Shared--Part 2

He opened the door to her bedchamber to see that she was truly awake and dressed before he moved aside to let the two chambermaids bring in the trays and set them on the table.

“Are the children awake?” she asked him as he entered.

Ned smiled. “They are now. I had to wake the girls, but Rickon was already up looking for Shaggy. Apparently he’s gone off somewhere during the night.”

“He left Rickon’s room?”

Ned shrugged. “Rickon didn’t seem too concerned by it. It seems he often goes to hunt at night. Rickon was only worried that no one would let him back into the castle when he returns.”

“How would he have gotten out of the castle?” Catelyn asked.

“Someone must have let him out. Rickon is quite positive he went to the Wolfswood. Not that he named it, but he described it rather well.” Ned shook his head. He still had difficulty understanding his son’s connection to the animal, but he no longer doubted it. Rickon had also said something about the direwolf wanting to find his brother, but Ned decided not to mention that. The only other direwolf which could possibly be in the Wolfswood was Jon’s, and he had no desire to upset Catelyn at the moment.

Catelyn frowned. “I don’t want Shaggydog chained,” she said, “but he can be unpredictable. I don’t want anyone hurt, either. We may need to . . .”

Her thought was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Come in,” Ned called.

Sansa entered first, and the smile on her face warmed Ned’s heart. Her eyes began to water as she looked at her parents standing together there in the bedchamber, but before she could speak, she was nearly knocked over by Rickon who bounded into the room from behind her.

“This is your room?” he asked Catelyn, looking around and frowning.

“Yes, Rickon, it is,” she answered, walking to him and running a hand over the tangled auburn hair on his head. “Do you remember it?”

“I thought . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t remember it like this.”

“It’s different,” came a quiet, almost cold voice from the doorway, and Ned looked up to see his younger daughter standing at the threshold, not quite inside the room. “Like everything else. The tapestries are gone, the furniture’s all wrong, and the walls are awful.” She looked at her mother. “It’s warm, at least.”

“It is warm, Arya. Come in,” Catelyn said, beckoning the girl to her. Arya walked to her mother’s side without saying anything else, but Ned noticed she didn’t resist when Catelyn put an arm around her.

Rickon had walked past Catelyn to stand beside the bed. He looked at it, still frowning. “We wouldn’t fit,” he said then, and turned back around to look at his mother. “I remember . . .I thought I remember . . .we would all get in your bed . . .sometimes.”

Now, everyone laughed except Arya, and even she smiled a little. Ned grabbed his son and swung him up into his arms. “Indeed, you all did! And Bran, and even Robb sometimes.” He grinned at Rickon. “Your mother’s bed was rather larger than this one, and all of you were somewhat smaller then.”

Rickon grinned back at him and then looked over his shoulder toward the table. “Is that food? I’m hungry.”

“Yes, my boy, that is food,” Ned said, setting him down. He’d lifted Rickon on several occasions back at the camp to put him on and off horses, but he still found himself surprised at how much bigger and heavier his son had gotten. “I’m afraid we have only the two chairs here, though.”

“We don’t need them,” Catelyn said then. “Sansa, help me.” She walked to the bed, and as if their daughter could read her mind, she went along with her, and the two of them removed several furs and began spreading them on the floor. “This way we can all sit together,” she smiled.

Ned returned her smile and moved to get the things from the table. Within moments, they were all seated picnic-style on the furs, and everyone was eating. Everyone except Catelyn, he noted. His wife simply sat there looking at their children as if she had never seen anything quite so wonderful. He reached for her hand and squeezed it.

“What about Osha?” Rickon said suddenly, with his mouth full. “She needs to come eat.”

“Osha will break her fast in the Great Hall,” Ned replied. “There will be ample food there. Never fear. Your mother and I wanted to have you children all to ourselves this morning.”

Rickon looked as if he were going to say something else, but Sansa interrupted him. “I’m glad,” she said. “I like having it be just us.” She smiled a little sadly. “I only wish it could be all of us.”

“So do we all, Sansa,” Catelyn said. “But we will find Bran. And . . .we will never forget Robb.” Ned felt her hand tighten on his, and he moved closer to her.

“And Jon,” Rickon piped up. “I think we’ll see him first because his wolf is coming here.”

Sansa and Arya both looked at their mother with something rather like fear in their expressions, but no one spoke. Catelyn was very still beside him, and Ned felt he should say something, but wasn’t quite sure what.

“Ghost,” Rickon said. “That’s his name. Right, Arya?”

“Yes, Rickon,” It was Catelyn who answered, her voice carefully even. “Jon’s wolf is named Ghost.” She looked at all of the children, then. “And Jon is on his way here,” she said. “We hadn’t a chance to tell you yet.”

Ned noticed that only Sansa looked truly surprised, although Arya leaned forward with interest. “Where is he?” she demanded.

Catelyn looked down at her food, and Ned realized she had probably said as much about Jon as much as she was able at the moment. “Jon is in the Wolfswood,” he said to Arya. “He was in a battle against Ramsay Snow’s men, and he was wounded, but only a little. He is on his way to Winterfell with the men from that battle. He should be here by tomorrow.”

Rickon looked rather excited, although it may have been more about the wolf than his barely remembered brother, and Sansa still wore an expression of disbelief and wonder. Arya’s eyes, though, beamed with more joy than he’d seen in them since she’d arrived the previous evening.

“But Jon is the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, isn’t he?” Sansa asked. “How could he be . . .”

“It is a long story, Sansa, and I do not know all of it,” Ned interrupted quickly. I fear we must wait until Jon arrives to know any more.” His tone clearly indicated this particular conversation was at an end, and even Rickon seemed to pick up on that.

They ate in silence for another few moments, before Catelyn finally said softly, “I never thought to have any of you with me again.” She looked at each of them in turn, Ned included. “We have all been hurt, my darlings, but we are together now, so let’s be glad in one another.” She looked at Ned and smiled.

He looked back into those blue eyes that never failed to see right into his heart, and nodded. “Indeed, my lady.” Turning to the children, he said, “Your mother and I have something else to share with you to make you glad. We will find your brother, Bran, but you shall also be welcoming a new brother or sister here to Winterfell.”

Sansa’s face lit up immediately. “Mother!” she exclaimed, but almost as quickly, a shadow passed over it, and she looked fearfully at Catelyn.

“It is all right, Sansa,” Catelyn said quickly. “This babe is not quite two moons in the womb. Everything is well, Sansa.”

Sansa looked relieved, and she jumped across the fur to hug Catelyn, knocking bread from her plate. Ned was puzzled for a moment by this odd exchange until he recalled Catelyn’s fear when he’d first taken her from the Twins. _Oh gods. Sansa knows_ _what they did to her mother._ Rickon looked puzzled by the sight of his mother and older sister holding on to each other while laughing and crying, but Arya was staring at her mother and sister with an expression entirely too shrewd for Ned’s comfort. _Their innocence is gone,_ he thought sadly.

“What brother or sister?” Rickon demanded loudly. “Where?”

Catelyn laughed and gently pulled herself from Sansa’s arms. “Right here,” she said, laying a hand low on her belly. Rickon stared at her hand and then back to her face. “I am with child, Rickon,” she said then. “That means a new baby grows inside me, and after several moons, it will be ready to come out and meet you.”

Rickon thought for a moment. “Like puppies or kittens?” he said, staring at his mother in disbelief.

Ned suppressed a laugh. “Well, it is rather similar, I suppose.”

Catelyn couldn’t suppress her laugh at that, and Sansa smiled. Rickon started to grin, too, but Arya didn’t look happy at all. “No, it isn’t,” she said quietly. “It takes a lot longer, and it‘s dangerous.” She looked at Catelyn. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Oh, Arya! Nothing will happen to me, child. I’ve done this five times already, and I’ve always been fine. This is happy news, sweetling,” Catelyn assured her.

 _She remembers,_ Ned thought. Arya had been six when Rickon was born, and Catelyn had labored for more than a day, longer than with any of their other children. Ned had stayed with her almost the entire time and hadn’t spared much thought for the children, if truth be told. Maester Luwin had continually assured him that all would be well, that the babe only had his face turned upward, and that somehow that made the process slower and more difficult. Catelyn was doing very well, the man kept saying. Yet Ned had seen her in pain and exhausted beyond limit, and finally to his shame, he could stand it no longer. He’d walked from the chamber in fear he might actually start screaming himself, and stood outside the door with his forehead against the wall.

“Is Mother going to die?” came a small voice, and he’d looked down to see his younger daughter looking back up at him, grey eyes huge with fear.

“No,” he’d said almost harshly, dropping to his knees to grab hold of the little girl. “Your mother is not going to die. This babe is only . . .slow to come,” he’d said.

“Why are they hurting her?”

“What?” he’d asked. Then he’d realized she must have been standing here outside the door for some time listening to Catelyn’s cries. “No one is hurting her, Arya. It’s only that the bringing of a babe . . .can be painful at times.”

“Mother never cries when she gets hurt. She’s brave,” the little girl said solemnly. “This must hurt really bad.”

Catelyn had cried out just then, and Ned felt a pang of guilt that he was not with her. Yet, he couldn’t just abandon his frightened child. He had picked Arya up, given her more reassurances, and taken her to where Septa Mordane had the other children corralled. After admonishing the woman not to let Arya slip away again, he’d rushed back to Catelyn, and Rickon had been born less than an hour later. Both Rickon and Catelyn were as well as Maester Luwin had insisted they’d be, and Ned had quickly forgotten how frightened he’d been in the rush of joy at his new son.

Arya apparently had not forgotten. “Arya,” he said to her. “Do not fear for your mother, child. Bringing babes into this world is a long, difficult business, but one she handles very well.” He smiled at his daughter. “Far better than I would.”

Arya looked at him for a long moment, and he hoped none of his own misgivings about Catelyn’s safety showed on his face. Finally, she nodded. Looking at her mother, she said, “We’ll all keep him safe. Or her. I promise you, Mother.”

Ned knew he shouldn’t be shocked at the grim determination in his daughter’s voice, but he was. He remembered the state in which he’d found Catelyn the night before, and what she’d said of Arya. And what she’d left unsaid. He wondered precisely what the child had seen and done since she’d run away in King’s Landing, and wondered further if he truly wanted to know.

Catelyn only smiled at her. “I know you will.”

After that, they again ate in silence for a bit, but Ned found this silence far more comfortable than before. He silently thanked the gods yet again for his children’s return and prayed that he could find a way to keep them all safe here as they healed.

 

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“Are you sure you can keep riding at this pace?”

“I am fine, Perwyn. And you don‘t have to ride so close. I am not going to fall off this horse,” Jon said irritably.

“You’re as white as Ghost, Jon,” Perwyn said. “I can’t believe you talked me into doing this.”

Jon sighed. “I didn’t talk you into anything. I left, and you followed me. I didn‘t ask you to come.”

“I wasn’t going to let you go by yourself!” Perwyn exploded. “Jon, you took off in the middle of the night! We don’t know where Ramsay Snow is, or how many men he still has! If they’re still around here, they’d kill you as soon as look at you, and you are in no condition to fight.”

Jon was getting tired of this argument. “Bolton’s bastard could be dead, for all we know, and I have to get to Winterfell.”

“The dead were searched, Jon, and no one found the man. And we were going to Winterfell, all of us! Why the sudden impatience?”

Jon only looked ahead to where the two direwolves loped along in front of them--one white as the snow on the ground and the other black as the shadows of the trees. “You know why,” he said.

Jon had been ecstatic when Robett Glover had arrived in the crofter’s village telling them that his father had taken back Winterfell. Stannis Baratheon had decreed they should all make for the castle at once, in spite of his own wounds. Stannis could not sit up, much less sit a horse, so wagons had been found for him and for some of the other more seriously wounded men. Jon had insisted on a horse for himself, in spite of the pain and weakness he still had. The prospect of seeing his father had outweighed any other consideration. But there was no true road through the wood, and the wagons kept their progress painfully slow, as did the need to guard several prisoners. Jon didn’t know who Stannis’s prisoners were, and he didn’t care. He’d only chafed at everything slowing them down.

When they’d made camp last night, it had been obvious they would not reach Winterfell today, and he had tried to be at peace with that until the dream. The black direwolf had come bounding upon Ghost from out of the dark, his fur concealing him so completely in the night that only his scent revealed him. _Brother._ The word had come clearly into his mind followed by _Shaggydog_ and _Rickon_. The great black wolf had literally crashed into him, and as those massive paws had met his own and he’d felt his brother’s warm breath on his face, he’d jolted awake to find himself somewhat disoriented, lying in a tent beside Perwyn. Ghost was not there.

 _Shaggydog was here. Shaggydog and Ghost were together. What did that mean?_ He’d left the tent to saddle his horse immediately, moving as quietly as he could. He’d told the two watchmen he met that he’d heard Ghost howl and needed to find him. Most of the men were pretty uncomfortable around the direwolf, and would much prefer that Jon go out to him rather than have the beast running into the camp, so they didn’t stop him.

Of course, he’d heard hoof beats behind him before he’d gone a league, and he’d known without turning around it was Perwyn. Soon after Perwyn caught up with him, the two of them caught up with the wolves, and Perwyn’s expression at the sight of Shaggydog with Ghost had given Jon no end of amusement. They had been following the two wolves ever since. Jon thought they had covered almost as great a distance by the time the sun came up as their larger host had covered the entire previous day.

“So what if it is your brother’s wolf, Jon?” Perwyn asked him now. “Your brothers are all dead. You know that.”

“Do I?” Jon snapped. “My father was dead. So was his lady wife. Now they are alive at Winterfell. How can you be so sure that Bran and Rickon are truly dead, Perwyn?”

Perwyn shook his head slowly. “I suppose I can be sure of nothing unless I see it with my own eyes. But, Jon, Winterfell isn’t going anywhere, and if your brother does live, I’m sure he’d prefer you not arrive at its gates half-dead, yourself.”

“I cannot wait another day, Perwyn,” Jon replied. “And I am far from dead.” Ignoring the pain in his side, Jon kicked his horse into a faster gait and chased off after the wolves, leaving Perwyn to follow him once again.

 

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Brienne felt ill at ease as she walked through the cold, snow filled courtyard from the Great Hall to the Great Keep. She had felt out of place among the men in the hall and had broken her fast alone until the wildling woman, Osha, had come in and sat beside her. Brienne didn’t mind her company, for the woman spoke little and did not require Brienne to speak, either. She had told Brienne that Lord Stark had gathered his children that morning to break their fast in Lady Catelyn’s room. Brienne had been given a room not far from theirs, but she had seen little of Lord or Lady Stark since the battle at the gate. She understood their desire to spend time with each other and their children, but as she rarely interacted much with anyone other than the Starks, it had left her at loose ends.

And now, by all reports, Stannis Baratheon was on his way to Winterfell. She had known he would come. He’d been set on liberating Winterfell before she and the Starks had even arrived in White Harbor. With Lady Catelyn’s abduction, it had been easy to push the inevitable meeting with the evil man from her mind. Now, she could think of little else, and every time she thought of it, she once again saw that horrible shadow and felt Renly in her arms as he died. She had sworn his brother would die as well, and she had meant it. She still did.

Lady Sansa had come into the Great Hall with Rickon just as she and Osha were preparing to leave. Apparently, the boy had wanted the wildling woman for something, and his older sister had offered to help him find her. Once he had dragged the woman out of the hall babbling something about puppies and kittens and brothers and sisters, Lady Sansa had turned to her.

“I have not had a chance to thank you for helping to save my lady mother,” she said. “My lord father told me he trusted you above anyone else with her. And he was right to do so. I am sorry I was so awful at first the day you saved me. I have never thanked you enough for that.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Lady Sansa,” Brienne had answered. “I am only glad that both you and the Lady Catelyn are well. And I am very pleased that the Lady Arya has returned to you.”

Lady Sansa had laughed then. “I think the two of you will get on beautifully once she gets a bit more settled. I know well what a shock it is coming face to face with Mother and Father after thinking them dead for so long. She’s still reeling a bit, I think.”

Brienne had barely laid eyes on the younger Stark girl. She’d been there when they’d brought the children into the gate, and had watched her sitting silently in the Great Hall afterward, looking lost, until her mother took her out. She didn’t imagine the girl was eagerly awaiting being introduced to people.

“Oh!” Lady Sansa had interrupted her thoughts with a sudden exclamation. “I almost forgot. Father said I was to send you to his solar if I saw you. Do you know where it is?”

Brienne had nodded. She’d met with Lord Stark, Lord Manderly, Robett Glover and a few others in the solar after Winterfell had been secured.

“Mother is there, too,” Lady Sansa had said. “They may have some news to tell you,” she’d added with a secretive smile as she turned to speak to a man who had approached her.

So, now Brienne was on her way to Lord and Lady Stark, and she knew she would have to speak to them about Stannis Baratheon.

“Come in,” came Lord Eddard’s deep voice when she knocked at the door of the solar. She entered to find him seated behind the table which had been pulled into service as a desk. Lady Catelyn stood behind him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders. He held a piece of parchment, and Brienne surmised the two of them had been reading it together. Now, they both looked at her.

“Brienne,” Lady Catelyn said with genuine warmth. “I’ve hardly seen you since you arrived to save me at the gate. I trust you didn’t take any serious hurts in the battle?”

“None,” she answered. “Would that I had reached Frey before you took any hurt, my lady,” she added, looking at the bruise which still discolored her lady’s face.

“Oh, this,” said Lady Catelyn, absently brushing a hand across her cheek, “was largely my doing, I fear. I rather goaded him into doing it.” Without further explanation, she came around the table and pushed a chair forward. “Please sit down, Brienne.”

Brienne did as she was asked, and Lady Catelyn returned to the other side of the table where she seated herself on a chair beside her husband’s.

“Lady Brienne,” said Lord Stark, “I owe you more than I can ever repay. I owe you for the lives of my wife and my daughter. I know I’ve told you this already, but I cannot say it enough.”

Feeling very uncomfortable and unsure of what to say, Brienne shifted in her chair. “You owe me nothing, Lord Stark. I am sworn to the Lady Catelyn, and I did what was needed. I would do it again.”

“I know you would,” he said. He sighed. “Lady Brienne, are you aware that Lord Stannis Baratheon is on his way here?”

Brienne’s throat felt tight. “Yes, my lord,” she said. “You do not call him king?”

“He is Robert Baratheon’s heir, my lady,” Lord Stark replied, not actually answering her question.

“He is Renly Baratheon’s murderer,” she countered.

“You speak of the man who held Storm’s End in the face of unbearable hardship, who was instrumental in the victory over the Greyjoys during their rebellion, who served Robert faithfully throughout his reign, and who has come to the aid of the Night’s Watch and the north in our current troubles.” Lord Stark’s voice held a definite edge.

Brienne raised her chin stubbornly. “All that may be true, my lord, but it does not erase the fact that he murdered my king.”

Lord Stark’s eyes narrowed slightly, but before he could respond, Lady Catelyn spoke. “No, it does not,” she said softly, and Brienne saw Lord Stark look at his wife in surprise. “It does not,” Lady Catelyn repeated, “any more than Ser Jaime Lannister’s rescue of you from Harrenhall or giving you that sword erases the fact that he attempted to murder my son.”

Her words went through Brienne like a blade. Lady Catelyn never spoke to her of Jaime Lannister. For her own part, she tried not to think of him held like an animal in one of those dismal cells beneath Riverrun. Most days, she succeeded. But not all.

“My lady?” she stammered now.

Lady Catelyn took a deep breath. “Brienne, you made a vow to avenge Renly Baratheon before you ever swore yourself to me. I have not forgotten it, and I have told my lord husband of your vow and my promise to you.” She gave a tiny smile to Brienne and Lord Stark as she continued. “In all of the Seven Kingdoms, the two people whose word means more than anyone else’s are sitting with me now. Possibly the two most stubborn people as well.”

Lord Stark actually snorted at that, and Brienne was certain she heard him say, “Three” under his breath, but Lady Catelyn put a hand on his arm to quiet him.

“Lord Stannis . . .and yes, I said Lord Stannis. While he is undoubtedly Robert’s heir, you once spoke to me about Robert’s right to the Iron Throne in the first place. Do you recall that? While Stannis certainly has a claim, he is not the only one. There is the Targaryen girl in Essos as well. Does Robert’s brother hold a better claim than Aerys’s daughter? If Aerys was justly removed because of mad, criminal acts, should Stannis be crowned if he, too, has committed mad, criminal acts?”

Lord Stark was looking more irritated by the minute, and again started to speak, but Lady Catelyn tightened the hand on his arm. “I do not say that he has, my lord,” she said soothingly. “I do know it was his shadow that killed Renly Baratheon. I don’t know how, or even if it was his doing. I only know what I saw.” She shook her head. “I am only saying that things are not as simple as any of us would like them to be. Am I wrong?”

Brienne watched as Lord Stark looked at his wife for what seemed like a long time, but then he shook his head. “You are not wrong, my lady.”

Lady Catelyn smiled at him before turning again to Brienne. “Lord Stannis will soon be a guest at Winterfell, a wounded guest at that. I don’t know if you heard, but he apparently took a fairly grievous injury in the battle. In any event, while Lord Stannis is here, he is under our protection, and I know you will respect that. Beyond that, I will keep my promise to you, Brienne, just as you have so valiantly kept all your promises to me. If there comes a time when you feel you must fulfill that other oath of yours, I will release you from my service, allow you to depart from here, and free you from any responsibility to me.”

Brienne had known Lady Catelyn long enough now that she could hear the deep sadness in her voice although the older woman kept her words even and her eyes dry. Her own eyes threatened to tear up as she said, “I . . .I do not want that, my lady. You know that I do not.”

“I know,” Lady Catelyn said. “No more than I want it. That is why I mentioned your friend, Ser Jaime.”

“My . . .my friend?” Brienne stammered.

“Oh, you care about the man, child. And there’s no crime in it, for you haven’t faltered in your duty to me in the slightest. But that is not why I speak of him. I want him dead, Brienne. I wanted him dead that night in the dungeons. I simply wanted my daughters alive more. And now, I want my brother’s seat at Riverrun secure. Holding the Kingslayer hostage is advantageous to Edmure.” She paused. “You want Stannis dead. I only ask that before you act on that desire, you consider whether or not you want anything else more. And whether or not killing Stannis Baratheon is worth possibly losing that.”

Lady Catelyn stopped speaking, and the three of them sat there silently for awhile.

“Lady Brienne,” Lord Stark finally said. “I have never met anyone with more honor than you. Whatever path you may choose, I shall continue to respect your honor, even if your choice must put us at odds.”

Brienne nodded, not trusting herself to speak. After a moment, she rose and bowed to each of them. “My lord, my lady,” she murmured, and then almost fled from the room and the Great Keep. Outside, a light snow had started falling. She stood alone in the courtyard and watched the swirling flakes for a long time, as if she could find answers in them.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The godswood was silent save for the occasional rustling of the trees when a particularly strong gust of wind blew. Snowflakes fell silently to melt on the surface of the warm pool that Ned Stark sat beside. He and Catelyn had walked through the godswood on their tour of Winterfell that first day, but that was to survey damage and had been more about broken glass and dead plants than meditation. This was the first chance he’d had to come and pray, and the gods knew he had much to pray about. He was grateful for the early morning spent with Catelyn and the children as he’d barely seen the children since, and any time with Catelyn had been spent on correspondence and strategizing and that damned uncomfortable meeting with Brienne. He’d then sent Catelyn to check on Walda Frey Bolton, who reportedly was distraught about her husband’s death to the point of not eating, and he’d gone to speak with Mance Rayder, who was eating everything he could get his hands on, but wouldn’t say a word to anyone. The wildling obviously trusted Ned as little as Ned trusted him, but he had shown some interest when Ned mentioned that Jon was on his way to Winterfell. Perhaps the man would speak to Jon.

 _Jon._ Ned longed for the boy to arrive. _Man,_ he corrected himself. _I must remember he is a man now. And a man deserves truths, even if they are hard._ He pushed his thoughts away from Jon and tried to clear his mind for whatever few moments he still had left here before he must return to the Great Hall for the evening meal. All of his days were long and filled with tasks now, and he hoped for at least a little while to simply enjoy his family again this evening.

“Father.”

Ned was startled at the sound of the voice and turned to see his youngest daughter standing directly behind him. He had not heard her approach.

“Arya,” he said. He noticed she was wearing the blade he had seen in King’s Landing. He smiled. “You still have your Needle, I see.”

She nodded. “Mother says I can wear it anywhere in Winterfell.” Her words sounded bold, but it was plain to him that she sought his approval as well.

“Certainly you may,” he said. “Although, I would expect you to use good judgment about any times and places when going armed is not appropriate for anyone.”

She nodded again. “Are there Freys here?” she asked suddenly. “Live ones, I mean?”

The question surprised him. “A few,” he said. “Most were killed or fled with Ser Aenys, but there are some being held beneath the First Keep.” He smiled at her. “They seemed to find that an appropriate place to hold your mother, so it’s fitting they should be kept in the same manner. And we needn’t waste good firewood keeping them from freezing there.”

She was biting her lip. “They’re the only ones?” she said.

“Well, Lady Bolton is a Frey by birth. Lord Roose’s widow. She is confined to her room in the Great Keep.”

“I’m glad Mother killed him. Roose Bolton, I mean.”

“Who told you about that?” he demanded. He’d expected the children to hear the story eventually, but he had hoped it wouldn’t be quite so soon.

“Mother,” she said simply, and Ned nearly fell backward. What kind of conversation had his wife and daughter had last night? “Will you kill the Freys?” she asked now.

“Why all the questions about Freys, Arya?” Ned asked her.

“If they were at that wedding, they should die. You should kill them. They killed Robb, and they hurt Mother.” She looked down then. “They hurt Mother a lot, didn’t they?” she said very quietly.

Ned’s heart beat faster in his chest. What was she asking? He held out a hand to his daughter and pulled her down to kneel in front of him as he sat there. “They almost killed her, Arya,” he said softly.

She raised her face to look at him and narrowed her grey eyes. _She knows I am not telling her everything,_ he thought. He remembered the look on her face when Sansa had required reassurance from Catelyn that the baby had been conceived after he took her from the Twins. _Gods! She is but one and ten! What evils has she seen?_

“I want them all dead, Father,” she said, her face almost expressionless.

As Ned tried desperately to think how to respond to that, a man came rushing through the godswood, his approach as loud as Arya’s had been silent. “My lord,” he gasped, somewhat out of breath. “Riders. Two of them from the west.”

“Only two?” Ned asked.

“Two men,” the man said. “And two wolves with them. One’s your boy’s big black one. The other’s nearly as big, but it’s all white. You can hardly see it in all the snow.”

“Jon!” Arya cried, and she was running out of the godswood as if she’d been shot from a bow.

Ned followed after her, resisting the urge to run, himself. By the time he reached the gate which led from the godswood to the area by the Hunter’s Gate, Arya had already climbed the stairs to the top of the wall. She was waving her arms madly and shouting, and he had to smile at the sight of her. This was the wild little wolf pup he remembered, and he thanked the gods she had not disappeared entirely into the chillingly cold girl who had been calmly insisting upon death for all Freys just moments ago.

“Well?” he called up to her.

She turned to look down at him. “It is Jon, Father! It is, it is! And Ghost, and Shaggy, and some other man I don’t know! They’re almost here!”

Her excitement was infectious, and Ned nodded to the men at the gate. “Open them,” he said.

Arya was bounding back down the stairs as the gates opened and was standing beside Ned when the two riders and wolved crossed the bridge across the moat. “Jon!” she screamed and flung herself at the first one to dismount.

The dark bearded young man swung her around in circle, exclaiming, “It is you! Gods be good, Arya, you’re here!” The two of them were laughing with such unbridled joy that Ned felt his heart might explode watching them. _A beard,_ he thought. _Jon has_ _a beard._ He truly did look like a man.

“You’ve grown, little sister,” Jon was saying now, rubbing his hand over the top of Arya’s head. “Except for your hair. What on earth have you done with it?”

Arya reached up and pulled at his beard. “I think you took it all!” she accused him. Turning back toward Ned, she called, “Look at him, Father! All grown up and hairy!”

Ned did look at him, and for the first time since entering the castle, Jon looked at Ned. _Oh gods, Lyanna’s eyes._ Now, more than ever Ned saw his sister in this son of his heart. He’d always had her look, but now he had a measure of that same sadness he had often seen in her eyes after Harrenhall. The sadness that only comes from learning there is pain in the world that you cannot completely erase, no matter how much you wish it.

“Father,” Jon said, as he stepped away from Arya and came to stand before Ned. There were tears in his eyes, and suddenly he appeared to Ned to look very much like the little boy who’d battled Robb with wooden swords in this very yard. “I cannot believe I am truly here with you.”

“Believe it, Jon,” Ned said thickly, and he put his arms around him and pulled him tightly to him. “We have both come home.”

“Oh, come on! Come quick! It’s Jon!” Arya was shouting at someone behind him. Shaggydog bolted past them, and Ned released Jon enough to turn and see the direwolf jump up on Rickon, knocking him to the ground. Behind Rickon, came Sansa and Catelyn.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Donnell Boden had sent the little boy, Dak, to find them when word of riders from the west came. Not an army, but only two riders, the boy had said. And Catelyn had known. Somehow, she had known who it was. She and Sansa had been in Ned’s solar discussing where they might house the influx of men coming with Stannis Baratheon when Dak found them, and Catelyn had sent the child on to find Rickon, who had spent most of his day with Osha.

Sansa’s face had flushed with excitement as the boy had departed. “Oh, Mother, do think that it might be . . .” She had hesitated then, ever fearful of saying something that might distress Catelyn.

“Jon,” Catelyn had snapped. “His name is Jon. You can say it, Sansa. And, yes, I think he very likely is one of these riders.” She sounded hateful, she knew. She took a deep breath. “You have not seen Jon for a long time, Sansa. Let’s get our cloaks. You’ll want to welcome him home.”

Sansa had smiled hesitantly then, and they’d met Osha and Rickon in the corridor. Osha had elected to remain behind once she’d handed Rickon into his mother’s care, and Catelyn devoutly wished she could remain behind as well. She did not want to welcome Jon Snow back to Winterfell when Robb would never return, but she did not want to spoil his homecoming for her husband and her children. They loved him. And it was hardly the boy’s fault Robb was dead. _None of it is the boy’s fault._ For perhaps the millionth time, she wondered why knowing that had never seemed to make a difference in the way she felt.

As they reached the kennel yard around the Hunter’s Gate, Rickon sprinted ahead, only to be bowled over by Shaggydog. She heard Arya shouting, and looked up to see her younger daughter glowing like a candle as she motioned them toward two men embracing in the yard. The man who stood with his back to her was obviously her husband. As Ned turned to look toward her, she got a look at the other.

 _Oh gods!_ Her head swam, and she felt dizzy. Looking at Jon Snow was like looking at an image of the past. With the short dark beard, long face, and grey eyes, he could have been the solemn boy she’d married in the sept at Riverrun. Ned had been no more than three years older than Jon was now, she realized. _He is not Ned’s son._ She swallowed and tried to keep her mind firmly in the present.

Rickon continued to roll on the ground with his wolf, but Sansa had started to run ahead and was now embracing Jon. Catelyn thought the boy looked somewhat surprised, but he returned her embrace warmly. Then Arya was tugging Rickon off the ground and pulling him forward to Jon, who smiled widely at him and seemed untroubled that Rickon was most interested in greeting the white direwolf who stood at his side.

She saw Ned looking at her with some concern and realized she had stopped walking. She stood still, staring at the little reunion from a distance. Ned extended his hand toward her, and she walked toward him, keeping her eyes on his face and attempting to keep her own face expressionless. She didn’t know how she felt.

“My lady,” Ned said as she reached him. “Jon has arrived home to Winterfell.”

Her husband gave her his arm and she grabbed onto it gratefully, feeling in desperate need of an anchor. She looked at the boy whom she had known as her husband’s bastard all these years and was struck anew by his remarkable resemblance to him. “It is good that you were not too grievously wounded to ride here,” she said. “The children have been eager for your arrival since they heard you were coming.”

He was staring at her face. Of course, he was. And the first time he saw her without cloak or high collar, he would stare at her neck as well. She should not resent it any more from him than from everyone else who saw her. “I was pleased to hear that you and my lord father survived, Lady Stark,” he said courteously enough. If his voice lacked warmth, she supposed hers had as well. She flinched when he said ‘father’, and he saw it. She watched his grey eyes, _Ned’s eyes,_ darken at her reaction, and she wondered if he would hate her less for it if he knew that she reacted now to the sting of Ned’s lie rather than Jon’s existence. Probably not.

She nodded at him. “We have much to be thankful for. I try to remember that, and may the gods forgive me for still wishing Robb had been saved as well.”

The grief and understanding that passed through the boy’s eyes then were real. He did love Robb. She knew that, and she found herself unexpectedly wanting to give something to him. “He loved you, Jon,” she said quietly. Then she turned abruptly to Ned. “You should get him out of this cold. Take him to your solar and I’ll send food and drink. You will have much to say to each other, I am sure.”

Ned looked at her questioningly, and she shook her head slightly. She had no intention of telling him what he should discuss with this nephew/son tonight. “You need time together, my lord,” she said softly. More loudly, she said, “Children, Jon will still be here on the morrow and you can pester him all you like. Tonight you shall let him rest and speak with your lord father.”

Arya looked as if she wanted to protest, but Sansa laid a hand on her arm, and she stilled. The two of them and even Rickon hugged Jon once more before walking toward the Great Hall, and Catelyn indicated the man who had ridden in with Jon and stayed far back by the gate since arriving. “I can escort Jon’s companion to the Great Hall, my lord,” she said to Ned. She found it even more difficult to speak to or even look at Jon after what she had told him about Robb.

“Lady Stark,” the man called out to her in greeting, and she recognized him.

“Perwyn!” she cried with genuine happiness. “How wonderful to see you here!”

She felt Ned relax a bit beside her and only then realized how tightly she had been gripping his arm the entire time. “We are pleased to welcome you to Winterfell, Ser Perwyn,” Ned said. Turning to face her, he said, “Are you certain, my lady?”

“I would be most glad of the chance to speak with Perwyn again, my lord,” she assured him. She would be most glad of the chance to walk away from Ned and Jon right now, and to think about anything else. “Go with him,” she said quietly, and squeezed her husband’s arm gently.

Ned looked at her a moment and nodded. Perwyn offered her his arm, and she led him in the direction of the Great Hall as her husband and his nephew, _son,_ walked toward the Great Keep.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The beautiful desk was gone, as was all the furniture Jon remembered. Yet, sitting with his father by the ugly table which stood in the desk’s place, he felt at home just the same. He was in Winterfell, in his father’s solar, with his father. Whatever happened next, he would be grateful for this.

He had spoken to his father for a long time. He’d told him of the events at the Wall, of the wildlings, and the Others, and the dead men who rose. He told him about how his brothers of the Watch had attacked him. He spoke to him of Stannis Baratheon and his cold queen and his red priestess. He told him about Maester Aemon and Sam and the baby he’d sent away under another’s name. He told him everything except Ygritte. He couldn’t bring himself to speak of her, not to his father.

His father said little while he spoke, but Jon knew he listened to every word. He asked the occasional question and asked Jon to explain certain points, but mostly he simply let Jon tell his story. When Jon finally ran out of words, he looked at his father and asked, “So will you execute me as a deserter from the Night’s Watch?”

“Are you a deserter from the Night’s Watch?”

Jon hesitated. He thought that’s what he’d asked. After a moment, he said, “No. I have done nothing but attempt to fulfill my responsibilities as Lord Commander. I was attacked and then taken from the Wall while unconscious. Now, I want nothing but to explain our plight to the Lord of Winterfell and return to the Wall with more aid.”

His father nodded. “That is what I see. You must truly know it, though, Jon. When we ride to the Wall, there will be those who say that you live only because you are my son, and you must have no doubt they are wrong or you are lost to yourself.”

Jon nodded slowly, and then realized precisely what his father had said. “When we ride to the Wall?”

Ned sighed heavily. “From what you have told me, there seems little doubt that all the upheaval to the south is far less dangerous to us now than whatever forces lie north of the Wall. Winterfell must be set to rights and my family secured here, but I see no other option than to ride north once that is done. You must go sooner, Jon. I would send you with enough men to provide you some security and with a letter of support and my intent to call the banners of the northern houses for this battle.”

“You believe me, then?” Jon had heard his father scoff at Old Nan’s stories often enough, and he had feared that tales of Others, wights, and giants would fail to impress him.

His father’s eyes looked tired and older than they should. “I believe many things I once did not. I have been given more than enough reason.” His father seemed to look far away then, and Jon chose not to ask him for those reasons.

“Lady Stark won’t be happy about you riding north for me,” he said. He thought about the way she’d looked at him out in the yard. She was as hard as he remembered, and yet she seemed somehow broken in some way he couldn’t quite define. And it wasn’t just the scars on her face, although he wondered how she’d gotten them.

His father frowned. “Catelyn would not be happy about my riding anywhere. She would have none of us ever leave Winterfell again if it lay within her power to have it so, and she has reason. But my lady wife has ever done her duty. If the north is in danger from these Others, I must fight and she must govern Winterfell in my stead. She knows that well enough, however little we wish to be parted again so soon.”

Jon could see the pain on his father’s usually impassive face, and he felt slightly guilty for making the comment about his wife. However the woman felt about him, he could not deny she cared about his father, and he about her.

“In the immediate future, it concerns me that Ramsay Snow appears to have escaped,” his father continued, clearly wishing to steer the conversation away from Lady Stark. “What captives does Lord Stannis have? Do you believe his injuries truly could be mortal?”

Jon sighed. “I don’t know. To both questions. I haven’t seen Stannis. I was unconscious when they first brought me to his camp, and even once I woke up, they kept me in bed. Obviously they’ve been keeping him in his bed as well. As to the captives . . .” he paused. “I think Perwyn knows more about that than he’s said. He probably can tell you more about Stannis’s condition, too. Shall I go get him?”

“No. It’s getting late, Jon, and you should sleep. These things will wait for the morrow.” His father smiled at him. “For now, let’s simply be glad that you are here with us at Winterfell once more.”

Jon closed his eyes. He was glad. He was also beyond tired. He couldn’t deny that. But he was not finished speaking with his father. “Father,” he said quietly. “When I was a boy, you always told me that we would speak one day, when I was a man.”

His father looked at him, but did not speak.

“I am a man now, Father.”

“You are,” Ned said simply. “Of what do you wish to speak?”

“You know what I want to speak about,” Jon said, his exhaustion increasing the edge of irritation in his voice. “I don’t care whether she was a high born lady that you loved or a whore that you used one night, but I have a right to know who my mother was.”

“Jon . . .” his father started.

“Don’t do that,” he said. “Don’t tell me how we’ll speak of it when I’m older, how we’ll have time later. I am old enough, Father! And we both know we may not get more time, especially if I ride north again soon.”

His father put his head in his hands. After a long moment, he looked up. “You are right, Jon. But I am tired. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

His father looked older and more exhausted than he’d ever seen him, and it scared Jon. He almost told him it could wait, but he couldn’t come so close and not hear the truth. He couldn’t. He looked at the scarred walls of his father’s solar, and thought about the scars on Lady Stark’s face and the limp his father now had when he walked. He wondered if any of them would see Bran again and thought about every day that Robb would never see. He couldn’t wait. “We’re talking to Perwyn tomorrow. Stannis will likely be here tomorrow. You want me to talk to Mance tomorrow. We only have right now, Father.”

“Your mother loved you very much,” his father said quietly. “You were only a few days old when she died. It was a fever. The last thing she ever asked of me was my promise to keep you well and keep you safe.”

As his father spoke, Jon realized he had lied a moment ago. It didn’t matter who she was, but it did matter what his father had felt for her. “Did you love her?” he asked.

His father looked directly at him then. “Very much,” he said. “But not in the way you imagine.”

“What does that mean?” Jon asked, confused by his father’s words. Was he going to tell him the truth plainly or speak in riddles?

“Jon,” his father said. “This is not easy for me to say. And I fear it will not be easy for you to hear. Two things you must know. You are my blood. As much Stark blood runs in your veins as in any of my own children. And I love you as I love them.”

“Your own children? Your other children, you mean, don’t you, Father? Being a bastard makes me no less your child. Whatever your lady wife may feel about it. Isn’t that what you’ve always had me believe?”

His father’s hands were shaking, and Jon didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t understand any of it. This conversation was nothing he’d imagined, and gods knew he’d imagined it a thousand times.

“Yes, Jon! Yes! Gods forgive me! That’s what I’ve had you believe and Catelyn as well! I held your life in my hands, and I put it above my own honor or yours or hers! I gave Lya my promise and I kept it. May the gods judge me as they see fit.” His father had been nearly shouting as he’d started his reply, but the last sentence was almost a whisper.

Jon breathed hard. “Lya?” he said. “Her name was Lya?"

“Lyanna,” his father said. “My sister, Lyanna, was your mother, Jon.”

As Jon stared at him in horror and disbelief, he continued, “and your father was Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“You lie!” Jon shouted. He stood up and slammed his hands down on the table. “That’s a lie!” he shouted again. “I ask you for the truth and you give me this . . .this tale? Is it so terrible to admit that you lay with a woman who wasn’t your wife? Gods, I know well enough I’m your bastard from the way the woman hates me!”

“She doesn’t hate you, Jon.”

“She does hate me! Stop lying!” Jon was now pacing back and forth in the solar like a caged animal while his father sat almost motionless with his arms on the table.

“She didn’t know. I never told Catelyn about your parents. She believed you to be my child with a mother I refused to name. She was angry with me, Jon, not with you.”

“No!” Jon rounded on him. “Maybe she should have been angry with you, but I’m the one she hated!” He stared at his father. “I look just like you. I see it in her eyes every time she looks at me. I saw it tonight. Why do you suddenly deny you’re my father?” He sounded like a petulant child and he hated that.

“You do look remarkably like me, Jon. You look even more like your mother, to anyone who knows to look. Catelyn never knew her. Arya looks like us as well, and surely you’ve heard the old folks of Winterfell compare her with her aunt.” His father’s voice remained even as he spoke, and Jon began to feel sick. _Who am I?_

“So I’m not only a bastard, I’m a rapist’s bastard. That’s what you didn’t want me to know?”

“You are not a bastard at all,” his father, _no, not his father,_ said softly.

“What?”

“Lyanna was never kidnapped and never raped. She went with Rhaegar Targaryen of her own free will, and the man actually married her.”

“I . . .I don’t understand.”

“There was an historical precedent of a Targaryen king taking two wives, and Rhaegar felt he was entitled to do the same. So he did. And when he placed that cloak on my sister’s shoulders, he marked you for death. Robert Baratheon approved of the killing of Rhaegar’s children with Elia Martell and would have treated you no differently had he known about you. Your mother knew about Elia’s children before she died. And she made me promise.”

Jon was quiet for awhile after that. “You made me a bastard,” he said finally. He laughed then, although there was nothing funny about it. “If your little bedtime story is true, I was the heir to the fucking Iron Throne, and you made me a bastard! After you gave the throne to your fat, baby-killing friend.” Jon laughed louder then. He couldn’t stop for a long time.

When Jon’s laughter finally subsided, _his uncle?_ looked at him, and said. “I am sorry for every minute’s pain I’ve caused you, Jon. But I am not sorry you are alive. I have always thought of you as my son, and I am proud of you. I had to make a decision a long time ago, and I made the only one I could see. I cannot regret your life, but what it’s cost you and Catelyn, I regret every day.”

“Catelyn?” Jon asked him incredulously. “You actually want me to be concerned for what you’ve done to your wife? The woman who bears your name and all her children bear your name and she’s the lady of your castle? And I don’t get to bear my true father’s name or my fake father’s name, while she gets to hate me for things I never did and you never did, either? Don’t talk to me about your Lady Catelyn!”

“Jon!” Ned Stark said sternly. “You have every right to be angry with me, but there is no need to bring my wife into it. This is none of her doing.”

“No, it isn’t. But you brought her into it! You’ve done all of it, haven’t you? You took everything that was mine away from me, and then you made sure she’d hate me.” Jon shook his head. “Do you know what the worst part is? Before tonight, if anyone asked me if I’d rather be the prince of anything or Eddard Stark’s bastard, I’d have picked your bastard every time!”

The man he’d always called father looked stricken at that, and Jon felt a certain vindictive satisfaction.

“Jon, sit down,” Ned Stark started to say.

“No,” Jon said. “I took orders from you when I was a boy, and because I was your son. It would seem I am neither any more.” With that, Jon turned and stormed out of the solar, leaving the man who’d raised him sitting there alone.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

It was very late when he returned to her chamber. She had actually begun to fear that he was sleeping elsewhere tonight. He moved slowly about in the dark room, but her eyes were well adjusted to the dark, and she could see him fairly well.

“Ned?” she said softly.

He sighed. “I did not mean to wake you, my lady.”

 _Gods! He sounds so empty._ “You did not. I haven’t been asleep.”

“I am sorry for that, then.” His voice was thick with guilt and sadness.

“Ned,” she said, sitting up. “Come here. You have done nothing to me, my love. What has happened?”

Ned came to her then, sitting beside her on the bed and allowing her to take him into her arms. He lay his forehead against hers. “I have lost him, Cat.”

“No,” she said, gently running her fingers through his hair and down his back. “He loves you, Ned.” She kissed his forehead. “You are not an easy man to stop loving, my lord. I have reason to know.”

“Gods, Cat,” he said, and pulled her closer to him.

He must have told him. She couldn’t imagine anything else that could have reduced him to such a state. She’d certainly not expected him to tell Jon the truth of his parentage immediately upon his arrival, but now she wondered if her own feelings had caused him to feel that he must. She certainly couldn’t ask him.

“Let’s get you undressed, my love,” she said softly and began working to remove his clothing so that he might lie down comfortably.

“I wouldn’t have told him, not now,” Ned said. “I didn’t want to. He was so happy when he arrived.”

She swallowed. “I am sorry, my love.”

“For what?” he asked. “You have done nothing. You told me he would be angry at the man who made him a bastard. Do you remember? You were right.”

“He will forgive you.”

“He won’t.”

“I did.”

“This is different.” Ned stroked her hair softly. “He demanded I tell him the truth tonight. He said he was a man now, and he could wait no longer. I couldn’t argue with him.”

“No,” Catelyn said softly. They’d all learned that time was precious. She had her hand on Ned’s face and she stroked his beard. “His beard is exactly as yours was when we wed. Did you realize that?”

She felt Ned swallow. “I never saw Robb with a beard,” he said.

She smiled. “He was very handsome. His beard was rather like Edmure’s, although his build was more like yours.”

“Jon’s build isn’t,” Ned said. “I think the boy’s actually taller than I am now. He’s certainly leaner.”

“Targaryen,” Catelyn sighed.

“Hmmm,” Ned murmured softly. “I’ve lost them both, Cat. Robb was taken from me, and I’ve driven Jon away.”

“No,” she said. “Jon lives. And he will forgive you. I promise.” She held him tightly in the dark then, and they spoke no more. _Please, gods,_ she prayed. _Let the boy forgive him. Please._


	40. Rapprochement

Ned Stark looked up at the dark grey sky with eyes precisely the same color. The sky clearly threatened snow, and he hoped Stannis’s party reached the shelter of Winterfell before the storm hit. From the internal storm that his own eyes reflected, he could find no shelter. He knew he looked grim, for men jumped more quickly than usual to comply with his requests, and no one sought to make conversation with him. Not even his own children. He grimaced at the memory of his treatment of them in the Great Hall.

Jon had not come down to break his fast, and the children had been disappointed. They’d peppered him with questions about where Jon was, when he would come see them, could they go see him, was he feeling all right until Ned had thought his head might explode.

“Stop pestering me about Jon!” he’d finally said to them, and from the faces that turned toward the High Table from the tables nearby, it was obvious he’d said it loudly.

Sansa and Arya had frozen in place, stunned for a moment, but then they’d simply turned to their plates silently and did not look at him again. Rickon had actually cowered, grabbing onto Catelyn’s skirts as she placed a protective arm around him. She’d met Ned’s eyes then, but he saw no reproach in them. Only sadness and understanding. That had somehow been even worse. Unable to stand the pain he had inflicted on his family any longer, he’d walked from the Great Hall without another word, leaving Catelyn to comfort his children.

 _Catelyn._ She had held onto him through the night as if he were one of the children in need of her comfort and protection. He had finally fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion and had awakened to find himself still wrapped in her arms. When he stirred, she had kissed him fiercely and pulled him to her, pushing away thought, guilt, and memory temporarily with the heat of her touch. Gods! What would he have done if she had not forgiven him? He could see her face as it had been that day in the woods above Riverrun when he’d told her his great secret. Of all the hurts his wife had suffered, he still believed none had pained her more than his lie. Yet, she had forgiven him. And she now steadfastly insisted that Jon would as well. Remembering his son’s _Yes, dammit, my son!_ face from last night, Ned was not so sure. The boy was a Stark whatever else he was, and forgiveness of such magnitude required a warmth and openness that did not come easily to Starks. Ned knew that well enough.

He sighed as the first flakes of snow began falling around him. He’d met with Wyman Manderly after leaving the Great Hall to discuss provisions for Manderly’s large company on their trip to White Harbor. Wyman could accomplish a great deal from White Harbor that he could not do while at Winterfell, and the plan was to have him head out as soon as his men reached Winterfell with Stannis. Of course, snow could seriously delay that. Ned had decided not to ask the White Harbor men to ride north to face the threat there. Whatever evil approached from beyond the Wall, he could not completely disregard the dangers in the south, and the port at White Harbor must be strongly defended. He and Manderly had talked long about the various threats to the north at present, and Ned had even brought Howland Reed into the discussion to lend credence to his talk of White Walkers and wights. He could tell Manderly had his doubts about such things, but the man had known Ned long enough to realize he didn’t chase ghost tales, so he grudgingly accepted Ned’s assertion that the biggest danger lay to the north, and pledged to support Winterfell on all fronts in whatever manner he could.

Afterward, he’d sought out Perwyn Frey. He’d seen Arya in the courtyard as he walked out in search of the man, but she had merely given him a rather angry, betrayed sort of look and walked in the other direction. He wondered if she’d seen Jon. Frey had been able to give Ned several interesting bits of information, the most startling of which was that Theon Greyjoy was apparently among Stannis Baratheon’s captives. Ned’s blood boiled at the thought of allowing him even to enter the walls of Winterfell, and he could not imagine how Catelyn and the children would react to his presence. It had been Perwyn’s thought to send out men to meet the approaching company. He assured Ned that they must be very close by now, but with the weather turning worse and the wounded men they had to transport slowing them down, fresh men and horses to help bring them the last few leagues would be welcomed.

So, now he stood beside the watchman at the Hunter’s Gate wishing he could summon the sight of horses approaching from the west as the thickening snowflakes made it increasingly difficult to see toward the Wolfswood. Even more, he wished he could summon some sort of comfort for Jon, who had never left his mind through all his meetings and strategizing this day. Pulling his cloak more tightly around him in the cold wind, he stared off toward the trees, knowing that he could do nothing now except wait---for Stannis, and for Jon.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

What could she tell them? She had stared into her children’s faces as their father stalked out of the Great Hall and realized she had little comfort for them. They had arrived to the morning meal full of excitement over spending more time with their newly recovered brother only to be met by his absence and their father’s silence and brooding anger. After Ned’s outburst, Rickon had all but climbed into her lap, and he stared at his father’s retreating back as if he were seeing him for the first time, and not liking what he saw.

“Rickon,” she’d said soothingly, running a hand through his hair. “Your father isn’t angry at you, sweetling, or at your sisters. He only has a lot on his mind, and it makes him . . .irritable.”

Rickon looked unconvinced, but before she could say more, Arya had burst out, “He’s upset about Jon! Something happened! Did you say something horrible to him?” She glared at Catelyn, her grey eyes simmering with anger and her posture indicating a challenge.

“Arya!” Sansa had cried, appalled. “Mother, she doesn’t mean it!” she said then, turning to Catelyn, blue eyes round with distress.

“It’s all right, Sansa,” Catelyn had said quietly. She then turned to Arya. “I’ve said nothing to Jon since we all left the yard yesterday, Arya,” she said evenly. “He spent hours with your father in his solar, and I believe it was a difficult conversation at times for them both. More, I cannot tell you.” _It is not my tale to tell._

“You won’t tell us, you mean,” Arya had insisted. “I’m going to find Jon!”

Catelyn had sighed. “You may do as you wish, but he may not wish to speak with you just now.”

“You said we could see him today!”

“And no one will stop you from doing so. But I do not know where he is, and if he doesn’t want to see you, child, it has nothing to do with you.” Catelyn had tried to keep her voice calm in spite of the growing anger she’d felt--anger at Ned for telling the boy so quickly, for leaving her here to deal with their children, for creating this mess in the first place; anger at Arya for so quickly assuming she was to blame; and anger at herself for wishing Jon had never come to Winterfell at all. _It is not his fault._

“I can find him!” Arya had cried. “And he’ll tell me the truth!” The last was an accusation aimed at both her parents, Catelyn realized. “Come on, Dak,” Arya had called to the boy who sat at the end of the table, and he’d risen and followed her out like a puppy.

“Mother,” Sansa had said hesitantly after she left.

“Do not trouble yourself, Sansa. Arya will do what she will, and then she will be better. Jon is a man grown now, and he and your father will work out any differences they have.” Her head had begun to ache.

“Differences?” Sansa had asked.

“Things that do not concern you,” Catelyn had responded more severely than she intended.

Sansa looked at her closely then, a very grown-up expression on her face. “It truly has nothing to do with you?” she asked.

Catelyn bit back the rebuke that sprang to her lips. Of course, her girls would think any unhappiness on the part of Jon Snow would involve her. Unlike Rickon, they remembered life at Winterfell before all the troubles well enough. “It has nothing to do with me, sweetling,” she’d said softly. “Not this time.”

The question was plain in Sansa’s blue eyes, but she didn’t ask it. She simply nodded, and Catelyn had walked with her and Rickon back to her chambers where she and Sansa had set to mending clothes while Rickon had wandered about the room grousing that Arya had stolen Dak and he didn’t have anyone to play with.

Some time later, Arya had burst in without knocking and flung herself on the floor. Catelyn had looked at her and remained silent waiting for her to speak.

“Where’s Dak?” Rickon had demanded.

“Outside,” Arya huffed. “He’s got Shaggy and Ghost with him.”

Rickon was halfway out the door before remembering to turn and look to her. Catelyn nodded, and the boy bounded out. Sansa looked at Arya, but followed her mother’s lead and remained silent.

Finally, Arya said, “You were right. He wouldn’t talk to me.”

“I’m sorry sweetling,” Catelyn said.

“I asked him what you did,” Arya continued without looking up. “He said you didn’t do anything. I called him a liar, and he said if I’d said anything like that to you, I should apologize.” She looked up at Catelyn then, uncertainty on her face. “He wouldn’t say anything else, though. He told me to go away.”

“He isn’t angry with you, Arya,” Catelyn said quietly.

“That’s what you told Rickon about Father,” she said. “Are Father and Jon angry at each other?”

“Jon is angry, and he has his reasons. Your father only wants him to understand something. They’ll work it out, sweetling.”

“Not if they don’t even talk to each other!” she exclaimed. Then she looked almost guilty. “I saw Father in the courtyard, but I didn’t want to talk to him.”

Catelyn’s headache was getting worse by the moment. “Where is Jon?” she asked her daughter.

“In the godswood. But he won’t talk to you,” Arya said sullenly.

“Perhaps not,” Catelyn said, already rising and reaching for her cloak. “Stay here, and help your sister with the mending. I know you hate it,” she added before Arya could protest, “but it must be done none the less, and Septa Mordane is not here any longer to criticize your stitching, so just do it, Arya.”

Arya stared at her a moment, but then rose from the floor and took Catelyn’s seat, picking up the shirt she’d laid aside.

“Thank you,” Catelyn said to both of her daughters before turning to leave.

As she entered the courtyard, she realized the sky was considerably darker than it had been. It looked like snow. She thought of Stannis and all the men coming in from the Wolfswood, and of Yohn Royce and Maege Mormont and the others marching up the Kingsroad from Moat Cailin and hoped it would not storm badly. She took several deep breaths before entering the godswood. She didn’t know if her husband’s bastard _He is not Ned’s bastard! Why do you continue to think of him so?_ would speak with her or not, but she had to try. Ned had told her much of his conversation with the boy as he lay in her arms this morning after she’d given him the comfort of her body. Her heart broke as she recalled his raw pain. She could be angry with him in his absence, but not when she held him close and saw the hurt in his eyes. Now she’d seen hurt, anger, and confusion in her children’s eyes as well, and she couldn’t help any of them. Only Jon Snow could heal this pain.

As she walked among the trees, she found herself praying to Ned’s gods. Her own gods didn’t dwell in this place, so she turned to the gods of her husband and the nephew he’d made a son. _Please let him hear me. Please help him to forgive, for his own sake, and for all of ours._ When she reached the pool by the heart tree, she saw him there, and her heart nearly stopped in her chest for he stood there with his head bowed looking so like Ned that she couldn’t breathe. She remembered the early days of their marriage when she was so angry and he so cool and withdrawn. She’d find him here sometimes then, standing just like that, seeking answers and absolution. Now, of course, she knew the sin he’d sought forgiveness for, but then she’d believed something else entirely. Looking at an image of her young husband, the old pain threatened to overwhelm her, but she forced it down and observed Jon more clinically. Ned was correct. The boy was much leaner and a little taller than Ned had been at that age. His hair had a tiny bit of a wave to it where Ned’s was straight, and his posture wasn’t exactly the same. With a pang, she realized Robb’s had been. The boy who looked like her had stood exactly the same way his father did. She missed him as much now as she had the first day she’d awakened at the Twins.

Shaking her head against the memory of her son, Catelyn walked forward. She had to think of her children who still lived. She had to think of her husband. She had to speak to Jon Snow.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Jon.”

Her voice came softly from behind him. She was the last person he expected to seek him out. Had his father told her? _He’s not my father!_ He remained silent and did not turn around.

“Jon,” she said again, and he remembered that she’d called him by his name last night when she spoke of Robb, and realized she’d now called him by his name since his return to Winterfell more times than he could remember her doing in all the previous years. “My husband told me that he spoke to you of your mother.”

He did turn around then. “Did he tell you about her as well?”

She nodded.

“Well, I imagine that makes you very happy, Lady Stark,” he said. “Or should I call you Auntie Catelyn?” he added with a sneer.

To her credit, she didn’t flinch. She continued to gaze right at him and said simply, “I think we shall both be more comfortable if you continue to call me Lady Stark.”

“Well, Lady Stark, since it seems your oh so honorable husband kept his cock in his breeches after all, you haven’t any reason to be here. I am nothing for you to fear, nothing for you to hate. Nothing to you or yours at all.” The bitterness in his voice sounded too harsh even to him.

She ignored it, though. “On the contrary,” she said. “I have every reason to be here. Winterfell is my home, and while the godswood may not always have been my favorite place, it is part of my home. As for you, you are far from nothing to my husband or my children, and if you’d open your eyes you’d see that.”

He snorted. “But what am I to you, that you come out in the cold which I know that you hate to the one place in the castle where I could always be free of you?”

She didn’t respond to the taunt, although he saw a flash of something--anger? grief?--in those blue eyes of hers. “I came to ask something of you.”

He laughed out loud at that. “It may be your castle, Lady Stark, but I am not your son, as you have made so abundantly clear to me all my life. You have no claim on me by which to ask anything.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t. I don’t ask it for myself. But for Ned and the children, whom I know you love.” He turned away from her in disgust at that. “Oh, you’re angry at him,” she said then to his back. “I know better than anyone precisely how angry you are, but you do love him.” She paused. “I ask you to forgive him, Jon.”

He whirled back to face her then. “Have you forgiven him?” he demanded.

“I have.” She looked at him steadily. “It took time, it wasn‘t easy, and I still get angry at times. His lie hurt me as well as you.”

Jon didn’t particularly care about the hurts of Catelyn Tully Stark. But she had said it took time. How long had she known? “When did he tell you?” he demanded. “He told me he’d kept it from you as well as me.”

“He did,” she said. “He never told me until after he’d rescued me from the Twins.”

Jon snorted again. “He still told you before he told me.”

“I was with him. You were not. He’d made up his mind to tell us both the truth when he was held prisoner in the Red Keep, but it was hardly a tale to send with a raven.”

Jon shook his head. “He wouldn’t have told me now if I hadn’t forced him,” he said angrily.

“No, he wouldn’t have told you last night. You had just come home. Just found your sisters and your brother.”

“They aren’t my sisters and brother!” he exploded.

“He wished you to enjoy your reunion before learning these things,” she continued as if his outburst hadn’t taken place. “And to be fair, he undoubtedly wished to enjoy some time with you as well. He knew how I reacted to this news. I cannot blame him for being loathe to go through that again.”

“Cannot blame him?” he said incredulously. “Do you even hear yourself? If I believe every word he now says, then perhaps I can say at least my life was protected by what he did. What can you say? What did he do for you, Lady Stark? Why do you not hate him?”

She sighed deeply and sat down on the large rock he’d seen his father _not my father!_ sit on many times. “I came to love Eddard Stark when I believed he had left me with child after our wedding night and gone directly to the bed of a woman he would always love more than he could ever love me. A woman he loved so much that he made her bastard equal to our own trueborn children.” She paused to allow him to react, but he did not. “I came to love him in spite of that and worked hard to be content with whatever portion of his heart I could call my own. Whether you consider that weakness or strength on my part, I do not care. I forgave him for you, imperfectly and angrily, I admit, but I did choose to forgive him. And now I choose to forgive him the lie as I once forgave the bastard.”

Jon shook his head at her. “If what I’ve seen from you all my life is an example of your forgiveness, then you haven’t given him anything much.”

“I never said I’d forgiven you.”

That shocked him. It shouldn’t have, but it did. “What did I ever do to you?” he demanded. “What did I ever do save exist?”

“Nothing,” she said, and she did not look away from him when she said it. “I didn’t say it was fair or right. I forgave Ned his sins, but not you your existence. Judge me for it as you like. I still ask you to forgive your father.”

“For what? Letting Robert Baratheon kill him at the Trident or being arrogant enough to steal my mother away in the first place?” Jon threw at her.

“I don’t care what you feel about Rhaegar Targaryen,” Lady Stark said. “Forgive him or not as you choose. And you know very well I don’t speak of him. Eddard Stark has been your father all your life, boy, and whatever I may wish or not, the fact that you are Rhaegar’s seed changes that not at all.”

“You know nothing,” he said to her, and the words made him think with a pang of Ygritte. _Gods, Ygritte, you were more right than you knew. It seems I_ _know nothing at all._

“I know more than you,” she said, rising to stand once more and walking toward him. “I have been the Lady of Winterfell these many long years, and I have now lived through three wars. I have seen my husband and children ripped away from me and believed them all lost forever. I saw my firstborn son murdered before my eyes, and I have taken the life of his murderer with my own hand. And you are still merely a green boy, for all the whiskers on your face. Judge me as you will for all that lies between us, Jon Snow, but do not presume to tell me what I know.”

She stood within inches of him by the time she finished speaking, and although he was much taller than she now, he did indeed feel suddenly like a little boy and that made him very angry. “Well, don’t tell me who I have to forgive!” he shouted at her suddenly, and realized as soon as the words left his mouth that he had sounded about five years old.

She didn’t call him on it. In fact, her hard face softened just a bit. “I cannot tell you to forgive anyone. I only ask. The choice is yours.”

He put his head down. “You keep saying that. As if I just get to decide that I’m okay with my entire life being a lie. That I’m fine with the man I call father letting me grow up a bastard and sending me off to the Wall, perhaps to die, never knowing any of this.”

“You chose the Wall,” she said quietly. “I was very glad of it, I admit, as that convenient vow you had to take removed the threat of any bastard’s bastards threatening Robb’s children.”

“I would never . . .” he started to exclaim.

“That is neither here nor there. My point is that you did choose, and while I was grateful for it, Ned would never had sent you had you indicated you did not want to go. A choice, Jon, and you made it.”

“That’s different. This is . . .impossible. I cannot just forget that he lied to me my whole life.”

“No, you cannot. Simply choose to think more on the fact that he put your life ahead of everything, including his own honor, and you must know how difficult that was for him.”

“He put me ahead of your honor, too,” Jon said, and he honestly wasn’t sure whether he meant to hurt her with the words or not.

She merely nodded. “He did. Think on that as well if it helps you.”

“If it helps me? You don’t care about me. Don’t ask me to believe that you do.”

“I won’t,” she said. “But I love my my husband and my children. You know that to be true. And they love you. To help them now, I must help you see your choice.” She bit her lower lip. “I called you a boy, and you are one. But you are not a fool. And you are not without honor. Ned told me what you did for Mance Rayder’s infant son.”

That caught his attention. His father had said little about the decision Jon had made when he’d spoken to him of Melisandre and his fears for the baby’s life the night before. “What did he say about it?”

“He told me that Stannis Baratheon’s red woman likes to burn people and that she believes burning a king’s child could give Stannis the power he needs to defeat his enemies. He told me you managed to remove Mance Rayder’s infant son from harm’s way. That was a choice, Jon, and no easier than the one I ask you to make now.”

“Did he say I made the right choice?” Jon asked her, hating himself because he still cared what Ned Stark thought.

“What? Jon, you are talking about the life of an innocent babe!”

Jon nodded. “I know that. That’s what I thought about. But if Lady Melisandre is right, we are talking about the lives of everyone. If she is right, one child’s life could save everyone else’s. Which is more important? What choice would your honorable lord husband make then, Lady Catelyn? Do you know?”

She looked at him for a few moments and then began to laugh. She laughed for what seemed a long time to Jon, and he began to wonder what possessed her. Finally she shook her head at him. “You blind, selfish, foolish boy,” she said, although there was no real venom in her voice, only a sort of resignation.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked her.

“You honestly ask me what choice Ned would make if faced with choosing between the life of one innocent child and the good of many others or even a whole realm.” She shook her head again. “He already made that choice, Jon. Why can’t you see it?”

She turned to go then, but just before she disappeared into the trees, he called after her. “Do you think it would have been different?”

She turned to look at him without speaking.

“If he had told you the truth,” Jon said. “Would it have been any different for you? With me?”

She looked at him for a long moment. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “But that’s one choice I would have liked to have had.”

She left him then, and he turned back to stare at the heart tree as he thought about her words.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Arya Stark stabbed the needle through the cloth as if she were mortally wounding an enemy. She'd actually stabbed her finger three times already, once to the point of bleeding a fair amount. Sansa hadn’t said anything, though. She’d merely handed her a scrap of linen to wrap the finger in and gone back to her own perfect stitching. Finally, Arya could take the silence no longer.

“I haven’t done this in a really long time,” she said.

“I know,” Sansa replied. “You’re doing fine.”

“No, I’m not. I’m rubbish at it.” She threw the pair of breeches with the partially sewn hole in one of the knees down onto the floor. “And I don’t care.”

Sansa sighed. “You’ve done fine, Arya. None of these things have to be beautiful. The men who wear them simply want the holes closed up to keep out the cold.”

Arya bent to retrieve the breeches and stared at her sister. “When did you get like this?”

“Like what?” Sansa asked.

“I don’t know,” Arya said. “Nice, maybe?”

Sansa actually laughed. “Most people have always said I’m very nice.”

“Not to me.”

Sansa put down the cloak she was stitching. “Well, you aren’t always very easy to be nice to,” she said. “And sometimes I wanted a sister who actually knew she was a girl.”

“I know I’m a girl!” Arya protested. “I’m just not a girl like you!”

“I know, Arya,” Sansa said soothingly. She almost always sounded so old now, more like Mother than the old Sansa. Arya wasn’t really sure she liked it that much. She had a mother now. But Robb was dead, Jon seemed to hate them all of a sudden, Bran was missing, and Rickon was still practically a baby. She wouldn’t mind a Sansa who acted like herself and actually yelled at her. “You should meet Lady Brienne,” Sansa was saying now.

“That’s Mother’s lady knight, right?”

Sansa nodded.

Arya wanted to meet her. She knew the woman had rooms somewhere near Mother’s and Sansa had said that she had been practically attached to Mother until Mother was taken to Winterfell, but she didn’t seem to be around much now. Arya wondered if she felt bad because she’d let the Frey man kidnap Mother.

“Dak says she killed Hosteen Frey,” Arya said. “And a bunch more men by the Kingsgate.”

“How would Dak know?” Sansa asked. “We weren’t even here when any of that happened.”

“Dak’s good at finding out stuff. He talks to people. That’s how he helped Father get out of Pentos. Anyway, he’s heard all about how Father and his men took back Winterfell. He sent that Lady Brienne and some others over the wall into the godswood to sneak in and find Mother. Only Roose Bolton already had her up on top of the Kingsgate turret, so they had to fight to get to her.”

Now Sansa looked interested. “So did Lady Brienne kill Lord Bolton as well?” she asked, “Or one of father’s other men?”

Arya stared at her sister. “You still don’t know?” she asked.

Before Sansa could reply, a terrible howling started in the courtyard, and Arya rushed to the window. “Something’s wrong with Shaggy and Ghost,” she said. “Come on!”

By the time Arya reached the courtyard with Sansa on her heels, a small crowd had gathered around the two direwolves who both faced west and howled mournfully. Dak ran to her as soon as he saw her, but Rickon stood silently beside Shaggy with eyes looking unfocused. Arya realized that snow was falling.

“Arya!” Dak cried. “Something’s wrong!”

“What made them start?” she asked him.

“I don’t know,” Dak said. “We were playing with them, and then Shaggy just stopped and howled like that. And I swear, Arya, I thought I heard another wolf, outside the castle, like really far away. And then Ghost started howling, too, and they won’t stop, and Rickon . . .well, Rickon . . .” He looked helplessly back at her little brother.

Arya took a deep breath and went to touch Rickon on the shoulder. She didn’t like all the men staring at them, but at least they were all too nervous of the wolves to come very close. “Rickon,” she said. He didn’t respond. “Rickon,” she said more loudly, and shook him.

The little boy blinked and stared up at her as if confused. “Arya,” he said. “She’s hurt.”

“Who’s hurt?” she asked him. Sansa was with her. Did he mean Mother?

“The sister,” Rickon said. “Nym . . Nymeria,” he said uncertainly. “That’s her name, right?”

“Nymeria?” Arya suddenly felt cold. She hadn’t had wolf dreams since she’d been inside Winterfell’s walls. Everything that had happened, and Mother, Father, and Jon, had filled her mind. She hadn’t even realized she hadn’t been dreaming until now. “Where is she?” she asked Rickon, desperately.

“I don’t know,” he said. “In the woods, I think. Shaggy just feels her. He doesn’t see her. Why don’t you see where she is?”

“I can’t!” Arya cried. “I can’t do what you do when you’re awake. I only find her when I dream!”

“Arya! Rickon!” Sansa’s voice was sharp, and Arya turned toward her sister, who gave a meaningful look around at the men staring at them. They kept their distance, but they were not too far away to hear the words she’d said too loudly, even over the racket the wolves were making. She watched Sansa draw herself up to her full height. “My brothers’ wolves are not going to attack anyone,” Sansa said loudly to the gathered men. “Obviously, they’ve heard something outside the western wall. Someone, go and tell the men at the gates that someone may be coming. You are not needed here.” For once, Arya was grateful to have her sister sound so very much like her mother as the men reluctantly began to turn away.

“Rickon,” Sansa said, turning to their brother. “Can you make them be quiet?”

Rickon shook his head. “They’re calling to her. They won’t stop until she comes.”

“She won’t come,” Arya whispered.

“Who?” Sansa demanded. “Arya, talk to me. Is Nymeria here? Is that it?”

Arya looked at her sister. She didn’t want to talk about her wolf, but she couldn’t leave her alone and hurt. She nodded. “I dreamed she was close to Winterfell. Before we got here. I see her in my dreams, Sansa.” She shook her head. “No, that’s not right. I am her. But I’m me, too. With her. I can’t explain it.”

“You’re a warg, Arya,” Sansa said softly, looking around to be certain the men had actually dispersed. A few still lingered, continuing to stare at the howling direwolves, but no one was close enough to hear her sister’s words. “Like Rickon. You’re connected to Nymeria.”

“Only when I sleep, though,” Arya said desperately. “I don’t know how to find her when I’m awake, and Rickon says she’s hurt.” Tears threatened to fall from her eyes, and Arya rubbed at them fiercely with a fist.

“Won’t she come to Shaggy and Ghost?” Sansa asked. “Can’t she feel them if they can feel her?”

“She won’t come,” Arya said again. “She doesn’t trust man places! And the little cousins will be afraid. I don’t know if she’ll leave them.”

Sansa looked utterly confused, and Arya knew she wasn’t explaining it well enough. It was hard to put wolf thoughts into words.

“I bet Shaggy and Ghost could find her if we let them out,” Dak said then.

Arya looked at her friend. He hadn’t reacted to the word ‘warg’ at all and had just made the most obvious, most brilliant suggestion she’d ever heard. “Yes,” she said. “We can take the wolves out to her!” She started running toward the Hunter’s gate. “Get them to follow us, Rickon!” she yelled to her little brother.

“Did she say _take_ them out?” she heard Dak asking behind her.

She didn’t bother to stop running and respond. She knew Rickon would bring the wolves. He understood, even if he was a baby.

Once she entered the kennel yard, she could see the inner gate was already open, and as she ran across the bridge toward the outer gate, she spotted her father among the men on the turret, recognizing him easily in spite of the increasing snowfall which made everything more difficult to see clearly. “Father!” she shouted. “Open the gate!”

Her father turned to look down at her. “Arya! What are you doing out here? And why have you brought those wolves? Rickon, call Shaggy back now!”

Arya turned to see that Ghost and Shaggydog were right behind her, and her little brother was not far behind them. She didn’t see Sansa or Dak, but she didn’t need them.

“Open the gate, Father! Please!” she said again. She stood directly below him now, and she could see the tight, angry expression on his face even through the snow.

“I must open the gate, Arya,” he said. “Stannis’s men have emerged from the Wolfswood and are riding this way. But I cannot open it while those beasts are on the bridge. You and your brother must remove them.”

“No! They have to go out! They have to find . . .”

“I am not setting direwolves on Stannis Baratheon!” her father exclaimed in exasperation. “Now get them somewhere away from here.”

Arya didn’t know if she were more furious with her father or terrified for her direwolf, but either way she was shaking. In the distance from outside the wall, she suddenly heard a long howl which sounded to her ears full of equal parts rage and pain. “Nymeria,” she whispered, and suddenly she wasn’t seeing her father or the walls of Winterfell.

She was lying in the snow, and the wet cold felt good on her fur, but her flank burned like fire where the long claw was still embedded in it. The small cousin still with her licked at the place where she bled, but it didn’t ease the pain. Nor did it ease her rage. In her mind, she could see the men and their long claws that flew through the air striking down two of her small cousins, two of her pack. She had leapt at them and pulled one man from his horse before they turned the long claws on her. Then she had been forced to run, to lead the few small cousins still left with her away from the men and their claws. She had run until the claws no longer came at them, and then she had collapsed in the snow unable to run further. The small cousins had run on, all of them save this one.

 _Nymeria,_ thought the girl. These memories were the wolf’s, but the girl could see them now _. Shot by arrows._ The girl’s mind gave words to the memories that were not hers, and her heart sped up with fear and anger which belonged to the wolf and the girl both. She was so tired now, though. She couldn’t run anymore.

“Arya! Arya! Rickon, call off the damn wolf!” The voice came from far away. _Father,_ she thought. She opened her eyes, and she was lying on the bridge by the gate with Shaggydog standing over her, growling. Standing on the bridge, as close as the direwolf would allow, was her father, who looked as frightened as she felt.

She pushed at Shaggy and sat up. “I’m all right,” she said. She turned to see Rickon staring at her with huge round eyes, and she nodded at him.

“Shaggy, to me,” the boy said, and with a last growl at her father and the men standing with him, the black wolf trotted back to Rickon with Ghost following silently. Arya hadn’t even realized Ghost had been beside her as he was almost invisible in the snow.

Her father was pulling her into his arms the moment the wolves withdrew. “Arya, are you well? What happened to you?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing happened to me!” Now she couldn’t stop the tears that filled her eyes. “But Nymeria’s been shot. I think she’s dying, Father!” She looked up at her father, her eyes beseeching him to understand.

He looked at her with an unreadable expression, although she thought his own eyes still looked frightened. Then he asked, “Are you certain of this?”

She nodded.

He didn’t ask how she knew. “Arya, I must get Lord Stannis and all his men into the castle. If your wolf is truly in the Wolfswood, they are likely the ones who shot her. I cannot release the other two to attack them. Do you understand?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said miserably. “They can find her. Please, Father, I have to find her.”

“My lord,” came a new voice, and Arya turned to see the tallest woman she’d ever laid eyes on standing behind her with Dak. “Allow me to ride out the south gate with the wolves. I have no wish to meet Stannis Baratheon here. I will stay well south of his men and ride into the Wolfswood to find Lady Arya’s wolf.”

Now, Arya recognized her. This was her mother’s lady knight. Brienne of Tarth. “I’ll go with her!” she exclaimed. “Please, Father.”

“Neither of you can control Ghost or Shaggydog reliably, and do not ask if I will allow Rickon to ride out after a wounded direwolf,” he said before Arya could make the suggestion. “Any wounded animal is dangerous, Arya, and your wolf must be very wild indeed, by now. Rickon is far too young for such a risk, and so are you.”

“I will go with Lady Brienne,” came a loud, sure voice. Arya looked back into the kennel yard to see her brother Jon comng from the direction of the godswood with Sansa behind him. He looked at their father with an air of challenge in his expression. “Ghost will mind me, and Shaggydog need not come, if you prefer.” He turned from their father and looked at Arya. “If your wolf is out there, little sister,” he said much more gently, “Ghost and I will find her.”

Arya smiled at him gratefully through her tears, but before she could ask to come with him, he added, “Your father is right about you and Rickon, though. Stay here, Arya, and Lady Brienne and I will bring her back to you.”

Without another word to her, Jon turned to Lady Brienne. “Let’s go, my lady,” he said, and began walking back toward the main courtyard. “Ghost,” he said sharply, and the white direwolf followed silently behind him. Shaggydog started to follow as well, but Rickon said, “Stay, Shaggy,” and he whined and sat back down at the boy’s feet.

Lady Brienne gave one uncertain look in her father’s direction and then followed after Jon. Standing in the doorway to the main courtyard, almost obscured by the snowfall, Arya saw her lady mother. Jon walked by her without stopping, but Lady Brienne bowed quickly, and her mother nodded at her.

Her father looked at them until Jon and Lady Brienne disappeared from view, and then he said quietly. “Rickon, take your wolf, and go with your mother. Girls, you go, too.” To the men at the gate, he said, “Once Rickon’s wolf is out of the yard, open the gate. Stannis should be nearly on top of us by now.”

Rickon immediately ran for their lady mother, with the big, black wolf at his heels, but Arya just stood there looking at her father. He looked back at her as if he wanted to say something, but he only swallowed tightly and said, “Go on, now,” softly before turning toward the stairs of the turret.

She felt Sansa grab her hand, “Come on, Arya,” she said, and led her toward their waiting mother. “I didn’t know what to do when you ran off like that,” Sansa confessed, sounding much younger than she had before, “so I ran to find Mother and told her everything. She sent Lady Brienne here and told me to go find Jon in the godswood and tell him about your wolf.”

Arya held tightly to her sister’s hand, unable to say anything at the moment, but terribly glad for once that Sansa ran to their mother about everything. When they reached their lady mother, and she held her arms out for her, Arya went into them willingly, burying her face against her mother’s dress and not caring who saw it.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

It took hours to get all the men from the Wolfswood within the walls of Winterfell, even with Ned directing that some of them be sent around to the north gate to relieve the bottleneck at the Hunter’s gate. The wind and snow were both much worse by the time it had been accomplished. The men who had originally ridden out from Winterfell under Ramsay Bolton’s banner had all now seemed eager to bend the knee to Ned, whether they had been party to Lord Manderly’s subterfuge or not. Those men, at least had already been quartered in the castle and had some idea of where to go now. Catelyn had devised some sort of plan for Stannis’s men with the assistance of Sansa and what household staff Bolton and company had managed to accumulate here. Ned had watched his older daughter directing that staff in getting men situated, as Catelyn was required to stand beside him and accept the greetings and homage of the various men as they entered. He had no idea what his wife had done with Arya, Rickon, or the wolf.

Neither of them had spoken about the events just prior to the opening of the gate, nor of Brienne and Jon out in a near blizzard searching for a wounded direwolf. He knew perfectly well that she had somehow orchestrated that particular solution to Arya’s dilemma, and he honestly didn’t know whether he was more angry or grateful. She had stood at his side, smiling regally, and extending her hand to the men who knelt before them, but he knew her mind was as much in the Wolfswood as his.

Mors and Hothar Umber had approached them together, each effusive in their expressions of joy to see both the Lord and Lady of Winterfell alive and presiding over their castle, the fact that they’d been on opposing sides of this conflict for a time apparently forgotten. As Catelyn reassured them once again that the Greatjon was free and had been quite well the last time she saw him, Ned caught sight of a familiar, slightly built, brown haired man whose beard looked even more streaked with white than he remembered compliments of the snow in it.

“Lord Seaworth!” he called.

The onion knight, who walked beside a slowly moving covered wagon, turned to face him. “Lord Stark!,” he called. “Well met!” He murmured something to a man beside him and walked to Ned and Catelyn.

“My lord,” he said with a dip of his head, and then turning to Catelyn, “My lady. It is good to see you safely recovered and restored to your home.”

“I thank you, Lord Seaworth,” she replied. She looked toward the wagon he had accompanied through the gate. “Is Lord Stannis . ..”

“Yes, my lady,” Seaworth had interrupted. “His grace lies in the wagon. I fear the journey has done him little good. Is there a room prepared?”

“Indeed,” Catelyn replied. “If you have men to carry him, I will take you there myself.” She looked at Ned. “My lord?” she asked, requesting his leave to go with Stannis.

“Go, my lady,” he’d said reluctantly. He could not leave his position yet, and it was fitting that she should personally escort Stannis, but he was loathe to have her leave his side. As she walked toward the wagon, he turned to Seaworth. “How is he?”

“Not good, my lord. Those attending his wounds predict his death is iminent.” The man had smiled grimly, “But then they have been predicting his iminent death since the battle ended, and he has not obliged them yet. I do not believe they appreciate how . . .determined his grace can be.”

Ned had offered him a small tight smile in return. “Well, you and I have reason to know his tenacity.” He clapped the man on the shoulder. “Go with your king, my lord. We will speak again soon. I am glad that you found him, Lord Seaworth.”

“That was your doing, Lord Stark,” the man answered with a more genuine smile. “You told me to make for that crofter’s village. As luck would have it, his grace’s army camped there, and I reached them just before the battle.” He turned then and went to help several men lifting a board with a supine form on it from the wagon at Catelyn’s direction.

That had been the last time Ned had laid eyes on Stannis Baratheon until everyone was inside the castle. _Everyone except Jon and Lady Brienne,_ he thought grimly as he climbed the stairs in the Great Keep toward the room Catelyn had assigned Robert’s brother. The Keep was full to overflowing as was every other building in Winterfell, and many men were expected yet from the south. Ned cursed the snow which made camping outdoors unpalatable and would likely delay the departure of the White Harbor men.

He entered Lord Stannis’s room to find both his wife and Davos Seaworth at the man’s bedside. The fringe of black hair around the man’s head looked unchanged, but the narrow, pinched face beneath the closely cropped black beard looked thinner than ever and ghostly pale. Stannis had never been as large a man as Robert, but he’d always been broad shouldered with a sinewy toughness to his build. The body beneath the coverings looked too small to be the man Ned remembered.

To his surprise, Baratheon’s dark blue eyes opened at his entrance. “Lord Stark,” he croaked. “It would appear neither of us is as willing to die as some would have us be.”

“No, my lord,” Ned agreed. “We would appear harder to kill than our enemies anticipate.”

“My lord,” Stannis said softly. “Not your grace.” Ned saw him clench his teeth tightly together. “You have never been a friend to me, Ned Stark, but surely you know the Iron Throne is mine by rights. The Lannister bastard who sits it now is the spawn of the Kingslayer and the whore who cuckolded my brother and your friend and king.” Stannis coughed forcefully at the end of this pronouncement, and Ned saw that his spittle was flecked with blood.

“You are Robert’s only living trueborn heir save for your daughter, Shireen,” Ned said calmly. “The boy called Tommen Baratheon is precisely what you say he is, and I shall be happy to help you remove him from the Iron Throne once the north is secure from all threats, my lord.”

“And yet you still say _my lord_ ,” Stannis said, without taking his eyes off Ned.

Ned didn’t drop his eyes, either. “How did your brother Renly come to die, my lord?”

Now Stannis did drop his gaze ever so briefly and when he looked up at Ned again, anger put a faint hint of color in his white face. “Renly was a traitor,” he declared baldly. “He declared war against me, his brother and rightful king. He deserved death.”

He heard Catelyn’s sharp intake of breath and was vaguely aware of a small movement by Davos Seaworth, but he did not look away from Stannis Baratheon. “I did not say that he did not, my lord. But I asked you how he died.”

Stannis looked away again. “I do not know,” he said softly. “I was asleep. Asleep in my tent. We were to battle that day, but . . .” He looked toward Catelyn. “Ask your lady wife. I have heard she was with him!”

Ned leaned over the man then. “You dare accuse my lady wife?” he growled.

“You dare accuse me?” Stannis responded.

Ned took several deep breaths and stood straight again. “I only asked,” he said.

“And I have answered. I do not know.” Stannis’s voice sounded weak and tired.

In the brief silence that followed, Ned did look away from him. He saw that Davos Seaworth looked decidedly uncomfortable and that Catelyn’s blue eyes were distressed with a far away look in them. _Damn,_ he thought. _As if she hasn’t suffered enough, I send her back to that day._ Whatever had killed Renly Baratheon, he knew it had disturbed his wife greatly, just one of the many nightmares he would take from her if he could.

“My lady,” he said softly, touching her arm.

She looked at him, still with a certain haziness to her gaze. “A shadow,” she whispered. “It was a shadow.” She looked down at the bed where Stannis Baratheon lay, looking very much like a mere shade of his former self. “I saw it, Ned.”

He wanted her away from Stannis Baratheon. “Come, my lady,” he said and led her into the hallway. Once there, he put his hands on her arms. “Are you well, my love?”

She nodded. “I am sorry, my lord. It is just . . .”

“I know,” he said. He thought then of how he could send her away without her feeling reproached. “Cat, I cannot leave Lord Stannis just yet. There is much I still need to hear, and in truth, I don’t know if he will live long enough for me to put it off. But there was a raven, if you can believe that. A bird came in during this beastly weather just as Stannis was arriving. I asked the man who brought word to put the letter in my solar. Once I finish with Stannis, I have his captives to deal with, _before you discover who is among them, my love,_ and countless other tasks. Could you find the letter and read it? If you do not bring it to me, I’ll know it can wait, and it won’t worry me.”

She looked at him and frowned slightly. He should have known she’d see through him. Yet she only said, “I will read your letter, my lord, and then I shall go and see if anyone has had word of Lady Brienne. I expect she will try to find me upon their return.”

He nodded and let her go with a quick kiss of her hand before turning back into Stannis’s room.

“You have more questions for me, Lord Stark?” Stannis Baratheon’s body might be frail at the moment, but his mind was as sharp as it had ever been.

“In fact, I do,” Ned replied. “What is this sigil your men bear? It is not the sigil of House Baratheon.”

“You mean the fiery heart of R’hllor,” Stannis said, and he looked at Ned without flinching. “The power of R’hllor is real enough, Lord Stark. One day you will know that.”

Ned thought of Beric Dondarrion and shivered slightly. “Perhaps, my lord,” he replied. “But it is to the crowned stag, House Baratheon, that I gave my allegiance. I shall not bend the knee to your R’hllor for I keep my own gods.”

“For what good they may do you, Stark,” Stannis’s dry voice croaked. “I watched Lady Melisandre burn the Seven at Dragonstone and those deities did not defend themselves. Nor did your old gods when she burned weirwoods. But I have seen R’hllor’s power through her.”

“I would not deny you your god, my lord, any more than I have ever sought to deny my lady wife hers,” Ned said. “But I see no honor in forcing your god upon others.”

Stannis merely regarded him silently for awhile after he said that. Ned turned to Davos Seaworth then. “So do you worship this R’hllor, my lord, along with your king?”

Davos sighed and looked briefly at Stannis who merely ground his teeth and made a noise rather like a snort at him. “I keep the Seven,” Davos said then to Ned, “although I admit I don’t keep them very well.”

The man’s unflinchingly honest response almost made Ned smile. “Well, Lord Seaworth, I have yet to meet a man who keeps his gods well all his days. But I would not have a king tell me which gods I should make the attempt for.”

Stannis still said nothing.

“In truth, my lord,” Ned said to him, “the question of the Iron Throne is not my primary concern at the moment. The news from the Wall is . . .”

At that point, he was interrupted by a knock followed immediately by the opening of a door and the sound of his wife’s voice. “My lord,” she said, and the tremor in her voice frightened him. He looked up to see that her face was whiter than Stannis Baratheon’s.

“Cat,” he said, going to her, all proper courtesies forgotten. “What’s frightened you, my love?”

She held out a roll of parchment toward him. He saw that the broken seal was red wax, impressed with the fiery heart sigil Stannis Baratheon had taken in honor of his new red god.

“It’s from the Wall,” she whispered.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

She heard the horn blow as they approached the Hunter’s gate. “They’ve seen us!” she called to Jon Snow over the wind. They’d gotten remarkably close to the castle before hearing the horn, and Brienne remembered Lord Eddard’s comment about snow being beneficial to someone attempting to reach Winterfell undetected.

His son merely nodded to her now. The boy was nearly as silent as his wolf, which hadn’t made a sound since they’d left the castle other than a single low howl to alert them when he stood at the unconscious grey direwolf’s side. She turned to look at the she wolf now, lying inert on the hastily made travois she and Jon Snow had made and attached to her horse’s tack. She’d thought the wolf dead when they found it. It could well be dead now. There was no way to know until they stopped inside Winterfell.

It had taken them little time to find the wounded wolf. Jon Snow’s silent white wolf had bounded unerringly toward it through the woods, and Brienne found herself marveling at how different the creature was from Shaggydog, who was rarely completely silent and almost never moved far in a straight line regardless of how intent on a goal he was. It had been wise to leave the black wolf behind.

It was storming in earnest now, with heavy snow as likely to fall sideways as straight down, but the snow and wind had been much less when they set out, and they’d made some little conversation.

After they’d left the south gate, Snow had asked her, “You are Lady Stark’s sworn knight are you not?”

“I am not a knight,” she’d said. “I am a woman. But I am sworn to the Lady Catelyn, yes.”

The boy had seemed to take her gender in stride. “Among the wildlings, many women fight as well as their men,” he’d said. “Some of them better than most men.”

She’d thought of Osha then and the spear that was never far from her and thought that Jon Snow was likely right about that.

“But how is it that you serve Lady Stark instead of my . . .instead of Lord Stark?”

She’d looked at him then, turning almost sideways on her horse. “Because Lady Catelyn is worthy of my service. I do not give my loyalty easily, Lord Commander Snow, but I found I could serve her.” His face had darkened at that, and she realized it must have sounded as if she meant insult to his father. “Lord Eddard was dead at that time,” she added hastily. “Or so we thought, anyway. Since I have come to know him, I have learned he, too, is a person of honor and courage, a man anyone could be proud to serve.”

“And yet you did not wait for his leave to follow me out of Winterfell,” Jon Snow said.

“I had my lady’s,” she said simply. “I would not easily forsake the oath I made to Lady Catelyn, Lord Commander Snow. Not even for a man like your father.” Her own words had stung her then worse than the wintry wind. Hadn’t that been precisely what she’d come to Lady Catelyn to do? She’d sought out her lady to discuss leaving Winterfell while Stannis Baratheon was there, and completely separating herself from anyone in House Stark so that when Stannis Baratheon did leave Winterfell, and she was free to fulfill her oath to her dead king, no one could hold them responsible. But shortly after she’d found Lady Catelyn coming from the godswood, the Lady Sansa had found them and hurriedly told them of Lady Arya and her wolf. When Lady Catelyn had directed her to go, she had obeyed without question. She’d acted in service of the living.

“Jon,” Jon Snow had said then. “Please don’t keep calling me Lord Commander Snow. It sounds strange in Winterfell. My name is Jon.”

She’d nodded, glad to have been pulled from her own disturbing thoughts. “My name is Brienne, then. You needn’t tack the Lady on it.”

He’d nodded as well, but they’d had no further need of names until they found the wolf as they’d ridden in silence after that.

When they’d found the wolf, Brienne was almost certain she’d seen another wolf, although much smaller streaking away from Ghost through the trees. Jon had bounded off his horse and rushed to the wolf immediately. “She’s alive,” he’d said.

Brienne could see the shaft of an arrow sticking out from her flank, and it looked like she’d been struck by others although they were gone. The wolf only moved when Jon pulled the arrow out, and it was a feeble protest. Other than that, she lay still with eyes closed and breaths shallow as they cleaned her wounds with snow and wrapped them as best they could. Making the travois had taken the most time, and Lady Arya’s wolf, although smaller than Ghost and Shaggydog was still a direwolf. It had taken everything she and Jon had together to move the animal’s limp form onto the travois. Then they’d ridden back painfully slowly both to spare the animal further injury and because the weather had worsened so much.

Once the men on the gates recognized them, they were quickly admitted to the castle and the men stared as yet another direwolf was brought into Winterfell.

“We can care for her here in the kennels,” Brienne said. “They’re mostly stone and what was damaged in the fire has been well repaired. Ramsay Snow did like his dogs, apparently. “And here are only a few here now, because most were his and he took them with him when he rode out.”

Jon looked at the kennels and nodded. Then he leapt off his horse and went to the wolf. “She lives, still,” he said. He looked up at the men standing around. “Gather what dogs are here, and confine them down at one end. I will need this section for my sister’s wolf,” he said, pointing toward the kennels.

The men hurried to comply, and Brienne thought they were happy not to have been asked to help with the wolf. Just as she and Jon got the animal pulled into the kennels, she looked up to see Lord and Lady Stark come in behind them. Lord Eddard looked grave, and Lady Catelyn looked as if she had been crying.

“We heard the horn,” Lord Eddard said. “I hoped it was you. Is that . . .” he indicated the wolf lying in the straw.

“It’s Nymeria. Arya’s wolf,” Jon said said. “We need to keep Shaggy and Ghost here with here for when she wakes. They can help calm her. Men did this to her. She won’t like being here.”

“We should chain her,” Lord Eddard started.

“Only if you want to make her crazy,” Jon interrupted. “We should have Arya here with her, too. I don’t think she’ll hurt Arya.”

“You don’t think?” Lady Catelyn said coldly.

“She’s a direwolf, and she’s hurt,” Jon said. “But she is Arya’s. And Arya is a . . .” His voice trailed off as if he didn’t know how to continue.

“I know what my daughter is,” Lady Catelyn snapped. “And I know what all of you can do with your wolves.” Jon’s eyes got wide at that. “But she is also a girl of one and ten, and I won’t risk her, Jon.”

He nodded then. “She needs to be here, Lady Stark,” he said more quietly. “But I won’t leave her alone. And I’ll have Longclaw.” He indicated the sword at his side. Brienne noticed for the first time that like hers, it was Valyrian steel. He smiled a little then. “I’ll have her bring Needle as well. I’ll let no harm come to her, Lady Stark. You have my word.”

Lady Catelyn hesitated only a moment and then nodded.

"I shall stay here to protect Lady Arya, as well, my lady,” Brienne said then.

“No, Brienne,” Lady Catelyn said softly. The wolves do not know you like they do Jon and my children. It will be better if no one else is here.” She looked at the sleeping she wolf. “Will it recover, do you think?” she asked.

Jon shrugged. “I think so. Direwolves are pretty hard to kill.”

Lady Catelyn looked at her husband then, and Brienne thought she looked on the verge of tears. She only turned back to Jon though, and said, “Arya is in my chambers with Rickon and Shaggydog. You know the way.”

Lady Catelyn turned to leave the kennel, and Lord Eddard spoke to Brienne before following her. “Come to my solar, please, my lady.”

Brienne watched the two of them leave and realized that Jon and his father had barely spoken to each other. Jon looked at her now. “Looks like we’re both going to the Great Keep. I’ll walk with you. She won’t wake before I get back with Arya, and I’ll leave Ghost here just in case.”

When Brienne knocked and was invited in to Lord Eddard Stark’s solar a short time later, she was struck again by the tearful expression on Lady Catelyn’s face, as if she were just barely holding back some great emotion. Lord Eddard looked strained, and they both were pale.

“Sit down, Brienne,” Lord Eddard said softly.

She sat without a word.

“I wish you to know that I have no immediate plans to declare Stannis Baratheon king and fight for the Iron Throne for him.” Brienne remained silent. “Lord Stannis, while still styling himself king, has no immediate plans to fight for the Iron Throne.” Now Brienne was shocked.

“I will, however, be riding with Lord Stannis’s men, and Lord Stannis himself if he is able north to the Wall as soon as I can gather a strong enough army.”

“To the Wall?” Brienne asked.

“The Wall,” Lord Eddard repeated. “My son,” he seemed to stumble over the word, and Brienne wondered if that had to do with Lady Catelyn’s presence. “My son had reported to us of great evils beyond the Wall, but things are much worse even than we feared. I will take not only the men here and the men of the Vale and the North who ride this way now, but I will be writing to my goodbrother, Edmure Tully, to see what men the Riverlands can spare without leaving them defenseless to the south.”

“What, what has happened, my lord?” Brienne asked.

In response, he simply handed her a piece of parchment. She looked at it, and then up at Lady Catelyn, who hadn’t said a word. “Read it, Brienne,” she said softly now. “It’s from Lady Selyse Baratheon, at the Wall.”

_Your Grace--_

_I write you with grievous tidings, my husband. I send this letter to Winterfell in hopes you have found success in your endeavors for, if you have not, I fear all is lost. There has been a rebellion among the men of the Night’s Watch. Lord Commander Snow is slain or fled, depending on who tells the tale. There was an enormous battle among the wildings and the men of the Watch after that with heavy casualties on both sides. My own men were caught up in it and we lost several good knights._

_That is not the worst of it._

_There are creatures north of the Wall, your Grace, and they come ever closer and in larger numbers. They are white and cold and have begun attacking anyone who ventures beyond the Wall. The wretched men who serve the Night’s Watch are deserting in large numbers, and even many of the wildlings are now going south. That has left us largely unprotected._

_A man called Bowen Marsh took a number of the Night’s Watch men north yesterday, escorting several wildlings they deemed to be too dangerous to remain south of the Wall. The Lady Melisandre went with them to preside over the burning of four criminals in the name of R’hllor in order to call greater protection to us. None of these returned. They are all feared lost._

_I do not know what will become of us, your Grace. Your daughter and I are safe thus far, but I fear these creatures will soon overwhelm what defenses remain._

_Selyse Baratheon,_

_By the power of R’hllor, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms_

Brienne laid the parchment down on the table in front of her. “You will ride against these creatures she writes of, my lord?” she asked Lord Stark.

“I have no choice,” he said quietly. “I am the Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. The people here are mine to protect.”

Now, the Lady Catelyn’s tears made sense. After believing her husband dead for so long, she would not relish having him back only to send him into harm’s way again. “Why do you show me this, my lord?” she asked.

“You are sworn to the service of my Lady Catelyn, Brienne, and there is none I would rather charge to protect her and my children in my absence. Yet, Stannis Baratheon is gravely ill. He may need to remain at Winterfell while I lead his men north with mine. I cannot leave him here while entrusting my family to a woman sworn to his death. I need your answer, Lady Brienne of Tarth.”

Brienne thought hard about Renly. His sweet face was forever imprinted on her mind, and she could see him easily. Would he have abandoned Lady Catelyn and her children to these creatures or to desperate wildlings fleeing south? But could she breathe the air of Winterfell while Stannis Baratheon breathed the same? How could a person stay true to all of their vows?

She looked down at the table and saw the intertwined hands of Lord and Lady Stark, and she looked up at the Lady Catelyn’s face. She had been crying. Yet there were no tears now. She sat there holding tight to her husband’s hand knowing she would have to let it go. _Sometimes,_ Brienne thought, _we must let go of what we hold most dear to achieve that which is most important._

“I am Lady Catelyn’s to command,” she said then, with a strength in her voice she was almost surprised at. “I own no vengeance against Stannis Baratheon, Lord Stark. You have my word on this.”

She looked to her own Lady Catelyn then, and blue eyes met blue eyes as she said, “I will fight for the living, my lady.”


	41. Preparations--Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've split this chapter in two parts because it was probably going to get too long anyway, and because I only have the first half ready, and I didn't want to leave town for over a week without posting anything at all for you wonderful folks who read this so faithfully!
> 
> All the remarkable characters are GRRM's!

“Here, sweetling.” Catelyn held the steaming mug out to her younger daughter. “It will help keep you warm.”

Arya shook her head stubbornly. “I’m not cold. And I’m not letting go of her.”

She sat in the straw cradling the grey direwolf’s head on her lap. “She opened her eyes once, and she saw me. I’m not letting go of her.” Shaggydog and Jon Snow’s Ghost lay beside her, their furry bodies up against the she-wolf’s, as if to keep her warm and safe. Rickon, whom Catelyn and Ned had discovered here in the kennels to their dismay, sat to Shaggy’s other side, leaning on the big black wolf. In spite of her concerns about Nymeria’s potential as a threat, Catelyn found the sight of her children and their wolves huddled together rather comforting, and she was in need of comfort.

“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to, Arya.” Surprising both her children, she walked around the wolves to sit down in the straw herself beside her daughter. She wasn’t surprised that Shaggy let her pass without objection, but she had half-expected Jon’s wolf to growl. He ignored her completely, though. “Here,” she said, taking Arya’s hand, and pressing the mug into it. “I know perfectly well you will be out here all night, and I insist that you drink and eat what I give you.”

“You’ll let me stay?” Arya asked, incredulously, taking the mug from her hand.

Catelyn actually laughed. “Short of locking you up, can I stop you?”

Arya gave her a grudging smile. “She’s going to be all right,” she said. “I know she is.”

Catelyn recognized the plea for reassurance hidden in the girl’s brave words. “Of course, she is, sweetling.”

“Why did Father take Jon away?” Rickon put in at that point.

Catelyn sighed. “They need to talk.”

“About whatever Father did to make him mad?” Arya asked.

“Well, yes,” Catelyn said, “but I’m afraid that may have to wait. A letter came from the Wall. Jon is Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He needs to know what it said.”

“What did it say?” Arya asked.

“As you are not Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, you don’t need to know,” Catelyn told her.

Rickon laughed at that, but Arya wasn’t easily dissuaded. “You know,” she said. “Father tells you everything, doesn’t he?” Then a shadow crossed her face, and she bit her lip.

“Arya,” Catelyn said. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” she mumbled. “Is the news from the Wall bad?”

Catelyn wasn’t fooled by her daughter’s ‘nothing,’ but she chose not to press. “Yes, sweetling, I’m afraid it is. There is trouble to the north now, as well as the south, and Winterfell lies between.” She sighed and ran her hand over her daughter’s short hair. “You needn’t concern yourself about it, though. Your father will do all that is necessary to keep us safe. You just care for that wolf of yours. And don’t let her bite anyone when she’s feeling better.”

“But who will keep Father safe?” came Rickon’s little voice. “If it’s his job to protect us, whose job is it to protect him?”

Catelyn closed her eyes tightly, willing them to remain dry as her five year old son voiced the thought which had echoed in her mind and heart since she’d read Selyse Baratheon’s cursed letter. She opened them to find Rickon’s eyes, which had become so much like Ned’s in all but color gazing at her expectantly.

“Your father is very good at taking care of himself, Rickon, and he has all of his men as well. They are all loyal to him, and would not see him come to harm.”

“Because he’s the Lord of Winterfell,” Rickon said, proclaiming the title as if it had infinite power.

She nodded at her son and smiled just a little, as she thought, _Because he’s Ned._

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

“We have to go back,” Jon said, staring at the letter his father,  _uncle,_ had handed him. “Perwyn and I must go back at once.”

“And do what, Jon?” Ned Stark asked him quietly. “You and Perwyn are good men, but you are only two. We must ride to the Wall in force. I expect an army from the south within a day or two at the most if this snow stops, and then we can march north. In the mean time, we can plan and make preparations . . .”

“Damn your preparations!” Jon shouted. “Who are you to tell me what to do? I am the Lord Commander of the Night‘s Watch!”

“Then act like it!” his father,  _uncle,_ shot back. “Stop acting like an angry child, Jon. Be the man your brothers elected to that title.”

“You . . .you . . .” Jon sputtered, “You have no right to . . .”

“I have every right. I am a Stark and the Lord of Winterfell,” the man he had called Father said in a voice of ice and steel. “The Starks of Winterfell have stood with the Watch against threats to the North for over a thousand years. I have every right to expect the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch to stand with me now and protect our realm from this threat. Whatever lies between the two of us must wait, Jon, for we both have duties we cannot forsake. Do you understand me?”

Jon nodded, hating that Ned Stark was right, and hating even more that he felt five years old again. He’d fought and killed wights and men, led battles, brokered alliances and plotted intrigue. He’d been a black brother, a wildling‘s lover, and the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Yet barely twenty-four hours in his childhood home had him feeling and acting as a child once more. It had to stop. He drew himself up to his full height, noting with admittedly childish pleasure that he was the taller of the two grey-eyed men who stood there regarding each other.

“You are correct, Lord Stark. We should have a plan before we ride north. I would prefer to leave as soon as possible, however, and if you could provide me with even a small company as we discussed before, I could go ahead of you and your army and assess the situation before you arrive.”

The man hadn’t reacted to being addressed as Lord Stark. He nodded now. “That plan has wisdom, but still it should be a larger company than just a typical escort. You could well meet fleeing wildlings on your road north, Jon. Desperate men . . .”

“Are the most dangerous of all because they have nothing to lose,” Jon finished. “I remember my lessons well enough. Do we have the men here?”

Stark thought for a moment. “I believe so. I had intended to send Howland and Donnell with you in any event. There are no better men. Hothar Umber’s men had long been cooped up here at Winterfell before marching on Stannis. They’d likely be ready to go again, though I’m loath to send Hothar out before he gets a chance to see the Greatjon.”

“It’ll take us two days at least to prepare,” Jon said. “Lord Umber should be here by then. Perwyn and I can ride out then with what northmen are already here and willing to go. Your newly arrived men will need to rest at least a bit before you follow us.”

He nodded. “We’ll gather everyone in the Great Hall and give the news. Go now and tell Perwyn. He ought to hear it first from you as he’s your man. I’ll send word that everyone should come to the Hall for evening meal, and have Howland, Donnell, and both Umbers meet me here now. Stannis’s man, Davos Seaworth, as well, I suppose. He’s already seen the letter, but he needs to get to know the men he’ll be riding with.”

“He’ll be coming with me?” Jon asked.

Another nod. “Likely he’ll be representing Stannis. The stubborn man has some notion of riding back to the Wall himself, but I don’t see it happening. He trusts Seaworth more than anybody. He may be the only man Stannis trusts, in fact. If he can’t go himself, he’ll send his Hand.”

Jon nodded now. “I’ll go then,” he said and turned toward the door. Suddenly he turned back as he remembered his sister and her wounded wolf. “What of Arya? I told your lady wife I would stay with her and Nymeria.”

Ned Stark actually smiled. “I told her I would have need of you for some time. She intends to stay in the kennel with Arya herself.”

That surprised Jon. “She’s hardly a swordsman. What if the wolf attacks them?”

The older man sighed. “She assures me it will not. As long as Shaggy, Ghost, and Arya are there, and others are kept well away, she believes they’ll be safe enough.”

Jon raised his eyebrows.

“My lady wife owes her life and Bran’s to that wolf of his, and she spent a great deal of time with Robb and his wolf as well. She may be a Tully, Jon, but she is the mother of wolves, and she seems to understand these wolves of our children better than I do.” He looked at Jon levelly then. “She says the wolves sometimes seem to share the feelings and moods of the children. Does Catelyn have anything to fear from your wolf, Jon?”

Jon bristled. Did this man who had been his father actually believe he wished harm on Catelyn Stark?

His expression must have been easily read for Ned Stark quickly added, “You would never harm my lady wife, Jon. I know that well. But there is little enough love between the two of you . . . and the wolves . . .I watched Rickon’s wolf tear out a man’s throat for simply saying evil things about Catelyn.”

Jon sighed. “Ghost would not behave like Shaggy any more than I would behave like Rickon. Your wife is safe with Ghost. She is nothing to him, but she matters to his brother and sister. And that is enough.” He realized he was talking about himself as much as his wolf, and it startled him to recall that Lady Stark had said something very similar to him earlier in the godswood.

The man with his eyes nodded solemnly at him then, and Jon turned from him to leave the solar and find Perwyn Frey.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The snow had stopped. Thank the gods. A thick blanket of new snow lay in the courtyard, and Ned Stark’s boots sank deeply into it as he crossed to the Great Keep, but no more fell. Stars were actually visible in the dark sky overhead, and while the snow on the ground might slow horses, it would not prevent them from coming or going from Winterfell.

“It looks like you’ll be able to depart in the morning, Wyman,” he said to the man walking beside him. He and Lord Manderly had sat in the hall long after the men left, discussing what needed to be done in White Harbor. Manderly had rolls of parchment lettered in Catelyn’s neat script listing the many goods Winterfell needed to receive, and he had assured Ned he would procure and send them with all possible haste.

“It will be good to get home,” Manderly said now, “although at my age and girth, I dread the journey.” He stopped walking and turned toward Ned. “Are you certain you don’t need some of my men to remain here and ride north with you?”

Ned shook his head. “I thank you, my friend, but in truth I don’t know what we ride against to the north. I don’t know what difference a few score or even a few hundred White Harbor men would make there, but I do know what difference they can make in White Harbor.” He put a hand on the other man’s arm. “I am trusting the entire defense of the North against all threats from the south to you and to whomever I leave in charge at Moat Cailin. I ask enough of you, my lord.”

The fat man smiled. “You ask no more than is owed. House Manderly will ever stand with House Stark. Just ask my granddaughters.”

“Your granddaughters . . .” Ned said, looking downward as he remembered their long ago conversation upon his return to White Harbor.”

Lord Manderly laughed then so that all his chins wobbled. “Oh, my good Lord Stark,” he said. “Either of my fine young maidens would have made you a lovely wife, but I think you could have no finer Lady of Winterfell than your Lady Catelyn. She’s a woman of rare courage, your lady.”

Ned smiled. “Indeed, she is. I am a most fortunate man.”

“I missed her in the Great Hall tonight. Your daughter, Lady Sansa, was a gracious hostess, but I noticed your other children were missing as well. I hope they are not ill.”

Ned shook his head. “My daughter, Arya’s lost direwolf had come home. The beast is wounded and Catelyn spent the evening in the kennels helping the children tend to it.”

Now Manderly laughed even louder and longer. “You Starks!” he said. “You are undoubtedly a separate breed, my lord, but one I’m glad to have on my side.”

“No more than I am glad of your House, my lord,” Ned said quite seriously. “I owe you much, Wyman. I have only to look at my son, Rickon, to know I can never repay you for all you have done for me and my family since my arrest in King’s Landing. House Stark will be forever grateful to House Manderly, and I shall be certain to teach my grandchildren to proclaim it as loudly as yours.”

Both men were quiet for a moment at that, for neither was ignorant of the dangers that lay ahead. Ned may well never see the child Catelyn carried now, let alone any grandchildren, but they would not speak of that. They entered the Great Keep together, and bid each other good night as Wyman turned down the corridor toward his room and Ned climbed the stair toward Catelyn’s chamber. She likely was still in the kennel with Arya, but all of his things were in her chamber, and he wanted his thicker cloak and possibly an extra fur if he were going to spend the night in a kennel with his daughter and a wolf, and he intended to send his wife to her bed.

She had stood like a statue in Stannis Baratheon’s room as he’d read the letter she handed him. She hadn’t moved or spoken as he’d read through it again, aloud, for the benefit of Stannis and Lord Seaworth. She had remained there, just inside the door, with skin like white marble as the men had discussed the meaning of the letter and the need to ride to the Wall in force with all possible haste. Rigid Stannis Baratheon had even finally agreed to set aside arguments about titles and claims for the present in order to join together against the common threat. Through all that discussion, Catelyn had been stone.

When he finally turned to escort her from the room, he’d feared she had gone away again to that place where she wouldn’t respond, but she’d taken his arm and nearly fled the room as if they were pursued. Once in the corridor, she had pulled him toward her chamber and led him there at almost a run. When they were inside with the door closed behind them, she had fallen into his arms and sobbed.

She had wept in his arms over many things since he’d had her back with him, but he could only remember her breaking down so completely twice before in all the years of their marriage, when Bran had fallen, and after he rode with her out of the Twins. She hadn’t asked him if he were going. She knew. She’d known since she read the letter, but she would give her tears only to him. He had no words of comfort for her, so he’d simply held her tight and kissed her beautiful blue eyes as those tears fell. They’d stood there like that until the horn from the gate had alerted them to riders, and she had dried her eyes and composed herself to go out and discover the fate of Arya’s direwolf.

He opened the door to her chamber now with his mind so full of her that it took him a moment to realize she was actually standing there in the room before him. “Cat?” he asked, puzzled.

She smiled at him. “Jon came to the kennel about an hour ago with Sansa. I brought Rickon back and put him to bed. It was a bit of a fight, I fear, but once he was in the bed, he went out straightaway.”

Ned raised his eyebrows. “Without a song?”

“Well, no. But I think he was asleep before I finished it.”

He reached for her, and she came into his arms and rested her head on his chest. Her hair smelled of straw and wolves and wood smoke. “Is the wolf awake?” he murmured into that auburn cloud against his face.

“Mmhm,” she murmured back. “And she isn’t happy. She snapped at Shaggy once, but never at Arya. She hadn’t gotten up yet by the time I left, and she’s letting the other two lick at her now, and sort of licking them back.”

“Is she safe?”

Catelyn pulled back a little to look up at him. “I can’t imagine any direwolf is safe, my love. But your children are safe enough with them.” She paused. “Including Jon.”

“Jon is not my . . .” he started, but she put her hand gently on his lips.

“He is their brother, Ned,” she said softly. “We cannot tell them any differently. Not now. Not with the two of you . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence, and he saw the tears threaten again. She fought them down, though. “If Jon should be killed at the Wall fighting these . . .things, it matters little whose seed he is. He lived as your son and their brother. I would not take that away from them.”

He raised her lips to his and kissed them gently. “And if Jon wishes to tell them?” he asked her.

“He won’t. Not now. You should have seen him with Arya this evening. And with Rickon and Sansa.” She paused. “Once you come back to us, and you are both safe, then he may wish to speak to them of it. But it’s his secret now, Ned. He will decide . . . not you, and not me.”

“I agree, my lady,” he said, looking at her carefully, thinking of the faces of her brother and uncle whenever Jon was mentioned, remembering Jaime Lannister's vile taunts. “But would you not prefer to never hear certain remarks again?”

She laughed tiredly. “Of course. But, my love, if we proclaim Jon’s parentage from every tower in Westeros, there will still be those who say that we lie. And I’d rather suffer an insult from someone I care not about, than have the children I love suffer needlessly.” She shrugged. “When and if Jon wants them to know, they will know.”

She led him to one of the chairs then and knelt to pull off his boots. “Shouldn’t I go down to the kennel?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “Jon is staying all night. He promised he would send Sansa up to her room before too long. I have guards stationed at the entrance of the kennel yard to keep anyone who might upset the wolf well away.”

“Still, I should . . .” he started.

“Jon loves you,” she said softly. “But he doesn’t want to see you right now. Give him this time with his sisters while they are still his sisters.”

Ned sighed. “I fear he hates me. He called me Lord Stark tonight, Cat!”

Catelyn smiled at him sadly “And I believe I called you blind and selfish and accused you of never caring for me at all. I don’t hate you, my love.”

“I thought you did,” Ned whispered. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“Well, you were wrong. And you’re wrong now, Ned.” She sighed. “I don’t pretend to know Jon well. I never wanted to. But I know more about what he feels right now than anyone else does. Give him time.” She raised up and leaned over the chair to kiss him. “Come to bed, and then go down to the kennel before it’s light and sit with Arya and her wolf so he can get a few hours’ sleep then.”

“Time,” Ned said softly. “What if we don’t have time, Cat?”

She stood up straight then, and her eyes watered again. “Well, if you are truly running out of time, my lord, would you like to spend what time you have arguing with an angry young man who is not ready to hear you, or have him spend his time in the company of a sister he loves, while you spend yours in the company of your wife?”

 _Choose,_ he thought. _Am I still to be forever choosing between them?_ Yet, Catelyn was right. He thought of Jon’s demeanor toward him when they’d reached their uneasy truce in his solar earlier. Perhaps, away from Winterfell, the two of them would be able to speak more freely and put to rest the discord this revelation had placed between them. He hoped so. He prayed so.

Right now, he looked at the woman standing in front of him and he stood to face her. Without a word he began to remove his shirt, and he saw her smile as she started to tug at the laces of her dress. They moved slowly and deliberately at first, as if they had to commit every look, every touch to memory. Soon, though, the storm of emotions that had been this day overwhelmed them, and they clutched at each other feverishly, desperately, making love as if their very lives depended upon it.

Afterward, as he held her there in the dark, Ned wondered how many more nights he had at Winterfell--five, six? How many more times would he get to lay her down in this bed and make love to her before leaving her perhaps never to return? He laid his hand gently on her belly and thought of his child, nestled safely within. Would he see him? Or her?

“Your thinking too loudly,” she said softly.

“Am I? I’ll try to think more quietly.”

“No,” she said, raising herself up on her elbow to look at him. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

He looked up at her, wondering what to say. Finally, he just said simply, “I don’t want to go.”

“I don’t want you to go,” she responded without hesitation.

“But I will go,” he said.

“I know.”

She pulled herself on top of him then, and kissed his lips, softly at first, and then more insistently. He felt himself begin to respond to the kiss, to her hair falling against his face, to the warm weight of her lying on top of him. He moved his hands down her back to grasp her round hips and pull her tightly against him, and for just a little while, he pushed everything else out of his mind as he lost himself once more in Catelyn’s arms.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

She hurt. Her flank burned still, although not as badly as it had. She lay in something warm, not snow, and her brothers were with her! Her heart sang at the scent and feel of her brothers against her, but there was something else in the scent, something bad. This was manrock. She was surrounded by manrock, and she started to thrash her paws. Then arms tightened around her, and she smelled . . .herself. The sensation was odd. The girl and the wolf both smelled the scents and felt the arms, but then the girl pulled back somehow and she was holding the wolf, but she could still feel her thoughts. _You’re all right,_ she told the wolf silently. _You’re safe here. No one will hurt you._ The wolf stilled and lay her head back down in Arya’s lap.

 _I’m awake,_ Arya thought _. I started out asleep, but I still felt Nymeria when I awoke._

She looked up and saw her brother Jon, seated with his legs stretched out, leaning back against the wall of the kennel, near the door. At first, she thought he was asleep, but then he smiled at her. “Pleasant dreams?” he asked.

“Wolf dreams,” she said. “She’s getting better, Jon. I felt it.” She bit her lip then. “Jon, do you feel Ghost when you’re awake? Do you know where he is and what he’s doing?”

“Not always. Sometimes. But it isn’t something I do intentionally. I’m not sure I can.” He shrugged. “There are skinchangers among the wildlings who inhabit beasts and direct them as you would a horse you ride. I don’t really understand it all.”

“Rickon can always find Shaggydog,” Arya said. “And if you ask him what Shaggy’s doing or feeling, he’ll kind of be quiet a minute and then answer. I don’t think he ever really directs him, though. Not on purpose, anyway.”

“What do you mean not on purpose?” Jon asked.

“Well, I think Shaggy knows what Rickon feels, too, and sometimes he just does things Rickon would like to do. Sansa says when she and Mother and Father first found Rickon that he was wild, and wouldn’t come near them, but that he stared at Mother all the time. And Shaggy started following Mother around like a lost pup from the very beginning.” Now it was her turn to shrug, and Nymeria wiggled a bit in her lap at the motion, so Arya scratched gently between her ears. “Mother says it’s easiest for Rickon because he’s so young,” she went on. “The warging thing I mean. He doesn’t think about it. He just does it. And he had Osha to help him understand it. Mother says I should talk to Osha.”

“Your mother says that?” The expression on her brother’s face at the thought of Lady Catelyn Stark encouraging her daughter to discuss warging with a wildling woman was so funny that Arya laughed out loud.

“Mother says lots of things that might surprise you now.” She sighed, thinking that her mother probably wouldn’t say them to Jon. She never talked to him. Mother had spoken to him more when he came to the kennel earlier than she’d ever heard her do before, and even if it was mostly about Arya and Nymeria, at least she hadn’t sounded angry. Only like Lady Stark instead of Mother.

Her brother didn’t say anything, and Arya wondered if now was the time to tell him the secret she’d learned. She didn’t know if Ned Dayne had told her the truth or not, but why should he lie? “Jon,” she asked slowly. “Do you still wonder who your mother was?”

Jon almost jumped up at that, lurching forward and falling back against the wall with a bit of a thud that alarmed Arya. “Why do you ask that?” he said.

“Because, maybe I heard something. While I was gone,” she said quietly, unsure whether sharing this information was loyalty to her brother or disloyalty to her parents.

“Gone where?” He looked at her for a long time. “Where were you, Arya? After your father was arrested, I mean. I haven’t gotten to ask you yet.”

She didn’t want to talk about that. She hadn’t talked about it since her first night here with Mother, although Sansa had told her that both her parents were asking questions. She’d shrugged and told Sansa to tell them whatever she wanted. Sansa didn’t know much about it. “I came north with a man of the Night’s Watch called Yoren,” she said.

“Yoren!” Jon exclaimed.

“He’s dead,” Arya said flatly before Jon could get all excited. “Then I was at Harrenhall, and then I was with Lord Beric’s Brotherhood. It doesn’t matter. But when I was with the Brotherhood, a boy from Dorne called Ned Dayne told me he knew your mother.”

“My mother?” Jon asked. “He told you that?”

Arya looked at him. A moment ago, he’d appeared on the verge of asking for details about where she’d been and what she’d done, but now he seemed only interested in what Ned Dayne had said. She decided she’d rather talk about that, anyway. “Her name was Wylla,” she said quietly.

“Wylla,” Jon repeated dully. He didn’t look excited, or shocked, or anything in particular. That surprised her.

“Yes. She worked for the Daynes of Starfall. She was Ned’s wet nurse when he was little, but that was a long time after you were born. He’s closer to my age.” She studied Jon closely as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.

“This Wylla wasn’t my mother,” he said finally.

“How do you know?” she asked. “Ned didn’t have any reason to lie to me.” Although that other thing he said had to be a lie. Arya didn’t know why her father had broken his vows to her mother and lain with this Wylla. Maybe that fat king had got him to drink too much after a battle or something. She’d seen how men behaved with the girls at the Happy Port after too much drink. But she knew her father hadn’t loved the woman. And he hadn’t loved that other woman who jumped into the sea, either. That Ashara Dayne. Her father only loved her mother. Anybody could see that.

“Maybe he didn’t lie, Arya,” Jon said irritably, “But he was wrong. I know he was.”

Arya stared at him. “You know who your mother is,” she said, wonderingly. “When did you find out?”

“I didn’t!” he snapped. “I mean . . .I don’t know. But I know it isn’t some girl from Dorne, okay?”

There was more to this, she knew, but Jon looked upset. Ghost was awake now and staring back and forth between the two of them with his huge red eyes. Jon was already angry at Father over something. _Is it about his mother?_ Arya decided not to ask. She didn’t want Jon angry at her, too.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I just thought I should tell you what I heard. If it’s wrong . . .”

Jon sighed. “It’s all right, little sister. You should go back to sleep now.”

“Why don’t you go to sleep, and I’ll watch?”

He laughed. “I’m supposed to be looking after you, remember, not the other way around. And I doubt your lady mother’s words should she come here and find me sound asleep would be surprising at all.”

Arya grinned. “No,” she said. “But she won’t come back. She’ll be asleep now. Sansa, too. Even if she did fuss about your making her go in.” Thinking of how gentle Sansa had been with Nymeria made her sad. “If Lady hadn’t died, Sansa could do what we do,” she said quietly. “She misses Lady a lot.”

“I could tell,” Jon said. “She’s very good with these three, though.”

Arya thought of something then. “I wonder about the new baby. I mean, he won’t have a wolf. Or she, if it’s a girl. Do you think . . .” She broke off in mid sentence when she looked up to see the absolute shock on her brother’s face, obvious even in the dim torchlight. “You don’t know?” she said.

“New baby?” he said, almost at the same time.

“You and Father really need to start talking to each other,” she said, exasperated. “Whatever it is you’re mad about. But, yes, we get a new brother! Or sister! Which do you think it is? I can’t decide what I want most. I was worried about Mother. I still am, but Father says she’ll be fine, and I think I might like another brother or sister. Won’t you?”

Jon was just staring at her. She remembered when Mother carried Rickon. Jon wasn’t included in all the gatherings around Mother’s bed fighting over who got to feel the baby kick next, but he had been anxious for his new brother all the same. Now, he just looked stunned.

“Jon?” she asked. “Aren’t you happy about our new brother or sister? Do you think maybe this one will look like us?”

Now, Jon shook his head slowly. “I don’t know, Arya,” he said softly. “But I won’t be here when the baby is born. I’ll be back at the Wall.”

“You’ll come visit though, won’t you?” she asked him, and her voice sounded small to her then.

“I don’t know, little sister. A man of the Night’s Watch belongs at the Wall. Our brothers are our family.” He sighed deeply. “And I don’t know what’s going to happen there.”

She bit her lip again. Jon hadn’t said much more about the raven from the Wall than her mother had, only confirming that it wasn’t good news, and that he and Father’s men would be riding north. He hadn’t specifically said Father was going, and she had decided she didn‘t want to know right now. She just got Jon and Nymeria back. She wanted to be happy for awhile. Sansa obviously knew something about it all, and she could get her sister to tell her everything later.

“We are your family, Jon,” she insisted. “And we always will be.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“She’s right, you know.” His father’s deep voice came from the doorway. _Except he’s not my father._

Jon pushed himself off the floor and stood to face the Lord of Winterfell. “You know the vows I’ve taken, my lord.”

“I do,” he said gravely. “You will put the Night’s Watch above all else. Take no wife and father no children. It’s a serious vow, Jon, and I have no doubt you take it seriously. But nowhere in your vow does it state your family will cease to care for you. Even if it did, such a thing is not possible.”

Jon swallowed. He wondered if this were some sort of apology or explanation or attempt at reassurance. Whatever it was, it didn’t change the fact that Eddard Stark was not his father. A part of him had wanted desperately to believe Arya’s little tale about a Dornish wet nurse, actually preferring to believe his father had told him a terrible lie rather than accept he was not his father.

“I understand congratulations are in order,” he said now.

“What? Oh!” His father, _uncle,_ actually smiled then. “Yes. The babe should not arrive for close to seven months. I am hopeful we can sort out this business at the Wall, and I can return to Winterfell before then.”

“Return? You are going, then?” Arya cried out.

Jon saw the pain in his father’s, _uncle’s,_ eyes as he turned to face Arya. “Yes, sweetling. I must. There is great danger here, and I am Warden of the North. The people are mine to protect.”

“You are not!” she protested. “They made Roose Bolton Warden of the North! They took everything away from you, and you don’t owe anyone anything!”

Ned Stark regarded his daughter. “Am I not the Lord of Winterfell, then? I believe that title was stripped as well, Arya, but I do not hear you suggesting that we all leave the castle that Ramsay Snow might have it back.”

She glared back at her father with grey eyes so like his that Jon smiled in spite of himself.

“But why does it always have to be you?” she asked, for once sounding to Jon even younger than her eleven years. “Why can’t you just be here with us?”

“You are the most important reason I must go, child. You, and your mother, and your sister, and your brothers. Winterfell is not safe if the Wall cannot keep back the dangers beyond it. And I would do anything to keep all of you safe.” He paused. “And there is your brother who is not here.”

“Bran,” she said softly.

Ned Stark nodded. “The last we know is that he was headed toward the Wall. If he truly went that way, he is in great danger. I cannot ignore that.”

“He did go that way,” Jon said suddenly, remembering. “I thought then it was only the wolf, that Bran was dead, but . . .”

“What do you mean?” his father asked sharply. _Uncle,_ he stubbornly reminded himself, although sometimes it was hard.

“At Queenscrown,” Jon said. “I was with a group of wildlings. I told you about that,” he said, and his father nodded. Arya started to ask a question, but a raised hand from Father kept her silent. “I only escaped because of a direwolf. Bran’s wolf. He must have been there, and sent it to help me.”

“Or it was Bran who helped you,” Arya said.

Jon and his father turned to stare at her. “Oh, come on,” she said. “You know it’s possible. He’s probably better at this stuff than all of us!”

For a moment no one spoke. Then Ned Stark looked at Jon. “If Bran and his companions truly made it as far as Queenscrown, it’s quite likely they made it to the Wall.”

“Or beyond,” Jon said. He felt a chill at the thought of his little brother being anywhere near those terrible creatures. “Your men had better arrive soon, my lord. We must go north.”

His father nodded. “Indeed, we must.” He put a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Go and rest a bit, son. It is more than an hour before dawn, and I shall sit with Arya.”

Jon nodded, ran his hand over Arya’s fuzzy hair, admonished Ghost to stay, and walked out into the snow. Halfway to the Great Keep, it occurred to him that in that moment of shared concern over Bran, he hadn’t stopped himself from thinking of Eddard Stark as his father or corrected the man for calling him son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the last update until some time in the second half of April as I am now less than twelve hours away from leaving on vacation with my family!! When I return, we'll get the second half of "Preparations" in which, among other things, Ned's men and lady (can't forget Maege!) arrive from the south.
> 
> All of you who read and comment are much appreciated!


	42. Preparations--Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay between updates. Real life has been rather busy since I returned from my trip, but hopefully, updates will now occur at something closer to my usual pace.

“Catelyn Tully.” Barbrey Dustin arched her brow slightly as Catelyn entered the room. “I seem to recall that I was far more diligent about visiting you during your captivity. Your famed courtesy as a hostess seems somewhat lacking, I fear.”

Catelyn watched the woman’s mocking expression harden somewhat as Ned stepped into the room behind her. She looked almost afraid for a moment, and Catelyn couldn’t blame her. Ned had slept little the previous night and had come here directly after spending about three hours in the kennel with Arya and the wolves. He looked like grim death.

“You may thank my lady wife that you still draw breath, Lady Dustin,” he said coldly.

“Anxious to kill me are you, Lord Stark?” Barbrey Dustin said acidly. “I believe my mare is still in the stable here if you wish to take it to Barrowton after my demise. That is what you do for dead Dustins, is it not?”

Catelyn laid a hand on Ned’s arm as he tensed and his eyes darkened with anger. “Lord Willam was a friend to my husband,” she interjected quickly before Ned could respond. “And a loyal bannerman who would undoubtedly be ashamed to see his wife treat his liege lord with such disrespect.”

“I do not mean to kill you, Lady Barbrey,” Ned said then in a level voice. “My lady wife is here to help you pack. You are going back to Barrowton.”

Now the woman looked truly shocked. The bravado, which had surely been born from the certainty of her iminent execution, faded. “Barrowton?” she asked hesitantly.

“You are the Lady there, are you not?” Ned asked matter-of-factly.

“I . . .yes . . .but . . .”

Catelyn had never seen the woman at a complete loss of words before and guiltily took a certain grim satisfaction in it.

“Torrhen Alwynd spoke highly of your administrative abilities, Lady Dustin,” Ned told her. “Barrowton has done well under your leadership, and with the troubles surrounding us now, I need capable leadership for all the Houses. I do not trust you. You have given me little reason to trust you, but my lady wife assures me that you have a strong instinct for self-preservation. Surely, you see that your only chance for prosperity and even survival now lies with House Stark.”

Barbrey narrowed her eyes and looked at Catelyn as Ned spoke. “And my father and brothers?” she asked Ned while still looking at Catelyn.

“Lord Rodrik, along with Rickard and Roose will ride north with me to face the threat at the Wall. Your brother Roger will return to the Rills to rule in your father’s stead.” He paused. “I have no more trust in your kin than I do in you, Lady Barbrey, but neither Ryswells nor Dustins aided Bolton at that accursed wedding. If you had been a part of that, you would all be dead already. Catelyn has told me that Bolton left any Ryswell, Dustin, Cerwyn, and Hornwood men under his command to hold the Green Fork when he rode for the Twins. What men of yours were at the Twins were slaughtered with my son.”

“I . . .I didn’t know, my lord,” Barbrey said quietly, lowering her eyes for the first time. Catelyn wondered about that. Certainly, she hadn’t known at the time, but afterward, as the Freys made up so large a part of Roose’s force, surely a woman so intelligent had to realize they’d been in league prior.

“I will not debate when or what you knew or suspected, my lady,” Ned said coldly, echoing Catelyn’s own thoughts. “But you were not a part of it. Ronnel Stout will accompany you to Barrowton, as well as several men of White Harbor which Lord Manderly has personally recommended and graciously offered to . . .assist you in your duties.”

“Assist,” Barbrey repeated, with something of her old acidic tone in the word.

“Indeed,” Ned responded. “The Stouts are sworn to House Dustin, and Ronnel is a good man. Of course, I trust Lord Manderly implicitly. These men will be of great value to you.”

“Of course,” Barbrey said.

“My lady,” Ned said then, turning to Catelyn. “I must attend to the next matter we discussed.”

No one but herself would have seen the flash of raw pain and rage that flickered in the depths of his grey eyes then, and she reached out to take both his hands as if Barbrey Dustin weren’t there. “Are you certain you wish to go alone, my lord?” she whispered.

She saw his jaw tighten as he nodded. “I will leave you to tell Lady Dustin what else we require of her,” he said stiffly. “My lady,” he said formally, bowing to Lady Dustin as he took his leave.

With a brief glance at Barbrey, Catelyn followed him into the corridor. Ignoring the presence of the guard outside the door, she stepped close to him and put her hands on his chest. He sighed heavily and leaned his forehead down to touch hers. “I have to speak to the wretched creature, Cat. Before I . . .”

“I know, my love,” she said softly. “I will see Lady Dustin on her way and then see if Sansa can get through to that poor girl. Lord Manderly and his men should be ready to ride within the hour. Come and find me after you . . .see him . . .and we shall see them off.”

He nodded, and then with a brief kiss to her forehead, he turned and left, and she went back into Lady Dustin’s room.

“You can’t bear to let him leave a room without a passionate farewell?” Barbrey Dustin asked as she came back in.

“What I had to say to my lord husband is none of your concern. Have all of your belongings been brought here?”

“They have. Are you to be my maid then, and pack my things for me?”

Catelyn sighed. “If you listen, my lady, you will hear the sounds of many men and horses in the courtyard below. A great number of men are preparing to depart, and our rather limited household staff is somewhat busy. If you would like my assistance, I am happy to offer it, but I shall not suffer your insults. This is my home, Lady Dustin, and I am not your prisoner now.”

Barbrey actually laughed. “Ah, my dear Lady Tully.” Before Catelyn could correct her, she amended herself. “Lady Stark, I mean to say, of course. I suppose six wolf pups entitles you to the name. Did you truly intercede with your husband on my behalf?”

“I told him the truth,” Catelyn said simply. “I told him you could rule in Barrowton as well as any man, and as you are no use to anyone dead, it seemed a shame to execute you only to have to go to the bother to name someone to your seat.” She looked at the woman. “I am under no illusion that you bear us any love or loyalty, Lady Dustin, but you will take care of yourself, and at the moment that will keep you aligned with us.”

“And if I should find that moment passes?”

Catelyn looked at her and responded with steel in her voice. “My husband rides north against the threat from beyond the Wall. I shall remain in Winterfell. Do not cross me.”

Barbrey smiled. “Do you remember the Greyjoy Rebellion?”

Catelyn felt like that was a hundred years ago, but she certainly had not forgotten it. Ned had left her in charge of Winterfell and the North with a babe in her belly that time, too, and she had been younger and less sure of herself. “I remember,” she said simply.

“I thought you would fold then. Wilt. Like the little southron flower that you were. You did not,” Lady Dustin said.

Catelyn said nothing, simply continuing to gaze at the woman evenly.

“You surprised me then,” Barbrey continued. “I know you better now. I will not cross you.”

“Good,” Catelyn said. “We do require one further service from you.”

Barbrey’s brows raised.

“We shall be sending Lady Bolton to Barrowton with you.”

“Fat Walda?” Lady Barbrey asked in surprise.

“Lady Bolton carries the legitimate heir to the Dreadfort. She obviously cannot go there. Ramsay Snow is alive and we know not where. He would kill her given any opportunity. Her uncle, Lord Olyvar, would certainly welcome her at the Twins, but my lord husband feels a northern lord should be raised in the north.”

“You want me to play nursemaid to Fat Walda and her Bolton brat?”

Catelyn smiled. “That’s one way of phrasing it, I suppose. Walda Frey knows you. She knows you were one of her late husband’s close advisors. She will be more comfortable with you than with anyone else we could send her to. Lord Eddard has already told her that he has no intention of disinheriting her child. It shall be raised in the North, and when old enough, boy or girl, shall be fostered here at Winterfell before taking his or her rightful seat at the Dreadfort.”

“You don’t hold the Dreadfort,” Lady Dustin pointed out.

“By the time this child is old enough to care, we will,” Catelyn said with a grim smile.

Barbrey Dustin smiled back. “So I do this for you, and I get what?”

“Your head remains on your shoulders. You remain the Lady of Barrowton all of your days, and if you prove yourself loyal to House Stark over time, mayhaps you get a say in naming the heir to your seat.”

“Ah, and is your lord husband naming heirs to the other Northern Houses then?”

Catelyn smiled. “Most have heirs. Lady Jonella Cerwyn and little Lady Eddara Tallhart might not be his choice as leaders in these current troubles, but they are legitimate heirs, and he will not displace them, only make certain they have adequate protection and assistance.”

“Assistance,” Barbrey Ryswell said. “Your Lord Stark likes that word.”

Catelyn ignored her. “Other than your own House, House Hornwood was the only seat without a clear heir, and my lord husband has named Brandon Tallhart, Leobald’s eldest boy, as lord there. His mother is a Hornwood.”

“Well, he seems to have thought of everything,” Lady Dustin said. “Such a thoughtful man. No wonder you are so devoted to him.”

Catelyn was thoroughly tired of Barbrey Ryswell Dustin. “Unless you have other pressing thoughts, Lady Dustin, I suggest we see to your packing. You and Lady Bolton will be leaving for Barrowton shortly, and I have other things to do.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Did you know Jeyne Poole is here?” Sansa asked Arya as they sat in the early morning light in the kennel with Nymeria and Ghost. Rickon had wandered off with Shaggydog shortly after he and Sansa had arrived after breaking their fast at dawn.

“Jeyne Poole? They made her marry the Bolton bastard right? They said she was me.”

“Yes,” Sansa said softly. “Mother and Father said she escaped and was with Lord Stannis’s men. Apparently she won’t speak to anyone.”

“Well . . .” Arya said thoughtfully. “They made her marry that horrible man.”

Sansa studied her younger sister carefully, wondering yet again how many awful things Arya had witnessed when she was wandering Westeros and Braavos. “It’s not just that she had to marry him. The stories about him are awful,” she said. “I can’t imagine what poor Jeyne has been through.”

“I never would have let him fuck me,” Arya said, matter of factly. “I would have stabbed him with Needle first.”

At her words, Sansa’s eyes widened with shock, and Nymeria stood up and growled. As Nymeria rose, Sansa forgot her her sister’s vulgar and violent words. “She’s standing! Look, Arya, she’s up!”

“Keep your voice down, Stupid!” Arya admonished her. “You want one of Father’s stupid archers to shoot her?”

When Sansa, Rickon, and Mother had brought food for Arya and Father earlier, Father had insisted on leaving two of his best marksman in the courtyard before leaving the children alone with the wolves. They were far enough away not to alarm Nymeria, but close enough to come and shoot through the door if anyone raised an alarm.

“No one’s going to shoot your wolf, Arya,” Sansa said. “But you’d better stop thinking about stabbing Ramsay Snow if you don’t want her snarling and growling.”

Arya grinned. “Be a good girl,” she said to the wolf, stroking her head. “If Ramsay Snow shows up around here, I promise you can eat him.”

Sansa shook her head. “Let’s see if she can walk,” she said. “Go over there and call her.”

Arya stood up, stretching and yawning. Sansa supposed she hadn’t had much sleep, but she then walked across the kennel. “Nymeria,” she called. “To me!”

The wolf ambled over to her, moving somewhat slowly, but without any visible limp. As she licked at Arya’s fingers, the girl grinned again. “I’m going to take her out for a walk, let her stretch her legs.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Sansa said. “She’s been living in the wild a long time, and she . . .”

She stopped speaking as her sister and the grey she-wolf left the kennel. Sansa looked down at Ghost to see the white direwolf’s red eyes gazing up at her from where he reclined on the floor. “And I thought Rickon and Shaggy were bad,” she said to the silent wolf. “A wolf that acts like Arya might just be worse.” She sighed. “I suppose we’d better go after them, though. Come on, Ghost.”

Ghost rose and shook himself, following her out of the kennel. Sansa blinked as the daylight outside was significantly brighter than the dim light in the kennel had been. Arya and Nymeria were not in the kennel yard. “Walk,” she muttered. “She must be taking her for a run.”

Two men with bows were lounging near the gate into the courtyard, and still more men manned the Hunter’s gate which was closed at the moment. Sansa hesitated, and then walked toward the open gate leading into the godswood. If she were going to take a wolf for a run, that seemed the logical place to go.

The godswood was quiet. There was no wind this morning, so not even the rustle of branches sounded around her, and the sounds of the men preparing for departure out in the main courtyard were distant and muted. Ghost immediately padded off in the direction of the heart tree so she followed.

When she reached it, Arya and Nymeria were nowhere to be seen, but Ghost’s reason for choosing this direction was obvious. Her brother Jon stood before the heart tree with his head bowed. Sansa felt she was intruding and started to back away, but Ghost had already nuzzled up against Jon’s leg and gotten his attention.

“What are you doing here?” Jon asked the wolf. “You’re supposed to be with Nymeria!”

Sansa stepped forward. “It’s all right, Jon,” she said. “He’s with me.”

“Sansa,” Jon said, smiling. “You’ve been back to the kennel this morning already. How’s the patient?”

Sansa returned his smile. “Very well. In fact, she and Arya have left the kennel for a walk. I’m looking for them. Did they come this way?”

Now Jon frowned. “No. I haven’t seen them. I don’t think Nymeria should have free run of the castle, Sansa.”

“Well, neither do I,” she retorted. “And when’s the last time you tried to tell Arya not to do something she wanted to?”

Jon started to respond, but then stopped suddenly and laughed. “Never,” he said. “I’ve never once told her not to do something. No wonder she likes me so much!”

“Well, somebody has to tell her sometimes!” Sansa said indignantly, but then she was laughing along with Jon.

“Poor Sansa,” he said then. “We never made it easy on you, did we? Always egging her on, and leaving you to scold her.”

“No, you didn’t,” she said. “I didn’t actually like making her mad all the time, you know.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Sansa bit her lip then, and realized she probably looked more like Arya doing that than at any other time. “I’m sorry, too, Jon,” she said quietly.

“For what?” he asked, seeming honestly puzzled.

“Everything. Has anyone told you about me being a bastard?”

The shocked look on his face at her words told her that he had no idea what she was talking about. “When Lord Baelish took me from King’s Landing, he made me pretend to be his bastard daughter, Alayne Stone. When you’re a bastard, everyone looks through you, or around you, like you aren’t there. You know you’re just the same as you always were, but no one seems to think you matter.” She said all that very quickly, looking at her feet. She looked up now to see her bastard brother looking at her with a curious expression on his face.

“So, I’m sorry. If I made you feel like you don’t matter,” she said. “I know you are my brother, Jon. Even if it is only half-brother. And I’m glad of it.”

An odd look crossed Jon’s face then, and it surprised her. She had hoped her words might make him happy, but he seemed distressed by them somehow. “Jon? Are you angry?”

That startled him. “No,” he said quickly. “Not at you, Sansa. Never at you. And you have nothing to apologize for.”

He reached out and grabbed her to him, hugging her so fiercely that Sansa was startled now. She remembered all the times she had held herself back from hugging Jon and returned his embrace now with all the strength in her arms. When they let go, she looked up to see him smiling at her.

“I suppose we ought to find Arya and Nymeria before they terrorize the castle,” he said.

She laughed. “I suppose we should.” She took the arm he offered her. “Shall we look around the godswood more?”

Jon hesitated and then shook his head. “She isn’t here. Ghost would know if Nymeria were here.”

“Well, tell him to lead us to wherever she is then.”

Jon looked uncertain, but turned to the direwolf. “Ghost. Find Nymeria.”

The animal looked at him for a brief moment, and then turned and walked back in the direction of the gate to the kennel yard.

“Impressive,” Sansa said.

Jon laughed. “Don’t be so sure. I have no idea if he’s following my direction or he just smells something good to eat over that way.”

Sansa laughed with him. “Well, we might as well follow him anyway.”

When they emerged from the godswood back into the kennel yard, Sansa saw her mother talking to the bowmen beside the entry to the main courtyard. “Oh, dear,” she said, hurrying her steps in that direction.

Lady Catelyn‘s voice carried easily. “What do you mean Arya and the wolf went off somewhere? You let the beast simply walk right past you?” Her lady mother sounded very unhappy.

“The wolf was docile as a lamb, my lady,” one of the men replied, “And Lady Arya said it needed to walk about to stretch its injured legs. Lord Stark only told us to intervene if it got violent.”

“And what if it gets violent now, sir? When you have no idea where it or my daughter has gone?”

“Mother!” Sansa called, rushing toward them.

“Sansa! How could you let your sister wander off with that wild wolf?” Mother asked in her most exasperated voice. “Your father asked you to stay with her, not to go wandering off after Jon.” Mother’s eyes had left Sansa and gone to look accusingly at Jon behind her.

“I didn’t leave, Mother! Arya did. And I told her it was a bad idea, but she doesn’t listen to me. She never has!” Sansa suddenly felt as if she had somehow fallen into her own past as she stood there complaining about her sister’s irresponsible behavior to her mother.

Apparently, Jon had the same thought because he began laughing. Her mother’s eyes flashed back to him at the sound, and Sansa was afraid she was going to say something awful to him, but to her great surprise, Mother only smiled slightly.

“No,” she said softly. “She isn’t much for being told no. Forbid her anything and it becomes her heart’s desire.” Mother looked very far away for a minute, and then she sighed deeply. “Jon, do you have time to take Ghost and find her? I have need of Sansa for something rather important. That’s why I was coming here. But we can’t have Arya wandering gods know where with that wolf. Whatever her connection to Arya, Nymeria is still a wild animal, and unpredictable.”

“I will find her, my lady,” Jon said.

Mother drew in her breath sharply, and Sansa realized that Jon not only looked like Father, but sounded rather like him when he said that. She couldn’t remember Jon ever calling Mother “my lady” before, only “Lady Stark” on the rare occasions he addressed her directly. She again feared her mother might become angry, but the Lady Catelyn gave no further reaction. She merely nodded to Jon and took Sansa by the arm, leading her in the direction of the Great Keep.

Jon stood for a moment looking after them before turning to say something to the bowmen, and Sansa realized Arya was right. She had said something was different between Mother and Jon, but she couldn’t figure out exactly what it was. Sansa couldn’t put a finger on it either, but it was something.

“I need you to try to speak with her, Sansa,” Mother was saying now.

“Jeyne?”

Mother nodded. “She started speaking this morning . . .but I fear her words are worse than her silence was. A maid came to my chamber this morning to say that the poor girl caught sight of the armed man outside her room and became hysterical, promising to be a good wife and please her lord husband. I went to her, but she screamed when she saw me.” Mother shook her head. “It was terrible.”

“What did she say, Mother?” Sansa asked in a small voice.

Mother sighed. “She kept screaming ‘You’re dead! You’re dead! I am Lady Arya! I am! You can’t hurt me!’”

“Oh gods,” Sansa breathed, trembling slightly.

They had reached the Great Keep now, and once they were inside, her mother stopped and turned to face her, holding onto her arms. “Sansa, I do not know what the child will say to you, or how she will react to seeing you, but I know of no one else who might be able to reach her. Can you do this, sweetling?”

Sansa nodded, and her mother kissed her before leading her to Jeyne’s room. An armed man indeed stood outside the door. “My lady,” he said quietly at her mother’s approach.

“Has she stopped shouting, then?” Mother asked him.

The man nodded. “Very quiet the last little bit, my lady.”

Catelyn turned to Sansa. “I don’t think I should come in, given her reaction to me earlier, but I shall be right here in the corridor. I will not leave you.”

Sansa nodded and turned to open the door. It wasn’t locked. When she stepped inside, it was dark. No torches were lit and no fire burned in the hearth. The only light came from a single open window. It was still a few hours until midday and the light was cold and grey. The room was freezing, much colder than the corridor had been. She didn’t see anyone.

“Jeyne?” she said softly. “Jeyne, it’s me, Sansa.”

A tiny, muffled sort of sound came from the far corner of the room, and Sansa walked around the bed to see a disheveled, dark haired girl sitting on the floor, curled up in the corner with her arms around her knees.

“Jeyne?” she asked, with her voice trembling.

The face that turned up toward hers was recognizably her friend’s, but the end of her nose had darkened from frostbite, and her haunted brown eyes looked as if a thousand years must have passed since they last saw each other in King’s Landing.

“Sansa?” she whispered hoarsely. “Is it really you?”

“Yes,” Sansa cried, dropping to her knees in front of Jeyne. “Yes, it’s really me, Jeyne!”

“Don’t call me that!” the other girl cried, covering her face with her hands. “I am the Lady Arya Stark, and I love my husband very much.” She spoke the words loudly and very quickly. Then, slowly removing the hands from her face, she stared intently at Sansa. “Please don’t tell them who I am,” she whispered. “They’ll kill me.”

“No, Jeyne,” Sansa said, reaching for her friend’s hands, only to have Jeyne jerk her hands away and hug her knees tightly again. “No one will hurt you now. My parents have retaken Winterfell. We are safe here. No one can hurt us now.”

Jeyne shook her head. “Your parents are dead. My father is dead. Everyone is dead, Sansa.”

“No, that’s not true. I thought my parents were dead, but they aren’t. They’re here. And Jon and Rickon and Arya.”

“No!” Jeyne screamed. “I’m Arya! I have to be Arya!”

“You don’t, Jeyne!” Sansa was getting frustrated. She didn’t know what to say. “You don’t even like Arya. And Ramsay Snow is gone. He won’t . . .”

“Not Snow!! Bolton!” Jeyne screamed. “My husband is Lord Bolton, Lord of Winterfell. Don’t call him anything else. He’ll punish me!!”

The girl was terrified, and tears started falling from Sansa’s eyes as she looked at her friend. “Oh, gods, Jeyne, what has he done to you?”

“Nothing,” Jeyne said quickly. “Nothing I didn’t deserve. It’s my fault if I can’t please him. I thought I knew what to do. I just didn’t know about the dogs. I did everything Lord Baelish’s girls taught me to do. They trained me. I’m a good girl. I even . . .”

“Lord Baelish?” Sansa interrupted sharply, shocked at the mention of Petyr’s name. “What does Littlefinger have to do with any of this?”

Jeyne swallowed. “He took me to one of his . . .houses. In King’s Landing. I learned there what to do for a man. I . . .I thought he meant me just to be a whore, but then he came back and told me I was to be Lady Arya Stark and wed the new Lord of Winterfell.” She looked up at Sansa. “I didn’t want to be a whore anymore,” she said softly, and tears started to fall down her cheeks. “I thought it would be better to be a lady . . .and all the Starks were dead.”

Sansa remembered then. That day in the council chamber in another life. Queen Cersei had seemed distressed to learn that Jeyne had been put in her room, and Petyr had promised to find a place for her. _Petyr._ The thought of the man made her ill. Was there no one she cared about that he hadn’t hurt? That he hadn’t lied to and betrayed horribly? She remembered his white face as he’d gone tumbling out the Moon Door, and his terrified scream. Suddenly she didn’t feel that had been punishment enough for him.

“The Starks live,” she told Jeyne fiercely. “It’s Petyr Baelish who’s dead. No one will hurt you any more, Jeyne. I won’t allow it.”

The tears continued to fall from Jeyne’s eyes unabated, but her body relaxed somewhat, and she pitched herself forward allowing Sansa to gather her into her arms.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark walked purposefully toward the small turret in the inner wall beside the little used north gate. He’d chosen this turret to serve as the young man’s cell in order to have him as far from his family as he could keep him. Rickon, in particular, he wished to protect from any contact with the man. The guards at the door moved aside for him without comment, and he entered the small round room, mentally preparing himself to lay eyes on the betrayer for the first time since he’d ridden away from Winterfell to go south with Robert Baratheon.

The air in the turret chamber smelled foul, and there was little light. As Ned stood just inside the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust, the rattle of chains to his left caught his attention. He blinked several times as he made out the form of what appeared to be a white haired old man crouched by the wall. There must be some mistake.

The old man rose slowly, hampered by the heavy irons chaining his wrists and ankles. As Ned’s eyes grew more accustomed to the dark, he thought the figure looked more like a skeleton than an old man, for he had almost no flesh on him, and the skin on his face was drawn tightly around his skull. He realized that the terrible stench emanated not from an overfull chamber pot, but from the man himself. He smelled remarkably like a rotting corpse.

The prisoner smiled then. The lips curled open to reveal discolored gums with missing and broken teeth in a twisted echo of the smile Ned had once known well and seen often. “Lord Stark,” the prisoner croaked.

“Theon,” Ned replied in a voice little more than a whisper. _Gods!_ he thought. _I’ve come to pronounce a death sentence on a man more dead than alive already._

“They told me you lived. I didn’t believe them until I saw you there when they brought us into the castle. You didn’t see me, though.” Theon looked down. “No one sees me.”

The self-pitying tone of the last sentence angered Ned, drawing his mind away from the shocking physical appearance of his prisoner. “I see you, Theon Greyjoy,” he said coldly. “I see a boy who was raised in this castle alongside my own children, a boy who grew to be a man trusted by my son Robb. You bent your knee to him when the others did, Theon. I’ve heard it all, you know. You proclaimed him your king, and then when he trusted you most of all, you betrayed him!”

“I did not set out to do that, my lord,” Theon said quietly. “I presented Robb’s plan to my father. He had already decided to to invade the North. He had no interest in what I had to say.”

“That I can believe,” Ned said said, attempting to keep his voice calm and cold once more. “It was folly for Robb to send you to treat with him. Your head was the only leverage we had over the man. Robb was in no position to protect our coast.” He looked at Theon with narrowed eyes. “But I do not believe Balon Greyjoy ordered you to take Winterfell, Theon. He was a hard man, but not a stupid one, and taking Winterfell with no means to hold on to it was a stupid thing to do.” He let his gaze wander over the ruin of Theon Greyjoy, noting for the first time that several of his fingers were missing. “As it appears you learned to your sorrow.”

Theon said nothing, but to his credit, he did not look away. He actually stood up a little straighter, and Ned thought he saw just a hint of the proud boy he had known in this ruined shell of a man.

“You took my castle, Theon,” he said now, in a voice colder than winter. “You killed my men. Men who watched you grow up. Men who helped you grow up.” From between clenched teeth, he then growled, “And you put those boys’ heads on the wall.”

“Not Bran and Rickon!” Theon cried then. “I never . . .I couldn’t . . .they were gone. I had to do something.”

“You murdered two innocent children!” Ned could not keep the rage from his voice at that. “I heard my sons were dead while I was locked up in Pentos! Catelyn heard her babies were murdered as she sat with her dying father and grieved for me, and Robb got word while he was wounded and alone and trying to fight a war! Gods, boy! I would want your head for the suffering you brought my wife and sons even without your other crimes!”

Theon had stood perfectly still as Ned raged at him. Now he shook his head slowly. “You wouldn’t take my head for that, though. It wouldn’t be . . .honorable.”

Ned breathed in and out several times before answering, letting his anger freeze once more. “Fortunately, it is not an issue. I shall sentence you to death, Theon, for treason against your king, your unprovoked attack on my castle, and the murder of people under my protection.”

Theon nodded. Ned knew he had expected nothing different. “You believe me then?” his former ward asked. “About Bran and Rickon?”

Ned looked at him thoughtfully. “Rickon is safely returned to Winterfell along with the wildling woman, Osha. I know all the truth of what was done here, Theon.”

“And Bran?”

Even through his anger, Ned recognized the true concern in Theon’s voice. “We have not yet found Bran,” he said simply.

“My sister,” Theon said then, before Ned could turn to go. “She was brought here, too. Where is she? What shall you do with her?”

“She attacked my lands as well as you did, Theon,” Ned said. “Although, she undoubtedly did act on the orders of Balon Greyjoy. Currently she is a prisoner of war. She is held in a room in the Keep and is well treated. Whether she shall remain a hostage, be traded, or be executed, has yet to be determined. She is an enemy. You are a criminal. There is a difference.”

Theon looked down then, and Ned turned to go. He was almost out the door when Theon’s voice stopped him.

“You would have taken my head, anyway, my lord. When my father’s ships landed in the North. You would have taken my head for that.”

Ned turned slowly back to face him. “I would have,” he said flatly, acknowledging the truth of Greyjoy’s words. “But I wasn’t here, was I? Robb was Lord of Winterfell then, and King in the North. I seriously doubt he would have taken the life a man he loved as a brother to honor the promise a dead man made to his dead king years ago. If you loved him as well, you should have fought for him. Had you fought for Robb against your father’s men, you would have made yourself truly his man, rather than just a hostage Robert had left in my keeping. You had a choice, Theon, and you made it. We all must live with the consequences.”

This time Theon Greyjoy remained silent as he walked through the doorway back into the daylight. As Ned stood there, just outside the turret, looking up at the winter sky, he suddenly saw Theon Greyjoy at about twelve years old in the courtyard battling the younger Robb and Jon. All three had wooden swords, and Robb and Theon laughed out loud. Even Jon had a smile on his face, as he and his brother teamed up against the older boy. The image was so vivid, Ned felt that if he ran to the courtyard now, he would find them there. He had an absurd urge to do just that--to run to the courtyard and grab all three boys into his arms, somehow stopping the inevitable passage of time which had brought him to this place. Robb dead, Theon soon to die by his own hand, and Jon facing a battle against creatures who possibly could not be defeated.

Ned closed his eyes and forced the grief and its attendant guilt deep inside himself. He had no time for it. Lord Manderly’s men would be ready to ride. He walked slowly away from the north gate to find Catelyn that they might see the White Harbor men off.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The archers at the gate between the kennel yard and the main courtyard told Jon that Arya and Nymeria had gone to the right, disappearing around the burned out library tower. Apparently, both girl and wolf had started to run as soon as they were through the gate, and Jon had shaken his head at the thought that neither of these men had seen fit to go after them.

He and Ghost headed in that direction, and as they rounded the library tower themselves, they heard shouting from the far side of the new stables. The stables Jon remembered had apparently burned to the ground, and the Boltons had hastily constructed replacements on the same site. The shouting sounded to Jon like a man in some pain, and he began to run, with Ghost sprinting ahead.

He was unprepared for the sight which met his eyes between the stables and the smithy housing Mikken’s old forge. His little sister stood with Needle drawn, a look of cold, merciless hatred in her grey eyes as Nymeria stood atop a man all in black, his arm clenched in the wolf’s teeth. Jon recognized the man at once. “Perwyn!” he cried, pushing past two men who stood watching helplessly as if in shock. “Arya! Call her off!”

“He’s a Frey!” she spit back, not taking her eyes off Perwyn and Nymeria. “The filthy whoreson gave me his name himself. Why is he not locked up?”

“Arya . . .” Jon was at a loss. Perwyn’s arm was bleeding badly, and Nymeria had begun shaking her head side to side violently. At this rate, she would have the arm pulled from his body before he could explain things to Arya. “Ghost!” he shouted. Not even knowing what command to give his wolf, he simply tried to focus on his desperate need to stop Nymeria and hoped that Ghost would somehow understand.

Ghost leaped at his sister and snapped his jaws at her. Nymeria stopped shaking Perwyn and growled low at Ghost without releasing the man’s arm. Ghost actually nipped at her then, and Nymeria did release Perwyn, leaping after her brother.

“Open the south gates!” Jon shouted. The gates were just on the other side of the forge, and he thought Ghost could get Nymeria to follow him through it. She didn’t like being inside the castle anyway, Jon knew. He didn’t stop to think how he knew, but he was certain of it.

The men manning the gates did not hesitate, and as soon as there was an opening large enough, Ghost broke away from his sister, and ran through it, a flash of white fur against the dark wood. Nymeria followed immediately.

“No!” Arya shouted, but the wolves didn’t stop. As soon as they had passed over the bridge and through the outer gate, the men began closing them without need for another order.

Perwyn was trying to sit up, clutching his bleeding arm. Jon moved toward him, but Arya moved faster, poking him with Needle. “Stay down!” she ordered.

“Arya, stop it right now!” Jon shouted. “This is Ser Perwyn, a man of the Night’s Watch, and my friend.”

“He’s a Frey! He killed my brother and hurt my mother!”

“He helped save your mother!” Jon said in exasperation. “Now get off him!”

“He’s a Frey,” she said again, but she sounded a bit more hesitant, and she turned to look up at Jon. She still looked murderous, but she also looked unbelievably young, and the fact that she could look both at once broke Jon’s heart. Still, he had to get her off Perwyn and get Perwyn medical assistance.

“Arya! It’s okay! I know him! He opened the gate, Arya!! For your father! Like in the song!!” Running toward them and shouting a steady stream of words as he came was skinny boy Jon had seen with Rickon.

Arya turned toward the boy. “Songs aren’t real, Stupid. And Freys are evil.” But she had moved the point of her sword away from Perwyn’s chest as she turned, and Jon took quick advantage of her distraction by wrapping his arms around her, pinning her own arms to her side as he lifted her away from Perwyn. The two men who’d been standing like statues seemed to remember how to move at that point, and they both ran toward the injured man.

Arya was kicking his shins hard as he carried her toward the boy. “Grab her sword,” he said gruffly, gritting his teeth against the pain she was inflicting.

The boy looked at him as if taking Arya’s sword from her was the last thing in the world he wanted to do, but Jon’s grim face convinced him to act, and he moved around to her right side, carefully avoiding her kicking feet, and pried her fingers from Needle’s hilt.

“Dak, you stupid!” she shouted at him.

Jon unceremoniously dropped her as she shouted and grabbed the sword from the boy. “You two,” he ordered. “Sit over there.” He motioned in the direction of the forge with the narrow sword. Arya glared at him sullenly, but the boy nodded, and reached out to take Arya’s hand. Surprisingly, she didn’t jerk away and allowed him to lead her to the wall of the little building. They both sat down with their backs against it, and Jon turned back to Perwyn.

He was relieved to see Perwyn sitting up and looking relatively all right, if a bit pale. One of the men had already wrapped a cloak tightly around his arm. That man looked up at Jon now. “It’s not as bad as it looked, milord,” he said. “He was bleeding from about a hundred little cuts, but they’re all of ‘em shallow. Nothing needs sewed up. The wolf was just playing with him.”

Relief washed over Jon, but he shivered slightly as he looked over at Arya, who sat silently staring back. Her eyes no longer burned with rage, but they were cold. _Playing with him,_ he thought. _Like a cat plays with a mouse before killing it._

Perwyn followed his gaze. “So that’s your sister, Arya,” he said with a wry sort of smile. “I’d been wanting to meet her.”

“I’ll bet you’re regretting that desire about now,” Jon replied.

Perwyn was quiet, and his face became very serious. “No,” he said. “I’d like to speak with her Jon. Now that she’s unarmed and her direwolf is elsewhere.”

“She won’t be kind, Perwyn. When Arya’s angry, she lets you know. And I don’t know that I’ve ever seen her this angry.”

“You’ve probably never seen her confronted with someone who betrayed her family so terribly before,” Perwyn said quietly.

“Stop it, Perwyn. You know perfectly well that you . . .”

“Knew all about the Red Wedding and did nothing to stop it,” Perwyn interrupted. “She has a right to be angry at me, Jon.” He smiled slightly then. “She reminds me of her mother.”

“Lady Stark?” Jon said incredulously. He couldn’t imagine any two people he found more dissimilar.

“I made the mistake of going to her room at the Twins to . . .I don’t know . . .apologize or something, I suppose. As if any apology of mine would bring back her son or make my utter desertion of him somehow all right.” He smiled again. “She spit in my face, and told me I could rape her, beat her, or go away. But she had no desire to converse with me. Had she a sword at the time, she likely would have poked it at my chest just like her daughter there.”

Jon thought then of all the times Arya had leapt to his defense or taken an intense dislike to someone only because they had been cruel to him. She was beyond protective of those she loved, as was Lady Stark, he realized. He’d never given it any thought because, gods knew, she wasn’t protective of him. He was nothing but a threat to her precious trueborn children. And she’d do anything to protect them. He shook his head. He was still confused by the words Perwyn had said, though. “Why would she suggest that you rape or beat her?” he asked.

Perwyn’s face darkened, and Jon realized the truth about Perwyn’s unfailing admiration of Lady Stark and oddly protective attitude toward her. “Who?” he said then. “And is he dead?”

Perwyn’s eyes widened. “Gods, Jon. You sounded almost just like him then. Your father, I mean.”

 _Not my father,_ he thought tiredly. “Answer my question, Perwyn. Did Lord Stark see justice done on the man who harmed his wife?”

It was Perwyn’s turn to look tired. “All of them,” he said. “All dead, as far as I know.”

 _All of them? Gods!_ Jon thought.

“I don’t speak about it, Jon. I still do want to speak with your sister, however.”

 _Arya._ Jon had almost forgotten his little sister in light of this new revelation, but she still sat there with her friend. Or Rickon’s friend. Or whoever he was. He seemed to have a fairly calming influence on her, though, so Jon was glad to have him. “All right, my friend. I shall get her, but then you’re going to have that arm looked at and properly cleaned and dressed.”

He pushed himself up off the ground and walked over to the boy and girl leaning against the stone wall of the smithy. This one little building was almost untouched by the fire that had ravaged so much of Winterfell, and yet it made Jon the saddest. He couldn’t bear to see it looking just like it always had when he knew that Mikken would never work at the forge there again.

“Arya,” he said, crouching down in front of her. “Ser Perwyn would like to speak to you.”

“I have no desire to speak to him,” she said, and Jon almost choked as she repeated almost verbatim the words Perwyn had said her mother once said to him.

“He is a Frey, Arya,” Jon said softly. “But he and his brother Olyvar are the ones who let your father into the Twins to rescue your mother. The entire plan of attack was his.”

She didn’t say anything, but bit her lower lip pensively, which Jon considered a hopeful sign. “He also saved your mother’s life the day your father rode in to get her. His half brother had a knife to her throat, and he killed him.”

Arya‘s eyes went wide. “His brother?”

 _She never did acknowledge “half”,_ Jon thought with a pang. “Yes. Then he asked your father to take his head for being a kinslayer as well as a traitor to his king.”

“To Robb? He betrayed Robb?” Instantly, she was steel again, and Jon sighed.

“He believes he did. He wasn’t part of the Red Wedding, Arya, but he didn’t actively try to stop it. I don’t believe he could have. He believes that doesn’t matter.”

“He’s right,” Arya said.

“You should talk to him, Arya,” said the skinny boy. He’d been very quiet up until this point. “You don’t have to forgive him if you don’t want to. But you can’t kill him. Your father could have killed him, and he sent him to the Wall instead. Lord Eddard’s already passed judgment on him.”

The boy didn’t speak like a highborn noble, and he had an odd accent, but he certainly seemed to have a way with words, and a way with Arya. She looked at Jon and narrowed her eyes. “Did Father send any other Freys to the Wall? Any Freys who hurt my mother?”

Jon got the very uncomfortable feeling that Arya knew more than she should about what had gone on at the Twins. “None, Arya. All of those who . . .hurt your mother are dead. And Father would never have sent Perwyn to the Wall at all except that he’d already declared himself guilty in front of everyone, and it was the only way not to kill him.”

“He is guilty, Jon,” she said. “Of not trying to protect Robb.”

He smiled at her. “Talk to him?”

She shrugged, but then stood and walked over to Perwyn, sitting down in front of him. Jon looked at the little boy then. “I’m Jon Snow,” he said. “Who might you be, and how did you come to know my little sister so well?”

“I’m Dak,” the boy said. “Just Dak. I met Arya in Braavos.” _Braavos?!?_ Jon’s eyes widened at that. “But I met Lord Eddard a long time before that--in Pentos. Do you want to hear about that, too?”

Rather speechless, Jon stood and gave the boy a hand to help him rise as well. He threw a glance over his shoulder, but Perwyn and Arya were conversing quietly without any signs of imminent bloodshed. “Arya,” he called. “Take him to see that maester when you finish your chat, will you?”

Arya nodded, giving him a half wave, and Jon put an arm around Dak’s shoulder. “Come with me to the Great Hall, Dak,” he said. “It’s almost time for the midday meal, and I think I’d like to hear everything you have to tell me.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn Stark sat beside her husband at the High Table and forced herself to eat food she could barely taste. It was just past midday, and she already felt the day had lasted more than twenty-four hours. She knew she had to eat simply to keep up her strength. Ned had found her sitting in the corridor outside Jeyne Poole’s room earlier. His face had been as grim as she’d ever seen it, and he’d simply grabbed her up into his arms and held onto her without speaking for the longest time. She wondered what had transpired between him and the Greyjoy boy, but she would not ask him about it. Soon, he would have to take the head of that boy they had raised here in Winterfell, and while Catelyn had come to hate Theon bitterly for his betrayal of them all, she knew that swinging that sword would hurt Ned badly.

They had stood there in the corridor, literally clinging to each other until the guard at the door had coughed more or less discreetly, and Ned had pulled away from her. “My lady,” he had said. “The White Harbor men are ready to depart. Come to the gate with me?”

She had bitten her lip, remembering her promise not to leave Sansa. There had been quite a bit of hysterical yelling at one point after her daughter entered the room, but it had been quiet for some time. “Let me see how Sansa fares with Jeyne first, my lord,” she had said, turning to knock softly at the door.

After a moment, Sansa had answered, opening the door only slightly. Her face had been pale, but calm and determined looking. “Mother?” she had asked.

“Are you well, sweetling?”

“I am quite well,” she had responded. “Jeyne is . . .” Her voice had trailed off and she’d made a helpless fluttering motion with her hand. “She does seem to like having me here. You needn’t stay, Mother. I am fine.”

“Are you certain, Sansa?”

She had opened the door widely enough to step into the corridor. As she came through, Catelyn saw Jeyne Poole sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a fur and staring back at her silently. At least she wasn’t screaming.

“I need a torch to light Jeyne’s fire,” Sansa was saying to the guard. “I must shut that window. The room is freezing. I’d like to light candles as well.”

“Shall I do that for you?” the man had asked.

“No!” Catelyn and Sansa had said together. Then Catelyn had smiled sadly at her daughter as Sansa explained gently to the man, “You would frighten her, through no fault of your own. Simply bring me a torch and some fresh candles, please.” She had seen her father standing there by then and smiled at him. “Father, take Mother with you if need her. Jeyne and I will do quite well. But I think I should stay with her for now.”

Ned had nodded and kissed the top of their daughter’s head.

“I’ll send food for the two of you whenever we make it to the Hall,” Catelyn had told her. “And if you need anything at all, simply send the guard.”

With a nod and a squeeze of her mother’s hands, Sansa had disappeared back into Jeyne’s room. The guard had hurried off to find the things she required, and Catelyn had taken Ned’s arm and walked with him out into the courtyard.

They had spent the next hour or more standing in a light snow bidding farewell to the men of White Harbor, including the small contingent of White Harbor men who were to escort Lady Dustin and Lady Bolton to Barrowton. Walda Bolton had refused to ride a horse, stating her pregnancy was too far advanced to do any such thing, and they had scrambled to find some form of carriage for her. She remained shut inside inside the makeshift cart as it rolled through the gates. Barbrey Dustin was a woman as comfortable on horseback as any man, and as she rode her mare through the gates, she hadn’t stopped to speak to the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, but she did nod her head in silent farewell. Catelyn had nodded back, not truly sorry to see her go, but thinking that in some small odd way she would miss the woman.

A number of Frey captives were being taken back to White Harbor as well, to be held in the Wolf’s Den, a much more formidable dungeon than anything Winterfell possessed. Several Frey men who had directly participated in the Red Wedding were remaining in Winterfell, to be executed once the rest of Ned’s men arrived here. Catelyn shuddered, remembering the executions at the Twins. Ned had not asked her to identify any of the men this time, telling her they had all been “questioned.” One look at his hard face when he said that had prevented her from asking for any details.

Lord Manderly, of course, had come to bid them both farewell before ponderously climbing into his litter. He’d seemed genuinely sorry to leave them although it may have been only the prospect of the arduous journey which dismayed him. Catelyn watched him go, somewhat amused with herself over the affection she felt toward a man who had attempted to marry her husband away to his granddaughter, questioned the paternity of her unborn child, and considered her expendible in the quest to restore House Stark to Winterfell. He had been unquestioningly sincere, however, as he promised to send her all she needed for Winterfell without delay and obtained her promise to call upon him for any assistance she required while Ned was away. He was a glutton, and craftier than any honest man should be, but his loyalty to Ned and her family was unshakable. In the end, that was all that mattered, and Catelyn loved the man for it.

Rickon had run here and there during the long departure, sometimes standing with his parents and other times climbing up on the wall or even running out among the men and getting under foot. He’d sent Shaggy out of the castle to hunt as the wolf made the horses nervous. Catelyn had not seen Arya or Nymeria during the long procession, but as she had not seen Jon Snow either, she hoped that meant he had found them and had the wolf safely back in the kennel.

When she and Ned had finally seen the tail of the procession exit their gates, corralled Rickon, and gone to the Great Hall, she had discovered that he had at least found them. Jon, just leaving the Hall with Dak at his heels, told them what had transpired with Arya, the wolf, and Perwyn Frey. He emphasized repeatedly that Perwyn was not seriously injured, but Ned’s hard face had gotten even grimmer, and Catelyn was rather glad Arya was not present in the Great Hall.

Rickon had just finished bolting his food and tearing off in search of Dak or Arya when Catelyn heard the horns from the Kingsroad Gate. “It would seem your men have arrived, my lord,” she said, looking at Ned.

“May the gods protect them from direwolves as they approach the castle,” he muttered darkly.

“Ned, the wolves have not attacked anyone here unprovoked. Even Nymeria . . .”

“I know our daughter drew her sword on Perwyn Frey, my lady,” he said frostily, “but it is the wolf that tried to savage him. If she cannot control herself, she certainly cannot control that beast. Rickon is little better with Shaggydog. When he is angry . . .” Ned stopped speaking and shook his head. “I know you believe they protect our children, but I confess I fear leaving the wolves free when I go. They may not harm our children, but who shall protect the poor person who happens to irritate our son or daughter?”

The horn blew again.

“The wolves are likely in the Wolfswood now, my love, and far from the Kingsgate. They hadn’t been out to hunt since Nymeria was brought here.” She laid a hand on his arm. “We can discuss direwolves later, Ned. We should go to the gate.”

He sighed heavily, rose, and gave her his arm. It was a rote gesture on his part, and he barely seemed to notice the hand she slipped around it as they walked from the Hall. They met many in the courtyard going in the same direction. Looking toward the gate, Catelyn saw both Jon Umber’s uncles as well as Alysanne Mormont hurrying ahead of them, and she smiled. Then she offered a prayer that both the Greatjon and Lady Maege were well.

As she and Ned approached the open gates, everyone already gathered parted in order to let them to the front. Catelyn caught sight of Arya, Rickon, and Dak on top of the wall. Sansa, of course, was still with Jeyne Poole. Catelyn hoped she had gotten the poor girl to eat the food she’d sent.

The riders were quite close now, and Catelyn could clearly see the direwolf standard carried above the others, but the bear, the mailed fist, and the chained giant were also there in the front, and just as Catelyn was able to recognize the three riders by those banners, she heard a soft cry from behind her. Then Aly Mormont was rushing past her and running over the bridge and through the outer gate. Catelyn smiled as Lady Maege’s horse broke ranks and galloped the short distance between herself and her daughter, remembering the day she had recognized Arya riding toward Winterfell. The Mormont women were both fierce warriors, but they were mother and child as well, however many years Alysanne had to her name, and Catelyn’s heart leapt for joy at the sight of Maege vaulting off her horse to embrace her daughter even as it broke for the daughter Maege could never embrace again. _Her Dacey lies dead in the Riverlands with my Robb._

She heard Ned make a sound beside her and turned to look up at him. The grim and terrible lord’s face he’d worn since before going to see Theon Greyjoy had vanished. He still looked worn and tired, but he was her Ned, overcome with relief and joy at the prospect of welcoming his people back to his castle. _No wonder they love him,_ she thought. _He cares so much for them._ She squeezed the arm she still held, and he put his other hand over hers and squeezed as well, smiling slighty, although he did not take his eyes from the approaching men.

The rest of the riders continued their measured progress, simply riding carefully around the two women embracing just outside the castle. Maege’s riderless horse followed the others, but Catelyn knew from experience that the two women wouldn’t mind the walk.

As soon as Galbart Glover and Jon Umber crossed the bridge and entered the courtyard of Winterfell, they dismounted and approached Ned and Catelyn. Catelyn noticed that Galbart moved slowly and painfully, and she remembered the wounds he had taken at Riverrun. Both men fell to their knees before Ned.

“Lord Glover, Lord Umber, I welcome you to Winterfell,” Ned said. His voice held its normal cool, deep tones, but Catelyn could hear the emotion in it. “You have served House Stark and the North magnificently, and you and yours are always welcome here.”

“My Lord, My Lady,” Galbart Glover said, bending his head to each of them in turn, as he rose slowly, actually putting a hand on the Greatjon’s shoulder to help push himself up. “Moat Cailin is yours, Lord Stark.”

“And we brought you another bunch of filthy Freys,” said the Greatjon much less formally as he rose. “Well, the ones we didn’t kill anyway. We met Aenys Frey and some others south of here. I’m afraid Ser Aenys didn’t survive the meeting.” He grinned, and then as if he’d only just remembered his courtesies, he nodded to each of them as well, giving the requisite “My Lord” and “My Lady.”

At that point, Hothar and Mors Umber who certainly had shown more restraint than Alysanne Mormont, could hold back no longer, and they swooped in upon their nephew, clapping him hard on the back and hauling him off with loud shouts and rough embraces. Galbart Glover was looking over the crowd.

“My brother?” he asked.

“Robett is quite well,” Ned told him. “I sent him to Lady Sybelle at Deepwood Motte. He awaits you there, Galbart.”

“Thank the gods,” the man said softly.

Now a taller, grey-haired man approached them, his wide smile taking years off his heavily lined face.

“Lord Royce!” Catelyn called out. Ever one for courtesies, of course Bronze Yohn had allowed Ned’s northern lords to enter Winterfell first.

“My beautiful Lady Catelyn,” he boomed, kneeling before her with a flourish. “And Lord Stark,” he said in much more muted tones, nodding to Ned.

“Get up, Lord Royce,” Ned said drily. “You can admire my lady wife more easily that way.”

Catelyn bit her lip to suppress a giggle. She could tell Ned was actually quite happy to see the man and not truly irritated by his usual exaggerated flattery of her. She was happy to see him as well. She was happy to see all of them. Yet, as she went to embrace Maege Mormont, who had just entered the courtyard arm in arm with her daughter, she could not escape a sense of dread. Ned’s army was here now, which meant that Ned himself would soon leave Winterfell and her.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“So it is decided,” Ned said wearily. “Jon, you and Perwyn will leave tomorrow with Howland, Donnell, Mors and Hothar Umber and all their men, Lord Seaworth and any of Lord Stannis’s men that are hale enough to go now, and any other men who have been here at Winterfell and are prepared to ride out again.”

“What men are you leaving to defend Winterfell?” Jon asked, and it gladdened Ned’s heart to hear it. While Jon was still cool and formal with him, the boy was clearly concerned about his family and home.

Ned smiled a little. “I am leaving Lady Brienne here, and that is no small thing,” he said. Before anyone could protest, he added, “And I shall leave a sizable household guard made up from the men who have just arrived.

“We are staying for the executions, are we not, my lord?” Mors Umber asked.

Ned’s blood ran a little colder at the thought of tomorrow’s first order of business. He could not deny any of his northmen the right to see Theon Greyjoy or the Freys die. Every man here had suffered because of them. “Certainly,” he said. “We shall see to that first thing in the morning, and then you will still have plenty of daylight to make a good start.”

“We shall plan five days rest here for the new arrivals,” Ned said then. “Galbart, when you feel sufficiently rested, I ask you to return to Deepwood Motte.” As Lord Glover started to protest, Ned held up his hand. “You have done quite enough, my lord, and your wounds are scarce healed. Robett will have had time to see his wife and family. Send him on to join me at the Wall, and you take charge at Deepwood. It is your seat.” Glover still looked as if he wanted to protest, so Ned added, “That is an order, Galbart.”

“Yes, my lord,” the man said.

“Lord Stout will be returning to his Keep and I shall be sending Kyle Condon to assist Lady Jonella Cerwyn. Both wished to stay at Winterfell until after the executions. Lady Mormont has asked my leave to send Alysanne to rule in Bear Island, and I have given it.” Ned saw the young woman sitting sullenly beside her mother on a bench. She had not been happy about this decision, but Maege had already lost one daughter, and her others were very young. She knew this campaign to the Wall held risks none of them had faced before, and she did not want to risk Aly. Ned had supported her decision whole-heartedly. “Does any other man here feel they need to send more men to their homes?”

There was silence then, so Ned went on. “I shall be sending some of the Vale men back to Moat Cailin to reinforce the men you already left there.” The force left at Moat Cailin consisted largely of men from Greywater Watch, a decision Ned heartily approved of, considering that these men knew not only the Moat fairly well, as their home was not far from it, but also the possible ways an enemy might go around it.

“The knights of the Vale are not afraid to fight your monsters at the Wall, Lord Stark,” Yohn Royce put in.

“Of course they aren’t,” Ned said. “But most have never seen a northern winter, and winter at the Wall is a brutal thing. I certainly have need of your men with me and most will be coming north, Lord Royce. I welcome your presence, but I also want every Northman I can get, simply because this battle comes to the North.”

Yohn Royce nodded his assent and sat down.

“The men returning to Moat Cailin will take any of the new Frey prisoners who did not participate in the Red Wedding to the Moat to be held there. Any who are known to have taken part in that abomination will be executed tomorrow with the others. Lord Umber, I would ask your assistance in sorting them out.”

The big man grinned, but there was no warmth in it. “None of the Frey bastards that were at that abomination survived the battle, my lord,” he said. “The dozen or so we brought here alive weren’t there.”

Ned looked at him levelly. He wondered how many of those men had been killed in the heat of battle and how many had been killed in cold blood because Jon Umber recognized them from that fateful day. He decided he didn’t want to know. “Well, that simplifies things, doesn’t it,” he said evenly.

He looked at the men and the two ladies gathered in the Great Hall. The afternoon had been spent sorting out where to place tents and deciding how many people could be put up in actual rooms around the castle and who those people would be. After a fairly late evening meal, Ned had invited all the lords and knights and any interested man (or woman) to remain in the Great Hall and hear what he had to say. There was skepticism, of course, just as there had been after the first such meeting he’d had about the threat from the north, but no one had suggested not going to fight. These were Northmen, and they were his. He prayed he didn’t lead them all to their deaths, but he didn’t know what else he could do.

“That’s about all I have to say tonight,” he said now. He had talked for hours, it seemed. “Those of you leaving tomorrow have had time to prepare, and those of you who only just arrived will have time. Now, I suggest we find our beds, for dawn will come early.”

He rose from his own seat, and men began to rise and head toward the doors, first in twos and threes, and then in larger numbers. He stayed standing at the High Table only because he knew it would discourage men with questions from approaching him. He wanted no more questions tonight. He wanted his bed and his wife. He had sent Catelyn away to tend to the children after dinner. In the midst of everything that had happened, he hadn’t gotten to speak with any of them about Theon. Now he was out of time.

As the Hall emptied, Jon approached him. “Lord Stark,” he said.

“Yes, Jon?,” he replied tiredly.

“I want to take Mance Rayder with me.”

Ned lifted his eyebrows at that. “As a prisoner or a soldier?” he asked.

“As a wildling,” Jon responded. “You told me to talk to the man and I did. He’s met White Walkers. He knows what we’re up against better than we do. I’d have him with me.”

“Do you trust the man?”

“I don’t trust any man completely,” Jon said pointedly. “But I trust that he cares about his people as much as you do yours. He wants the White Walkers defeated as badly as we do, my lord. He’ll be with us on that score. Have you searched the castle for dragonglass weapons?”

“I have. I fear there aren’t many such things here, Jon.”

Jon put his hand on his sword hilt. “Dragonsteel, too, Mance says.”

“Valyrian steel will slay these creatures?” Ned asked.

“Mance says it can. Lady Brienne has a Valyrian steel blade.”

“Indeed she does. And it shall stay here with her. To protect Catelyn and the children,” Ned said firmly.

Jon looked at him for a long moment. “There are no other Valyrian blades in Winterfell?” he asked.

 _He’s worried about me,_ Ned realized. “I shall face whatever comes with ordinary steel, Jon. Although I do have this.” He pulled a crude obsidian dagger from his belt. “Rickon found it in the rubble of the maester’s tower. He said it looked like some arrowheads Maester Luwin had given him and Bran once.”

“Keep it with you,” Jon said simply before turning to go.

Ned watched him walk away before trudging out of the Hall himself. He dreaded the dawn. He dreaded going north. He dreaded what they might find there. But as he walked toward Catelyn’s chamber, he couldn’t think of anything else he could do to prepare.

 

 


	43. An Execution at Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally supposed to be just the first part of the next chapter--"Farewells," but it sort of became its own thing. Yeah.

She felt him stir beside her when it was still dark. She hadn’t been asleep for some time, but she lay very still waiting to see what he would do. He sighed very deeply, and rather absently touched a hand to her hair before rising from the bed. Without opening her eyes, she heard him fumbling about for his breeches and splashing water on his face from the basin on the table. She listened to the sounds of his dressing, but did not speak until she heard him drop down to the floor.

“I believe your boots are on the other side of the bed, my lord,” she said softly.

He stood up, startled, and she smiled wearily at him. “I did not mean to wake you, my lady,” he said in a voice no louder than hers.

“I was not asleep. I fear only one person in this bed slept soundly through this night.”

Now, Ned smiled slightly as he looked past her to the short, dark brown hair barely visible above the furs gathered around their daughter’s face. “How did she come to be here? I didn’t ask last night for fear of waking her.”

Catelyn laughed softly. “You nearly climbed in on top of her before I told you to go around to that side. That would certainly have awakened her. That’s why I believe your boots are over there. I remember you sitting down to take them off before I spoke.” She looked at Arya. “Sansa stayed with Jeyne Poole last night. Shaggydog and Nymeria have not returned to the castle, and she just sort of wandered in here.” Looking back up at her husband, she said, “She shared a cabin with Dak on the voyage from Essos and has been with Sansa ever since. I don’t know when she last slept in a room alone, but I couldn’t send her away last night, Ned.”

“No, you couldn’t.” He looked down at their daughter’s sleeping form as he walked to that side of the bed to retrieve his boots. “She certainly takes up more room than she used to, though.”

“You should try being in the middle,” Catelyn said with a short laugh before asking him softly, “Ned, where are you going?”

“To the godswood,” he replied. “Before . . .”

“No,” she said, sitting up in the bed, and he looked up from his boots at her sharply. “You are going to get Rickon and Sansa and bring them here.”

“Catelyn,” he protested, “It is not yet dawn. It is still early.”

“It is late, my lord. Very late to be telling them what you must tell them, and I know you, Eddard Stark. Once you stand before your heart tree, you have no sense of time. I will be sending men to fetch you to your task and there will be no time left at all.” She tried to keep any reproach out of her voice for she knew how difficult all of this was for him. But she would not back down on this. He had asked her not to speak to their children of Theon Greyjoy, and she had assented to his wishes, but he must speak to them this morning.

He nodded slowly, and then said in a ragged whisper filled with emotion, “I don’t know how to do this, Cat.”

She rose from the bed and went to him, taking him into her arms. She didn’t know if he meant he did not know how he would speak to the children or how he could take Theon Greyjoy’s life, but suspected he meant both. “I know, my love,” she whispered into his ear as she ran her fingers through his hair. “But you will do it, and I will be beside you.”

He sighed heavily and pulled her closer. “I thank you for that, my lady. I . . .am not sure I could face this day otherwise.” He kissed the top of her head and released her. “I shall bring the other two here,” he said and turned toward the door.

“Sansa is in Jeyne Poole’s room, remember. And I think you may find she knows more than you think. She spends a great deal of time playing hostess to your men, my lord. She hears a lot, and she has been with Jeyne Poole. Rickon is in his room with Osha.”

Ned nodded once more and left the room. Catelyn pulled a robe on over her nightshift against the chill of the morning air. It wasn’t truly cold. Her rooms never were unless the windows were open, but she was considerably cooler than she had been beneath the covers, wedged between Arya and Ned. She sat on the edge of the bed and regarded her younger daughter, who had slept like a stone once she had finally fallen asleep. That, of course, was due to the exhaustion of having spent the previous night mostly awake in the kennel with her direwolf. It certainly couldn’t be attributed to a peaceful state of mind. Catelyn’s heart broke all over again when she remembered their conversation the previous night.

“What did they do to you?” the girl had asked quietly after slipping under the covers and snuggling back against her. Arya kept her back to her, welcoming her mother’s arm around her, but refusing to look at her. Catelyn hadn’t needed to ask who she meant.

“Perwyn wasn’t part of it, Arya,” she’d said softly. “He did help your father free me from the Twins.”

Arya had nodded. “I know. I talked to him. He didn’t kill any of Robb’s men either.” She had paused then, and Catelyn hadn’t needed to see her face to know she was biting her lower lip. “He didn’t help them, though.”

“No,” Catelyn had said softly. “Perwyn was weak, Arya, but he was not evil. Lord Walder was his father, and it is not an easy thing to defy your father and turn your back on your family. I do not believe you could do so easily, sweetling.”

“My father would never give a reason to! He is not Walder Frey!” her daughter had almost shouted.

“No,” Catelyn had answered. “He is not. Your father is a man of honor, and he has forgiven Perwyn for not attempting to prevent your brother’s death.”

“I tried to stop it,” Arya whispered so softly that Catelyn had barely heard her. “I was there, outside the Twins.”

 _Oh gods_. Catelyn had heard this, of course. From the singer at Riverrun. From Robert’s bastard, Gendry. But to hear it from her child’s own lips . . . she had tightened her arms around Arya. “I am glad you were not inside, sweetling,” she’d whispered.

Arya had shaken her head. “I tried to go in! The Hound said Robb was dead, that you were dead, but I had to try to save you. I ran away from him. He hit me in the head.”

Had anyone told Catelyn Stark she would one day feel overwhelming gratitude toward Sandor Clegane for striking her child on the head, she wouldn’t have believed it, but it was true. “I am thankful to him, Arya. Had he allowed you to come in search of me, you would have been killed or captured.”

Arya had shaken her head again. “Maybe, I could have saved you. I know Robb was dead, but maybe I could have saved you.”

Her voice sounded so young, it broke Catelyn’s heart. “Sweetling, there were armed men all around me. You couldn’t possibly have . . .”

“I know how to kill men!” Arya had interrupted. “I only told you the one, but I killed others--ones I meant to kill.”

“I do not doubt it,” Catelyn had answered, glad that Arya could not see her face, and fighting to keep her voice calm and even. “But there were too many armed men, Arya. Too many for any one person to overcome. I had a dagger, myself, but I could not save Robb with it.” She closed her eyes against the memory of what she had done with that dagger, hoping her daughter would not ask.

“But you tried, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sweetling. I tried everything I knew to do.”

“And then they hurt you.” Arya had wriggled around in her arms then to face her. She’d put her hands on Catelyn’s face. “You never answered my first question, Mother. What did they do to you?”

Catelyn sighed. “I suppose I must accept that you are no longer naïve enough not to understand the ways evil men can hurt a woman.”

“I saw what men do,” Arya had said bitterly. “If any man did that to you he should die.”

The cold hatred in her daughter’s voice had chilled her. The venom in her words was as sharp as any words Catelyn had ever spoken, and the ice in them as cold as any she had ever heard from Ned. “They are dead, Arya. Your father has seen to that.”

“Good. What of the Freys beneath the First Keep? The ones in our old hiding place. They weren’t a part of it?”

Catelyn bit her own lip before replying. Ned had forbidden her only to speak of Theon. “No,” she said. “They were no part of what was done to me, but they shall die all the same. Each of those men took part in the murders at Edmure’s wedding. Your father plans to execute them.”

“Good,” Arya repeated. “I want to watch.”

With that, she had snuggled deeper into the furs and spoken no more. Catelyn had not known what else to say, and so she had remained silent as well, and soon Arya had been fast asleep.

Now she had to wake her. It was time for Arya and her brother and sister to learn about the other prisoner in Winterfell who was to die today.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Arya yawned again. She couldn’t stop yawning. Mother had shaken her until she was awake enough to understand that Father was bringing Sansa and Rickon here to tell them all something, but she was too sleepy to care much what it was. Mother was still talking, and she tried to focus on the words.

“You are more than welcome to stay in bed, Arya, but if you would prefer your sister and brother not know you slept here, you might want to get up.”

 _Oh._ That penetrated the fog. It was none of Sansa’s business where she slept. She could sleep with Mother if she felt like it. But, she decided she’d rather not discuss it with her sister, anyway. She sat up and shivered slightly as the furs fell away.

“The cloak you had wrapped around you when you came in last night is on that chair,” her mother said.

Arya stretched and climbed out of bed to retrieve her cloak. She didn’t have a true robe, and hadn’t wanted to wander the halls of the castle in only a shift last night. She wished she had breeches to put on now, but thought it might take too long to go to her room. Besides, the corridor would be a lot colder than Mother’s room. “Is Jon coming to hear what Father has to say?” _Gods!_ she thought as soon as the words left her mouth. _Jon would never come to Mother’s room! I must still be asleep._

She looked at her mother carefully, but she didn’t seem angry. She only shook her head slightly. “Jon already knows what your father has to say. I’m certain you’ll see him this morning before he leaves, though.”

Jon was leaving today to go back to the Wall. She’d known that, but hadn’t wanted to think about it. Maybe that was why Mother didn’t mind him being mentioned. Because he was leaving. She thought there was something else to it, though. She’d told Sansa. Since Jon had come to Winterfell, things seemed almost more tense between him and Father than between him and Mother, and Arya couldn’t make sense of that at all.

She couldn’t ponder it any longer, though, because at that moment, the door opened and Father entered carrying a semi-conscious Rickon followed by Sansa, looking entirely too awake and together for this early in the morning.

There were only the two chairs in the room. Arya was already sitting in one. Mother now sat down on the bed and motioned for Father to give her Rickon, and Sansa sat down in the other chair. Father stood in the center of the room looking . . .distressed. Yes, he looked distressed. Arya wasn’t certain she’d ever seen him look quite like he did now, and suddenly she was much more awake and concerned.

After a moment of silence, her mother spoke softly. “You must tell them, my lord.”

 _My lord._ If Mother was being all “my lord” about it, it must be serious. Father was usually just “Ned” when she spoke to him in this room.

Her father nodded. “You know that Jon and a number of men ride north for the Wall today.”

Sansa and Arya both nodded, while Rickon only yawned which made Arya snicker just a little.

“Before they leave, I must carry out justice on a number of prisoners held here at Winterfell,” Father continued.

“The executions?” Sansa asked. “They are today, then?”

Arya looked at her sister, then her mother, and then back to Father. “You’re killing the Freys today?” she asked eagerly. “All of them?”

Father closed his eyes briefly. “I am executing the eight Frey men held beneath the First Keep for their part in the betrayal and murder of your brother Robb and his men. Other Frey prisoners who were not at that wedding have been sent to White Harbor to be held there by Lord Manderly. Lady Bolton, who is a Frey by birth has been sent to Barrow Hall with Lady Dustin, and Ser Perwyn will leave for the Wall with Jon. There will be no Freys in Winterfell before sundown today. Is that sufficient, Arya?”

“I’m going to watch them die,” she said.

“Arya, I don’t think . . .”

“You let Bran watch you execute that deserter when he was seven! I’m eleven and I’ve seen enough people die, Father.”

“You haven’t seen your father kill a man, child. It isn’t the same,” he said in his winter voice.

The expression on his face was as cold as his voice, but she wasn’t backing down here. She had every right to see the men who helped kill her brother and capture her mother die. “I know more of killing than you think,” she said without taking her eyes from her father’s.

“If Arya gets to watch, I do, too!” put in Rickon, his first contribution to the conversation.

“Absolutely not!” Father nearly shouted. “Rickon, you are five years old!”

“I’m the heir to Winterfell!” the little boy protested.

“Bran is the heir to Winterfell,” Arya put in. “Bran’s still alive and he’s older than you! And I’m sure Father didn’t even take Robb to executions when he was five anyway.”

“Enough.” Her mother’s voice was not as loud as Father’s, Arya’s or Rickon’s, but it silenced them all. “Your father has more to say to you,” Mother continued into the silence. “You will be quiet and listen. No one will discuss anyone’s attendance at executions until your father is quite finished. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Mother,” said Arya, noticing that Rickon only nodded without being reprimanded for his lack of manners.

Her father took a deep breath. “The Freys are not the only prisoners to be executed this morning,” he said, and Arya heard Sansa draw her breath in sharply.

Father turned to look at Sansa. “He really is here?” she asked softly. “Jeyne said he took her away from Ramsay Bolton.”

Father nodded. “He did.”

“Who did? Who are you talking about?” Arya asked, not liking the feeling that everyone knew something she didn’t.

“Theon Greyjoy,” Father said simply. “Theon Greyjoy is held here in Winterfell.”

“No!” Rickon suddenly screamed. “Don’t let Theon in Winterfell! Theon is bad! He brought the bad men here and they killed Mikken! I don’t want Theon here!”

Rickon’s eyes were wild, and he had started kicking and squirming on Mother’s lap. She held him more tightly and tried to soothe him. “Rickon, my love, Theon is locked up. He cannot hurt you. He cannot hurt any of us. I promise.”

“I don’t want him here!” Rickon shouted again, sounding truly terrified. “I want Shaggydog! I want Bran! I don’t want Theon! I don’t want to go down in the dark!”

Mother’s face was streaked with tears as she held on to Rickon while he flailed and shouted. “Ned!” she cried as she struggled to hold him. Father took him from her then, holding him up against his shoulder while her little brother beat at his back and kicked at him. Father simply held on to him until he began to settle down. Finally, his shouts dissolved into sobs and then into whimpers. He raised his head up off Father’s shoulders and said “I don’t want to see Theon.”

“You won’t,” Father told him. “You will never see Theon Greyjoy again, Rickon. I promise you that.”

“I don’t want him in Winterfell.”

“He won’t be,” her father said gravely.

Arya saw her mother wipe her eyes then and reach once more for the little boy who went to her on the bed willingly enough. As Rickon curled up on the bed with his head in Mother’s lap, Arya turned her attention back to her father and was startled to see that he looked shaken. Nothing shook Father.

“I suppose he has to die, doesn’t he?” Sansa asked quietly.

“He does,” Father said quietly.

“Jeyne won’t take it very well. She says he saved her.”

“He did give assistance to Mance Rayder and his spearwives in their plan to save her. They all thought she was Arya, and Theon didn’t tell them any differently. Jon had sent the wildlings here to get her.”

“Me? Jon sent someone for me?” Arya stammered.

“Yes, Arya,” her father said with a sigh. “Jon didn’t know that the Arya Stark sent to Winterfell to marry Bolton’s bastard was an imposter. He was determined to save you.”

Arya felt tears swimming in her eyes. _Stop it!_ she told herself. _Do not cry. You are not a baby._ She thought about her brother Jon, who had sent someone to save her, and now would ride back to the Wall because he had taken a vow. She thought suddenly about the singer in Braavos, the deserter from the Night’s Watch. It had been right for him to die. If he wasn’t willing to fight beside her brother, he was an oathbreaker and he deserved death. Theon Greyjoy had made a vow to her brother, Robb, and then betrayed him and taken his castle. “Father is right,” she said coldly. “Theon must die.”

Her father looked at her carefully for a moment before asking, “Why, Arya?”

“Ned . . .” her mother started to say, but her father held up a hand to quiet her without taking his eyes from Arya‘s.

“Because he is a traitor,” she said. “He called Robb his king, but then betrayed him and attacked his home and killed his people. Traitors must die.”

Father nodded solemnly. “And why must I do it?”

“Because you pronounce the sentence. If you sentence a man to death, you should be able to carry it out.” She thought about Jaqen and the names she had given him. She thought about the Faceless Men giving the gift for people who would pay to end a life but not take it themselves. She didn’t think her father would approve.

He did approve of her answer, though, nodding once more. “And you understand it is justice I carry out today, not vengeance.”

It was a statement, but she could hear his question, so she nodded even as she heard her lady mother’s voice in her head speaking about Roose Bolton. _His death was just, certainly. No one would deny that. But what I gave him, sweetling, was_ _vengeance._ “I understand justice, Father,” she said levelly. _And I understand that sometimes justice and vengeance are the_ _same thing._

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

It was dark as Jon first stepped into the little room, and the stench was overpowering. Even with the door open there was not yet enough daylight to shine into the cell, so he asked the guard at the door to hand him a torch. The blaze lit up the small space remarkably well, and Jon was taken aback at the sight of the man before him. He looked nothing like the smiling, arrogant older boy he remembered at Winterfell.

“Snow,” Theon croaked. Jon noted that the ‘s’ in Snow was somewhat unclear. “Why are you here?”

“I’m not sure,” Jon answered honestly. “I wanted to see you. I wanted to see the man who left Robb to his death while he ran off to steal his castle.”

“I fought for him,” Greyjoy said. “I marched south when Lord Stark was arrested. Where were you, Snow?”

“At the Wall, damn you!” Jon shouted, suddenly angry at Theon for his betrayal, angry at his father, _uncle_ , for his lies, and even angry at Robb for dying. “You know I had no choice! You did! What the fuck is wrong with you Greyjoy?!? How could you do that to him?”

Jon realized he had moved toward Theon with every intention of grabbing and shaking him, and he forced himself to take a step back. Theon looked stunned. He opened his mouth without speaking, and Jon clearly saw the reason his speech was not as clear as it had been. What few teeth remained to him were broken. Jon swallowed and surveyed the former Stark ward critically. The white hair and starved appearance spoke of horrors Jon could not imagine, and when Theon held up a maimed hand, Jon shook his head. “And what in all the hells has Ramsay Snow done to you?” he added more quietly.

“Have you not seen the Bolton sigil?” Greyjoy asked softly. “Lord Ramsay takes being a Bolton very seriously. Very seriously indeed.”

Jon shuddered. He had seen the banner with the flayed man. And he had heard Mance tell what had happened to the women sent with him to recover Arya. “You didn’t have to come to this, Theon,” he said then. “You brought this on yourself.”

“Mayhaps,” Greyjoy responded. “Do you know that I hadn’t made a decision of my own other than what to eat or which whore to fuck since I was ten years old?”

“I have no pity for you, Greyjoy,” Jon snapped. “Robb is dead. You own some of the blame for that.”

“I don’t want your pity,” Theon said. “I only meant to tell you the truth. Robert Baratheon handed me to Eddard Stark like so much baggage, and that’s what I let myself become. I marched with Robb because there was nothing else to do. I went to my father like he asked me to do because he told me to. Then I sailed with my father’s men against the north because he told me to. You see, Snow? Not once did I make a choice.”

Jon stared at him and said nothing.

“Until I decided to take Winterfell. That, Snow, was the first real choice I made since I was ten years old, and I fucked it up. And then I went right back to having no choice any more. I had to keep fucking everything up.” Greyjoy laughed, an ugly, strangled sound with no mirth. “I used to tell myself I had more right to everything here than you did because I was the heir to the Iron Islands and you were just a bastard.”

Jon clenched his jaw, but Theon kept talking. “I was wrong about that, too. Bastard you may be, but you’re a bloody Stark all the same, and this place is only fit for Starks. Bloody, honorable, frozen Starks who keep their vows, and do their duty, and damn the rest of us. You had to stay on that Wall just like Robb had to marry that little highborn girl he fucked no matter what it cost. Just like Lord Stark has to chop off my head today.”

“You hold us in contempt, do you, Greyjoy?”

Theon shook his head then. “No,” he said. “No. That’s just it. I wanted to be one of you, and I didn’t even know it.” He laughed again, and this time the sound held at least an echo of his old laugh. “Your old gods did, though. They knew who I was and what I wanted even when I forgot. They knew my name.”

Jon stared at him, unsure what he meant. “They knew my name, Jon Snow. You have to know your name.” Theon stared at him with an intensity Jon found unsettling, and he wondered if perhaps Theon had become addled by his experiences with Ramsay Snow. “Theon Greyjoy dies today,” Theon said, sounding almost relieved by it. “Not the Stark ward or Ramsay’s Reek. Theon Greyjoy. That’s my name.”

“I know your name,” Jon replied. “I’ve never forgotten it.”

Theon smiled at him then, his old smile, the one that always made Jon feel as if Theon knew something he refused to tell. It was an ugly thing now, with his ruined teeth, but eerily the same in spite of that. “It’s not my name you have to know, Snow. You have to know your own name.”

That hit closer to home than Jon cared to admit to himself, and he decided that whatever had compelled him to come and see Theon, he had now seen and heard enough. “Is there anything you need, Theon? Before your execution, I mean. Anyone you want me to write?”

Theon was silent a moment. “My sister is here. I would like to see her if I could.”

Jon nodded. “I’ll ask Lord Stark.” He looked one last time at what was left of the older boy who had always been at Winterfell. Jon couldn’t truly remember the years before he was there. “Goodbye, Theon,” he said, and turned and left without saying anything else.

Outside, dawn was beginning to lighten the castle. As he handed the torch back to the guard, Theon’s words came back to him. _You have to know your name._ He laughed bitterly. _That’s precisely the problem, Greyjoy,_ he thought. _What the hell is my name?_

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark stood before the heart tree, holding the sword that was not Ice and praying to the gods of his fathers for the strength to get through this day. He had no time to linger here. He knew that. Yet after the family gathering in Catelyn’s room, he’d found himself nearly unable to breathe as his children’s suffering was so plainly laid bare before him. He remembered the icy resolve in Arya’s grey eyes as he finally relented to her vehement insistence that she had the right to see all those who hurt her family die for their crimes, and the haunted sorrow in Sansa’s blue ones as she quietly whispered that she would stay with Rickon. She had no wish to see any more death. And Rickon. _Gods, Rickon!_ He should have expected that, he supposed, but the thought that his youngest had almost no memory of him at all and yet held such vividly terrifying memories of Theon Greyjoy shook him to the core. He had been eerily silent when Ned left, his head lying on Sansa’s lap, eyes open but far away. Ned wondered if he had gone to his wolf the way Catelyn said he could when he was troubled.

 _Catelyn._ She had looked at at his face as he stood there after Arya had left to dress for the day and Sansa had moved beside her on the bed to take Rickon from her. She never stopped looking at him, even as she asked Sansa if Jeyne Poole would be all right without her. Ned hadn’t actually heard Sansa’s answer, lost in the storm of his own emotions, anchored only by his wife’s gaze. She must have answered in the affirmative, though, because Catelyn had risen and come to him.

“Go to your heart tree, my love,” she’d whispered to him. “I shall find you there.”

He had fled then, as if pursued by demons, not knowing whether he went to pray to his gods or curse them for what they had allowed to befall his family. His children. All of them. As he’d entered the godswood, his mind had been filled not only with the three battered and broken babes the gods had returned to him, but the two he still lacked. Bran. Crippled . . .and missing in the far north. _Gods! How could he possibly survive?_ And Robb. _Robb._ Ned could barely think the name without his breath catching painfully. He had slain Freys at the Twins, at Riverrun, on the road to the Dreadfort, and at the gates of Winterfell. He would kill still more Freys this day. And Robb would still be dead. _Robb. Dead._ The two words did not fit together in his mind no matter how often he thought of it. The happy boy with Catelyn’s eyes had been more alive than anyone Ned had known.

Standing before the heart tree, he bowed his head and prayed for his children. All of them. Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon, and the babe he hoped desperately he would live to see. He tried to pray for the souls of the men he would condemn and send to death today, but found he could not sincerely do so. Perhaps, a better man could. He could not. Not now. _Give me the strength to do what I must and the wisdom to do what is right._

“Ned.”

He had not heard her approach. “Catelyn,” he said, turning slowly to face her. “Where are the children?”

She smiled slightly at that. “Arya is in the courtyard. The two direwolves returned. She and Jon took Ghost along and let them in the gate.”

“Are they back in the kennel?”

She shook her head. “They are in my chamber, my lord. With Rickon and Sansa.”

He nodded. “But Arya is in the courtyard?”

“She is. You told her she could be there, my love.”

“You do not agree,” he said.

She shook her head. “I don’t disagree,” she sighed. “I will not pretend to like it, but as terrible as it is, I think not being there would be worse for Arya.”

He nodded. “It is time, then?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Come then, my lady.” He gave her his arm and she took it. It was a simple enough gesture, one that the two of them had made so many times that it happened without thought, often as not. Now, however, Ned was exquisitely aware of and infinitely grateful for the presence of those long, graceful fingers on his arm.

“Ned,” she said, as they walked. “Jon came to ask me something. He wished to ask you, actually, but when I told him you were here, he did not wish to disturb you.”

“What did he need?”

“It seems he spoke to Theon Greyjoy earlier, and that Greyjoy asked if his sister could see him before . . .I didn’t see any harm in it, so I arranged for her guards to bring her to him. I hope I did rightly, my lord.”

“You did. I should have thought of it myself. It is only decent.” He sighed. “She should be allowed to witness the execution as well, if she chooses.”

Catelyn nodded. “If she has been returned to her room, I will send someone. There will be time for her to come while you deal with the Freys.”

Ned nodded silently.

When they emerged into the main courtyard, a large crowd was gathered. Ned did not like holding executions in Winterfell, but the sheer numbers of people involved in this one made riding to even a nearby holdfast impossible, and simply going outside the walls of the castle with so many spectators was a foolish risk to take as Ramsay Snow was still on the loose. The crowd parted for Catelyn and himself as they walked to where a large wooden block had been placed. As they approached it, he stopped and turned toward her.

She smiled bravely, nodded, and squeezed his arm before releasing it and stepping back from him slightly. He turned toward the block and the gathered crowd. In the very front row, he spotted his daughter, Arya, dressed in breeches, Needle at her hip, and looking grim as death. Jon Snow stood close beside her. Abruptly, he recalled Jon staying by Bran as he witnessed his first execution years ago, and a lump formed in his throat.

Clearing it, he called out in a voice much stronger than he felt, “People of Winterfell and the North! You have come to see justice done, and you shall have it!” Turning to Donnell Boden, who stood nearby, he said, “Bring the prisoners from the First Keep.” In truth, the men had already been brought out from their cells, and they were now marched in a line to stand before Ned.

“Men of House Frey,” he said to them. “You have confessed to taking part in what men have called the Red Wedding. I call it treason and murder. You bent the knee to Robb Stark, King in the North, and then with flagrant disregard for both law and the long honored custom of guest right, you set upon him and his men, while they ate and drank with you to celebrate the marriage of Edmure Tully and Roslin Frey, for the purpose of foul murder.”

Silence met this proclamation. Unlike at the Twins, no one protested his words. Even the prisoners were grimly silent, resigned to their fates. He called for the first man to be brought forward. He did not know these men. Not truly. But he did know their names. He thought it only right that he call a man by his name before he deliberately put him to death, and so he had learned them all.

He called the man’s name out loud and asked if he had anything he wished to say. The man shook his head once, and the men on either side of him pushed him down to kneel with his head over the block. Ned raised the sword, which he had honed as sharply as he could for today’s labor, high over his head. “By the word of Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die.” It felt odd to speak only his own titles without invoking the authority of the crown, but the North was a land without a king at the moment. He brought the sword down swiftly and felt the brief moment of resistance as it met the man’s flesh. His head was struck cleanly off with the blow and it rolled in the direction of Arya and Jon as blood spurted from the severed neck out onto the white snow.

Ned realized Ghost was by Jon when he heard a murmured “Stay” and realized Jon had stopped the beast from chasing after the rolling head. He spared a glance at his daughter to see her steely grey eyes fixed on the head on the ground, a look of grim satisfaction on her face. As if she felt his gaze, she then raised her eyes to his, and she nodded once in approval. Had she been Robb, he knew he would have taken pride in such strength, but the cold, merciless demeanor of his little girl chilled him. He turned to call for the second man and did not look at Arya again.

Eight times he called a name, raised the sword and lowered it to take a head. Eight times the blade bit cleanly through the flesh, sending a head into the snow. He was physically stronger than he’d been at the Twins, more used to this blade and more used to accommodating his damned leg. Even the leg was better, although it would never be what it once was. Half of the men had said nothing. Two had begged forgiveness from the Seven. One had lost his courage completely and cried and pleaded as he was put to the block. The last had said simply he was proud to have served House Frey with honor. There were some angry mutterings at that, but Ned had held up his hand. He did not begrudge the man his notion of honor, whatever it was.

Only after the last, did he turn to look at Catelyn who stood behind him. She had hated bloodshed of any form long before this war had come, and yet she had been the one who held him up after the executions at the Twins. She was pale and her mouth was set in a very thin line, but she stood tall and serene, as if she were unbothered by the blood that had stained the snow crimson. He nodded to her to let her know he was all right, and her lips relaxed only slightly, but he saw the relief in her eyes. She remembered that day at the Twins, too.

“Bring forth Theon Greyjoy,” Ned called. Remembering his conversation with Catelyn just before they’d arrived here, he turned to her again, a question in his eyes.

She understood at once and nodded, turning her gaze toward her left. He followed her eyes and found Asha Greyjoy, surrounded by four guards, staring stonily at the block where her brother would soon kneel. She looked neither to the right nor left and showed no emotion on her face. A soft intake of breath behind him called his attention back to Catelyn, and when he turned to see the expression on her face, he knew where she looked. She had not yet seen what had become of Theon Greyjoy. She’d expressed no desire to speak to the man she had called a “fiend in human form” after hearing he had murdered their children. _Yet she allowed him to see his sister,_ Ned thought. He looked at her face, now composed and expressionless again, and thought that had their boys truly died at Theon’s hand, she would not have given him even that.

“Theon Greyjoy,” he said, as the wreck of a young man shuffled up to the block. “You are guilty of treason against Robb Stark, King in the North. You are guilty of unlawful attack on Winterfell, causing loss of innocent life. You are guilty of the murder of children--two young boys who meant nothing to you, and died for your own ambition and pride.”

Theon looked directly at him as he spoke and offered no protest.

“Have you anything to say, Theon?” Ned asked him.

“I am Theon Greyjoy,” he said, almost too low to be heard. Then he turned toward the assembled crowd and nearly shouted it. “I am Theon of House Greyjoy! Winterfell belongs to the Starks. It has always been their place. Eddard Stark. Robb Stark. House Stark.” He turned toward his sister and smiled. “I am Theon Greyjoy,” he said once more. Then he knelt and placed his head over the block without assistance from his guards.

Ned found that his hands trembled as he raised the sword this time, and he wondered if his voice shook as he spoke the words. Before he could swing, he heard Robert Baratheon’s voice clearly in his head. “I’m giving the boy to you, Ned. If anybody can teach a Greyjoy honor, it has to be you.” As the sword arced downward he saw the dark haired boy standing there at Pyke, looking up at him with eyes that were suspicious, scared, and young. So incredibly young.

He felt the familiar resistance of flesh against sword and realized he had closed his eyes. The stroke fell true in spite of it, and Theon Greyjoy’s head fell into the snow with a soft thud. It rolled only a little and came to a stop with the thin white hair standing out against the crimson snow and the sightless eyes in the wasted face looking as if they belonged to an old, old man. Yet, Ned Stark looked down at it and thought once more, _So incredibly young._

He became gradually aware that the silence wasn’t only in his head. The spectators took no joy in this. The men looked grim, but sorrowful as well, as they began to melt away quietly. Theon’s sister had been led away already, so he did not know if her expression had ever changed. He felt a touch on his hand and looked down to see Arya looking up at him, tears in her eyes. “He isn’t even Theon, anymore,” she said softly and looked back down at the ravaged face of the head in the snow.

“You’re wrong, sweetling,” he told her, pulling her into his arms and immensely grateful that she allowed him to do so. “I think I understand him now. He did lose himself, but he was Theon today.”

“Lord Stark,” called a man whose name Ned could not quite remember. “I have the women here to care for the bodies. Just as you asked.”

Ned nodded absently.

“No heads on pikes?” Ned looked up to see Lord Umber approaching him with some others.

“I believe there have been enough heads on pikes, Jon,” Ned replied softly. He looked around. He did not see his Jon, anymore. Nor the direwolf. He must have gone to prepare for his departure already. Looking back down at his daugher, Ned rubbed a hand through her hair. “Go to your sister and brother, Arya. Tell them it is done. I would have you all together right now.”

She bit her lip, but nodded and turned to go to the Great Keep.

“My lord,” said Yohn Royce, who Ned just now noticed had approached with the Greatjon, “There are things we must speak . . .”

“My dear Lord Royce,” a feminine voice interrupted, and Ned turned to see his wife approaching them. “An ignorant southron such as yourself may be forgiven for thinking a northern lord dispenses justice and then engages in conversation with blood still on his sword.” Before Royce could object to being called ignorant, she rounded on Lord Umber. “A Northman, however, should know better.”

The Greatjon’s face went from shock to anger to immense amusement in a matter of seconds, and he roared with laughter. “My apologies, Lady Stark,” he said then in his booming voice. “Damn good thing I’ve got a true northern lady here to set me straight.” He bowed to her, and then took the still confused looking Yohn Royce’s arm and spun him in the opposite direction. “Come along, friend, and I’ll tell you more about northern custom. You know, our Lady Catelyn started out almost as ignorant as you, and she’s come along just fine.”

As he watched the men’s retreating backs, still feeling a bit dazed and overwhelmed, she turned him to face her. “Go to your heart tree, my love,” she said softly, for the second time that morning.

He smiled slightly and ran a finger along her cheek. “And you shall find me there?” he asked.

“Always,” she answered.

He lifted her gloved hand to his lips then, and walked back to the godswood where he would clean his sword, attempt to cleanse his spirit, and pray sincerely for the soul of Theon Greyjoy.


	44. Farewells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a little longer to get posted than I intended. I only hope it was worth the wait.

“I am here, Your Grace.” Jon looked at at the pale, drawn face of the man in the bed. Stannis Baratheon’s eyes had not opened when he entered the room behind Davos Seaworth, but at the sound of his voice, those dark blue eyes opened and fixed on Jon’s face. “Lord Seaworth said you wished to speak to me before I left Winterfell.”

“Your Grace,” the man in the bed whispered hoarsely. “You grant me loftier titles than your father does, Lord Snow.”

Jon shrugged slightly. “It is the title you prefer, is it not? When there were many kings in the land, the Night’s Watch appealed to them all, but you alone answered our plea, as you are quick to point out, Your Grace. It costs me nothing to address you as you desire. I am hardly in a position to stand upon titles.” _Although, as a newborn babe, I might have held the one you now claim, if_ _all Ned Stark says is true,_ Jon thought suddenly. _Jon Targaryen._ The name held no meaning for him, and he shook his head forcing his attention back to Stannis Baratheon.

“Lord Seaworth is my Hand,” the man was saying. “He shall have command of my men until I am able to join you. I expect you to respect that.”

“I shall, Your Grace,” Jon replied. “But you should know that the men who still call themselves yours are not happy with that decision.” The knights with Stannis were largely Queen Selyse’s men, and they tended to hold the Onion Knight in some contempt.

“So Davos has told me,” Stannis sighed. “I care not whether they like it or don’t, as long as they abide by the will of their king.” After a moment, he added, “What do you mean ‘the men who still call themselves yours’?”

“You haven’t told him?” Jon asked Seaworth.

The older man shook his head. “Not yet. I wished to know precisely how things stood before bothering his grace with the grumblings of his men. And Lord Stark wished to speak with the men and his grace about it.”

“About what?” Stannis demanded, rather more forcefully than Jon would have thought him able in his current state.

“Of the men you brought to Winterfell, only those who came with you from the south still consider themselves part of your company, Sire,” Jon said flatly. “The Umbers and all the men of the mountain clans have declared allegiance to Lord Stark. They intend to march with us, but under the direwolf banner.”

Baratheon’s eyes narrowed. “Are Northmen such fickle creatures, then?”

Jon bristled at that. “There is no man truer than a Northman,” he stated coldly. “These men have ever belonged to House Stark. Believing their lord dead and his family all but destroyed, still they marched with you for the sake of his honor and to liberate his castle and his daughter from traitors and betrayers. Do not insult them, Your Grace.”

Before King Stannis could reply, Davos Seaworth put in, “It is of no consequence, Your Grace. Lord Stark has spoken with these men and directed that those who march today follow myself, Lord Howland Reed and Donnell Boden. All were agreeable.” Seaworth gave a wry smile then. “In fact, they were rather more agreeable to my command than Queen Selyse’s knights.”

Stannis ground his teeth. “Lord Stark directed. I ask no favors from Eddard Stark.”

“But you do,” Jon corrected him. “You ask that he support your claim to the Iron Throne.”

“Because it is right!” Stannis insisted. “It is no favor to support your rightful king. His traitorous son is dead, and Stark has no reason not to support me now. There are no other legitimate heirs to the throne, and he knows it.”

 _He knows far more about legitimate heirs to the throne than you think,_ Jon thought. Aloud, he only said, “I would not call my brother Robb a traitor in Lord Stark’s presence if I were you, your Grace.”

“It does not bother you that your father did not instruct his men to follow you?” Stannis asked him then. Jon had heard his father speak of how Stannis Baratheon had always felt slighted by his brother Robert.

“That was my doing, Sire,” he responded evenly. “I am Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. I have my own men at the Wall, and the Night’s Watch takes no part in matters of the realm.”

Baratheon actually laughed at that, ending with a coughing fit that sounded painful. “You have an interesting way of not taking part, Jon Snow,” he said after regaining his breath. “Still, you did refuse Winterfell when I offered it. You are more like your father than you know. I do not pretend to like the man, but I will not deny he is more honorable than most. Bastard or not, you know the meaning of honor as well.”

Jon could not respond to that, so he only said, “Is there anything else you wanted of me, your Grace?”

“My wife and daughter,” he said. “I would have them secured and sent to Winterfell. Shireen is heir to the Iron Throne and must be protected.” He paused then. “I do not believe I shall die of these wounds, but I begin to fear I shall not be well enough to ride north even when Lord Stark goes, and I must rely on others to come to the aid of my family. Will you give me your word to do all in your power to see them safe?”

“You have my word, Sire,” Jon answered. “But surely, you would trust your own men with this.”

“Trust,” Stannis said bitterly. “I trust Davos. He tells me the truth. And so do you, Jon Snow.”

Jon thought of Mance Rayder’s son, far away with Sam and Gilly, and said nothing.

“We should take our leave now, your Grace,” Lord Seaworth said. “The men are preparing to leave even as we speak.”

As the king nodded, he closed his eyes briefly, and Jon could see that even this brief conversation had exhausted him. He bowed to Stannis Baratheon and left to say his other farewells.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Damnation!” The rock had narrowly missed the snow target she had made upon the low, crumbling wall around the oldest part of the lichyard. As she dug through the snow at the base of the Broken Tower for more rocks to throw, she heard a laugh.

“Your lady mother wouldn’t approve of your swearing like that, little sister.”

She looked up to see Jon standing just this side of the First Keep, watching her. She shrugged. “She’s in the godswood so it’s not like she’ll hear me.” She tested the weight of a little, broken stone fragment by tossing it up slightly and catching it.

“The godswood?” Jon asked. Like everyone else, he knew it wasn’t her favorite place.

“She went to get Father,” Arya said, taking aim at her target again and letting the rock fly. This time it connected with the snow and made a satisfying thud. She smiled. “And to make sure all the gates are shut. She had us put the wolves in there until all the men and horses leave the courtyard. She figured they’d prefer it to her chambers once Sansa and Rickon left.”

“A wise thought,” Jon replied, reaching down to scratch Ghost’s ears. “Ghost may be capable of remaining calm in a crowd, but I have no such confidence in Shaggydog and Nymeria. And I shudder to think what those two would do to Lady Catelyn’s chambers if left locked up there.” Arya smiled. “Did you not intend to tell me goodbye, little sister?” he asked then.

“You aren’t gone yet,” she said, biting her lip.

“We are ready to depart. Sansa and Rickon came to see me already, and they’re waiting at the gate to watch us march out.”

Arya shrugged. “I was just thinking,” she said.

“About what?”

“Theon,” she said. She looked up at Jon and asked the question that had been burning in her mind since the executions. “Why did he do it, Jon?”

“I don’t know, Arya,” he told her.

“I understand killing,” she blurted out. “I understand killing because you are angry or afraid or because you have to. Father killed Theon because he had to. Mother killed Roose Bolton because she was angry. But Theon never had to kill anyone at Winterfell. He had no reason to be angry at Robb! Robb would have given him a castle if he wanted one. Not Winterfell, I mean, but . . .”

“I know, Arya. I can’t explain why Theon did what he did. I do think he was sorry for it.”

“Sorry,” she said bitterly. “Like that helps anything.” She picked up another rock and flung it toward the ruins of the First Keep. “Look at this place, Jon!” she shouted, suddenly more angry than she could stand. “It’s all ruined! And Theon did that to us! Even if he didn’t burn it, he’s the reason it happened. And sorry doesn’t change it! Theon being dead doesn’t change it!”

 _Theon being dead doesn’t change it._ That was what had her so angry. That was why she had come here after finding her brother and sister in Mother’s room and going with them to take the direwolves to the godswood. She’d had to go off by herself even though Father had said he wanted them all together. She’d been throwing rocks a good while now and silently fuming because the executions didn’t change anything.

She had enjoyed watching the Frey men die. It hadn’t given her any pleasure, exactly, but it certainly gave her satisfaction. Until she thought about it afterward. Until she looked at her lady mother’s face and saw the scars still there and thought about the fact that Robb was still dead. Then her satisfaction seemed hollow. When Theon had been brought out, she had almost gotten sick just looking at him. Whatever the Bastard of Bolton had done to him was far worse than Father taking off his head. She’d felt no satisfaction at his death, just a mixture of revulsion and pity.

“No,” Jon said quietly now. “Theon’s death doesn’t change it, Arya. But it was still right that he die. He still had to pay for his crimes. Do you understand?”

“You sound like Father,” she told him. “Trying to teach me about death and justice.”

Jon laughed, but he didn’t really sound happy. “I suppose you know enough about death already, Arya,” he said quietly. “And I don’t know if I’m the person to teach anyone about justice.” He ran his hand across the top of her head, where the short strands had actually grown enough to muss just slightly. “I suppose I’ll stick to giving you sword fighting tips.”

“Stick them with the pointy end.” It really wasn’t funny anymore, but she grinned at him anyway. Then she remembered the one thing she had to tell him. “Thank you for sending the wildling king to Winterfell for me,” she whispered.

“The . . .? Oh, Mance.” Jon looked steadily at her with those grey eyes of his. “I couldn’t just leave you here, Arya. Not with Ramsay Snow. I couldn’t stand the thought of it.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she forced them back. “I . . .I used to dream about somebody coming to find me. Robb, Mother, anybody. I prayed they would want me back even after I did the things I did. But no one ever came, and I finally knew that no one ever would. No one was going to save me. But you tried.”

Jon’s jaw clenched tightly, and he looked so much like Father that Arya almost gasped. “I always will, little sister. I always will.” Then he smiled. “Thank the gods you were perfectly capable of saving yourself and finding your own way back to us.”

Arya bit her lip. “It wasn’t easy, Jon,” she whispered, unable to look at him.

“Hey,” he said, putting his hand under her chin and raising her grey eyes to his. “Whatever you did, you did right, Arya. Because you’re here. You’re alive. If you think anything matters more than that to me or your parents or Sansa or Rickon, you’re wrong. If I could go back and talk to Robb now, I’d have him slit Walder Frey’s throat before the first course was served at the Twins if that would have him here with us now. Do you understand me?”

She nodded and grabbed him tight around the waist. “You remember that,” she whispered fiercely. “You do whatever it takes to stay alive.”

“I promise I’ll do my best,” he answered, as he hugged her tightly back. “I have to go now, Arya.”

She let go of him. “I don’t really want to watch all the men ride away, if you don’t mind. I want to go to the godswood and find Nymeria.”

He smiled at her. “I think that sounds perfect. Goodbye, little sister.”

“Goodbye, Jon.”

He turned and walked away from her then. Just before he passed beyond the wall into the main courtyard, she called out to him, “Remember! Stick them with the pointy end!” Then she turned and ran for the godswood as quickly as she could go.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn Stark read through the letter from Riverrun again. The words on the parchment seemed almost as unbelievable as those Selyse Baratheon had written. It would seem the entire world had gone mad. She looked up at the boy who had brought it to her. “Find Lord Stark and send him to me here,” she said.

“Yes, milady,” he said quickly and disappeared out the door of Ned’s solar.

Three days had passed since the departure of Jon Snow and the men who rode with him. Two days remained until Ned’s own departure, but she never let herself dwell upon that. She kept her mind filled with other things--the daily running of Winterfell, the preparations for Ned’s army to march north in winter, and the care of Stannis Baratheon and the other wounded men. Barbrey Dustin had taken her maester when she left, and while the woman Howland Reed had brought into the castle from the Winter Town before he had gone north with Jon had shown a reasonable amount of skill at healing, Catelyn felt responsible for all the wounded within her walls, and she made certain to see Stannis Baratheon and the most grievously injured men daily.

She still was not comfortable with Stannis Baratheon, and the man knew it. Neither of them had forgotten the things he had said about her son, but he was a guest in her home, and she would treat him with all due courtesy. She desperately missed Howland Reed. She hadn’t realized how much she’d come to rely on the little crannogman’s calm presence, always in the background, but always present for Ned or herself. Ned had given him the option of going with the men who were to fortify the defenses at Moat Cailin since most of his own men were there, but he had preferred to go north. Catelyn was not surprised. His children, if they lived, were to the north with Bran. If the man had dreamed any more of the children, he hadn’t told her of it. She hoped that did not bode ill, and her breath caught in her throat every time she thought of her still-missing son.

She got up from the table where she’d been poring over parchments and walked to the window. It was snowing again. It snowed at least briefly most days now as winter was well and truly upon them, but fortunately there had been no recent bad storms. She offered a silent prayer for Jon Snow, Howland, and all the men who were somewhere north along the Kingsroad, and prayed that what passed for mild weather during a northern winter would continue for Ned’s own journey north.

Ned had been driving himself beyond all reason since Jon and the others had left. These five days were ostensibly to let Maege and Yohn and all the men who had just arrived rest, but her husband did not seem to allow himself any rest at all, and it worried her. He’d been drained when she’d brought him out of the godswood to say farewell to Jon and watch the men ride out, and he looked even more drained to her now. His parting from Jon had been stilted, but at least when he put his hands on the boy’s arms and told him to be safe, Jon hadn’t pulled away. She supposed that was something. She knew the distance between them tortured Ned, and his pain ripped at her heart more deeply than any pain of her own.

A flurry of movement down in the courtyard caught her eye, and she saw two enormous direwolves, one black and one grey rolling over each other in the snow while Arya, Dak, and Rickon threw snowballs at the wolves and one another. Anyone else walking through the courtyard was giving the reckless group of children and wolves a wide berth, and Catelyn knew she should banish the lot of them to the godswood in the interest of peace in the castle, but she simply couldn’t do it. In fairness, the two wolves hadn’t so much as growled at anyone in the past two days, and Catelyn’s heart sang to see her boy and girl acting like the children they were. Dak was good for them. Arya, in particular, never seemed free to be her age except in the company of her little brother and the Pentoshi boy.

“What makes you smile, my love?”

She hadn’t heard him come in, and she looked up at the sound of his deep voice to see him standing in the doorway. The look of admiring affection on his face widened her smile. “The children,” she said. “Come see. They’re playing with the wolves in the snow.”

He walked to her then, slipping one arm around her waist as he stood beside her to gaze out the window of the solar. She leaned her head into his shoulder and sighed. She felt as if she had scarcely seen him in three days other than in her bed at night. “Do you remember watching them all play so?” he asked softly.

She nodded against him. Snowball fights had been a favorite of all the children. Even Sansa would forget her lady-like demeanor in the midst of flying snow and cackling siblings.

“Where is Sansa?” he asked, and she knew his thoughts had paralleled hers.

“With Jeyne Poole, like as not,” she replied. “The poor girl has become quite dependent on her. Arya has even consented to allowing her to move into the girls’ room in order that Sansa actually get to sleep in her own bed and not have to go forever back and forth. The poor child still won’t come to the Great Hall for meals, but she tolerates Arya’s and my presence quite well now along with the two maids who wait on her. She even handles small doses of Rickon and Dak, but she’s still rather petrified of any grown man, and the sight of a blade sends her into hysterics.”

“And Sansa cares for her,” Ned said quietly. “As she did for Robert Arryn and then for Rickon.” He turned away from the window and turned to face Catelyn, taking her face in his hands. “I fear our girl has truly left her childhood behind, Cat. As you did when your mother died, leaving you to care for Lysa and Edmure.”

Catelyn shook her head gently. “I never suffered as Sansa has, my love. Mayhaps, I took on the responsibility of a lady, but I remained a girl at heart, foolish and innocent in ways that only the young can be. Sansa has seen too much of the evil in this world to ever be that innocent again.” Catelyn turned back to the window. “Arya, as well, but she never did want to be a lady. She fights to hold on to her childhood as she fought to hold on to her wolf. In rare moments like these, she succeeds.”

They were both silent then for a bit as they watched the snowball fight come to an end, and the children wander away with their wolves. As they disappeared from sight, Catelyn felt that a spell woven of memory, joy, and grief in equal parts had just been broken, and she sighed.

Ned turned to her once more. “As pleasant as it is to simply hold you and watch our children play, I doubt that is why you sent for me, my lady,” he said.

“No,” she said quietly, stepping out of the circle of his arm to move back toward the table where the letter lay. “I had a letter from Edmure today. Not in response to the one you sent, my love. It’s too soon for that. Simply a letter detailing the news of the realm. It is quite unbelievable, Ned.”

He raised his brows in question, and she sighed. “It seems the Lannisters are dropping like flies, Ironborn are raiding up the Mander, and Aegon Targaryen, Rhaegar’s murdered infant, has risen from the dead and taken Griffin’s Roost in the Stormlands.”

He goggled at her, speechless, and she thrust the letter into his hands. “Read it yourself,” she said. “I read it twice and I still can’t believe it all.”

She watched his face as he read, easily recognizing by the subtle changes in his expression each time he discovered a new revelation in Edmure’s words. She saw his eyes go over certain passages more than once and imagined she knew well enough which passages those were. Finally, he lowered the parchment and looked at her.

“Once,” he said softly. “These tidings would have caused me to take any number of actions. Now, I can do nothing but leave these troubles to themselves and hope they remain south of the Neck while I attempt to meet our greater danger here.”

She nodded. “It is good for Edmure at least, I think. With Cersei Lannister disgraced, Kevan Lannister dead, and the Kingslayer imprisoned in Riverrun, there is not much Lannister threat left to the Riverlands. It appears Mace Tyrell is the power in King’s Landing now, what little power remains there anyway, as Hand for that little boy, Tommen. I imagine that between the Ironborn troubling the Reach and this reborn Targaryen threatening from Griffin’s Roost, the last thing he wants to do is fight Edmure and his bannermen.”

“You are right,” he said, glancing over the letter again. “I see that your brother has no intention of actually swearing fealty to young Tommen, but neither will he act against his men as long as they keep out of the Riverlands. I believe I hear the Blackfish’s counsel there. While there is no clear king in the realm, it is wisdom to simply see to his own people for now and await a better picture what this new collection of potential monarchs will bring. Particularly given how much Edmure’s lands have already suffered.” He shook his head, deep in thought. “I wonder if this Targaryen pretender has yet sought out alliances? He would start with Dorne, I imagine. If he can convince Doran Martell of his legitimacy, surely his mother’s brother will declare for him.”

“Pretender? You do not think it could truly be him, then? Rhaegar’s son?” _Jon’s brother,_ she thought suddenly, having not considered that until now. _If this man is truly Aegon Targaryen, he is closer kin to Jon Snow than my own children are._

Ned shrugged almost imperceptibly. “In truth, I do not know, Cat. I was dead. You were dead. Rickon was dead. Who is to say that young Aegon’s death was no more fact than ours.”

“You saw his body, my love,” she replied, remembering the horror in Ned’s voice when he spoke of the infant Aegon’s butchered corpse.

“And Sansa and Arya were shown my head, Edmure your body, and the people of Winterfell Bran’s and Rickon’s heads.” Again, he shook his head slowly as he considered the possibilities. “I saw a murdered babe. In truth, all babes save our own have always looked rather alike to me, and that babe . . .” He closed his eyes and Catelyn saw the pain of the memory etched on his solemn features. “His own mother could not have identified him.”

“If he is Aegon Targaryen, then is he the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms?” _Rather than Jon?_

Ned sighed. “He would be Rhaegar Targaryen’s heir. But Rhaegar was defeated at the Trident. For better or worse, when we won the Rebellion, we put Robert on the throne. It became a Baratheon throne by conquest just as it had become a Targaryen throne by conquest years before. Oh, we spoke of his Targaryen blood, and the continuation of the line, of course. But did we try to crown Viserys? No. By our actions, we put an end to the Targaryen monarchy, Cat, leaving Rhaegar’s heir no better claim than Robert’s heir.”

“Stannis, you mean.”

“Stannis,” Ned confirmed. “He will want to know these tidings. Although what he can do about them now, I do not know.”

“What do you think of the Greyjoys reaving in the south?” she asked him.

He almost smiled at her, but it was a grim expression all the same. “Any Iron Islander that is attacking in the south is not attacking in the north. As heartless as that sounds, my lady, presently, it is the only thing I can think about it. And given that I have no attention to spare for Greyjoys in the north at the moment, I consider that a good thing.”

She smiled back at him. “You are entitled to take good news where you can find it, my lord. The gods know you have received enough of the other kind to last a lifetime.”

He regarded her for a moment with eyes the color of smoke. “I have indeed received more than enough ill news since before I left Winterfell with Robert to last a hundred lifetimes, and have suffered some losses from which I shall never truly recover,” he said gravely.

 _Robb,_ Catelyn thought, and she felt the familiar dagger through her heart. _He speaks of Robb._

“But I cannot think on that,” he continued. He dropped the letter onto the table and came to grasp her arms with his hands. “I cannot dwell on what is lost to me forever or how my mistakes have cost us all. I must take us forward, Cat, and I only have the strength to do that when I look at you and the children and realize what I have not lost. For all the evil that has befallen my house, I still have much good to fight for.”

“Yes, my love,” she told him, not fighting the tears which shone in her eyes. “We still have much. And I will stand beside you and defend it.”

“Would that I could keep you beside me always,” he said then with a hint of desperation she rarely heard in his voice. Suddenly, he let go of her arms, only to to put his around her and clutch her tightly to him. “Cat,” he said, in a hoarse voice, raw with emotion. “How can I leave you here alone with all the world turned upside down and new threats every day? How do I ride away from you?”

She closed her eyes and listened to the hammering of his heart as he held her against his chest. _Stay,_ she thought. _Do not ride_ _away. I don’t want you to go._ But she said only, “You can do it because you must, my love. You do not leave me alone. The children and I shall be far better protected here than you will be at the Wall.” She turned her face to look up at his. “And I am beside you always. For you carry my heart.” She kissed him then, and he returned the kiss with fervor. After a moment, she pulled her lips from his and looked directly into those grey eyes once more. “You will find a way to defeat these Others, my love. And I shall hold Winterfell in your absence. And when you return, we shall deal with . . .that,” she said, making a broad sweeping motion of her hand in the general direction of Edmure’s letter on the table.

He swallowed once, and then nodded at her, brushing loose strands of hair back away from her face. “I shall endeavor to do as you command, my lady.”

A knock on the door caused them both to jump, and then they both called “Come in,” together, while stepping apart.

Maege Mormont entered the solar and caught her breath slightly at the sight of the two of them still standing rather close together, although no longer touching. “Forgive me, Lady Catelyn,” she said. “I do not mean to intrude, but I have need to speak with Lord Eddard and I was told you had summoned him here.”

“Summoned?” Ned said with some amusement. “To my own solar?”

Catelyn smiled, actually grateful to Maege for lifting momentarily the weight of grief and responsibility that hung so heavily on both of them. “My lord husband was kind enough to honor my request that he come and speak with me,” she said in her most deferential voice, with only a hint of laughter in it. “I am quite finished with him now, though, Lady Maege, if you have need of him.”

“Finished with me, are you, my lady?” Ned said with mock severity. He shook his head in Maege Mormont’s direction. “Do you see what I contend with here, Maege? Not only does she summon me, but she dismisses me as well.”

“Well, my lord,” Maege responded without hesitation. “Since you are dismissed, I would appreciate your coming to the stables with me. There seems to be quite a bit of disagreement upon how many animals are needed to pull supply wagons, how many should be taken as extra mounts, and how many will be needed here at Winterfell. I thought perhaps you should intervene before we have bloodshed.”

“Bloodshed, Lady Maege?” Ned asked.

“Well, mayhaps that is an overstatement, but your men are all rather opinionated, my lord.”

“You speak truly there, my lady,” Ned responded. Reaching toward the table, he rolled up Edmure’s letter. “I will show this to Stannis after I settle whatever debate is raging in the stables,” he said to Catelyn. “I trust I will see you in the Great Hall for evening meal?”

“If you actually make it to the Hall for evening meal, my lord,” she replied, smiling ruefully. He had missed more meals than he’d attended over the past couple days.

“I shall be there. Until then, my lady,” he said, raising her hand to his lips. Then he was gone, striding purposefully out the door with Maege Mormont in his wake and leaving Catelyn once again alone in the solar.

 _Alone,_ she thought, as she sat back down at the table, returning to the ledgers she’d been working on before the boy brought Edmure’s letter. _I had best become accustomed to it, and get on with what I have to do._

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

 _Tomorrow. Father is leaving tomorrow._ Sansa could think of nothing else as she deftly worked Jeyne’s hair into a neat braid. _He is leaving, and he may be killed, and I still haven’t told him._

“Ow!”

“What? Oh, I’m sorry, Jeyne. Did I pull too hard?”

“What’s wrong, Sansa? You never pull my hair like that. Is something bothering you?” Jeyne asked her.

“Well, it’s only that . . .” Suddenly, Sansa realized that Jeyne had just asked after her welfare. Jeyne hadn’t shown any real concern for anyone since Sansa had first seen her in that dark, cold room several days ago, much too consumed by her own pains and terrors to see beyond them. She had been begun acting a little more like herself, at least within the confines of this room. Perhaps, she truly was getting better. She didn’t need any reminders of King’s Landing, though, so Sansa simply said, “It’s nothing, Jeyne. I suppose I’m only worried about Jon and Father going off to fight whatever these monsters are beyond the Wall.”

Jeyne shuddered. But then she turned around in the chair to look at Sansa directly. “There are monsters on this side of the Wall, too, Sansa,” she said in a flat, quiet voice.

Sansa could murder that idiot maid for speaking of Ramsay Snow’s escape from Lord Stannis’s men in front of Jeyne yesterday. She had finally gotten Jeyne out of this room for a few walks around the godswood, as long as Arya would go ahead of them and make sure no one would approach or try to speak to the girl. Now, she refused to leave the room at all again, fearing Ramsay might pop out from behind any tree, and she trembled like a leaf any time she heard a dog bark outside. From the few things Jeyne had said, Sansa had decided she did not want to know about Ramsay Snow’s dogs.

She loved Jeyne. She truly did, but she was beginning to feel like a prisoner in her own room. Jeyne never told her not to leave, but the expression in her eyes every time Sansa walked out the door spoke volumes. In a completely different way, her friend was as trying as Robert Arryn had been. She took Jeyne’s hands in her own now. “Yes, Jeyne. You and I know more about monsters than anyone should. But no monsters will reach us in Winterfell.”

“But he was in Winterfell. He says it’s his. He will come back to claim it. And me.” Jeyne didn’t even sound frightened. Only resigned. That seemed somehow worse to Sansa.

“No, he won’t. My lady mother shall rule Winterfell while my lord father is gone, and she will not allow any monsters in. I promise you that.” Sansa bit her lip briefly before continuing. “She knows more about monsters than either of us, Jeyne,” she said quietly.

Jeyne nodded understanding. “Her face,” she said softly, “and her neck.”

“Yes,” Sansa said. “She has suffered and survived. Just like us. She will not let any further harm come to us, I promise.”

“Your back,” Jeyne said just as softly, and Sansa tensed. She was always so careful about her scars. She suspected both her mother and Arya had seen them, but were too concerned about her feelings to ask about them. She supposed that after being in the same room with Jeyne almost non-stop for days now, she should not be surprised that Jeyne had noticed them, too.

“What about my back?” she said cautiously.

“Did Joffrey do that?” Jeyne asked. “Or was it Lord Baelish? Lord Baelish never had me beaten. He said there were better forms of discipline.”

Sansa really did not want to discuss Petyr Baelish with Jeyne. “Joffrey,” she said abruptly. “Although, he didn’t do it himself. He had the Knights of the Kingsguard beat me.”

“Knights?” Jeyne asked. “But a knight should protect a lady.” Jeyne sounded impossibly young and naïve then, especially having lived through all she had, and it actually made Sansa angry.

“And how many knights were in Kings Landing when they let Petyr drag you off to a whorehouse? How many knights were in Winterfell while Ramsay Snow bedded and beat you? Life is not a song, Jeyne, and there are no true knights!”

“No,” Jeyne said, shaking her head. “Not for me. I’m not a lady. I’m just a steward’s daughter. A dead steward’s daughter. I was never really Arya Stark. So there are no true knights for me.”

The absolute bleakness in Jeyne’s voice chilled Sansa. _A dead steward’s daughter. That’s my doing. Her father was killed when my father was arrested. I went to Cersei Lannister. I killed Jeyne’s father. I put Jeyne here just as much as I did everyone in my family._

Suddenly, Sansa couldn’t breathe. “Jeyne,” she said. “There are good men. I promise you that. Life isn’t a song, but there is good in it!” She could hear her voice rising and her words speeding up as a sob or a shout threatened to escape her throat. “I have to go for a bit. I’ll be back.” She turned and left the room abruptly before Jeyne could respond.

Before she had gone twenty feet down the corridor, she almost collided with Nymeria who nearly filled all the available space as she stalked ahead of Arya.

“Watch where you’re walking, Sansa!” Arya snapped. Then, taking a closer look at her sister’s face, she added, “Something wrong?”

“No . . .yes . . .I need to see Father, Arya. Do you know where he is?” She still felt as if she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

“Yes, he’s in the armory. Why? Is something wrong?” Sansa was already pushing past her sister in the direction of the covered bridge which led to the armory. “Sansa!” Arya called after her.

“I’m fine!” she called back. “Just . . .go and sit with Jeyne!”

The bridge was much cooler than the corridors within the Great Keep even though it was largely enclosed, and Sansa regretted not grabbing a cloak in her flight from Jeyne, her room, and her guilt. She couldn’t keep this inside her any longer, though. She couldn’t let her father die without knowing the truth, as terrible as it was. _But do I want him to die hating me?_ a small voice inside her head asked. _Stop it! Father isn’t going to die at all!_ she told herself fiercely.

Even as she thought of him, she saw her father in front of her, walking across the bridge alone toward the Great Keep.

“Sansa,” he called out as he saw her, his deep voice full of the same pleasure it always held when he saw her. It made her want to cry.

Her distress must have shown on her own face because as he drew near to her, his face registered concern. “Sansa, sweetling, are you well?” he asked her.

She swallowed hard and nodded. “I am,” she said, and was encouraged to find her voice sounded stronger than she felt. “But I must speak with you, Father.”

“That sounds very serious, Sansa,” he said gravely.

She nodded again. “It is.”

“Well, then,” he said. “Allow me to escort you to my solar, my lady.” He offered her his arm then, just as he always did her lady mother, and Sansa bit her lip hard to keep from crying. They walked together silently. Her father had always been easy with silence, although he’d never seemed to mind her filling it up with chatter about whatever interested her at the moment. Throughout her childhood, he’d listened to her speak of dolls, dresses, songs, flowers, princes, and princesses, and always proclaimed himself fascinated by what she had to say. She was struck forcefully by how much she loved him, and the thought that soon he might think very differently about her terrified her.

When, at last, they reached his solar, he closed the door behind them. “It is odd to walk in and not see your mother here,” he said. “I believe this has been more her solar than mine these last few days.”

Sansa nodded. “And it will be for some time, I suppose. We will all miss you, Father.”

“No more than I shall miss all of you, my daughter. I assure you, the thought of leaving you all behind so soon gives me no joy. But you may speak your mind, Sansa. We will not be disturbed. I happen to know where your mother is at the moment. I left her in the yard outside the armory counting out any number of items as they are packed for tomorrow’s departure.”

Sansa nodded again. That was easier than talking. She took a deep breath and said, “Please sit down, Father.”

He raised his brows, but sat down in the chair behind the table without objection. When she remained standing, he asked her, “Won’t you join me, Sansa?”

She shook her head. “I think I shall be better able to say this if I’m standing up,” she said, beginning to walk about slowly even as she said it. Unable to meet his eyes, she looked downward as she said, “I must tell you about King’s Landing, Father. You don’t know what truly happened there.”

“Sansa,” her father said. “Look at me child.” It was said kindly, but definitely sounded like an order.

She raised her eyes and saw a look of pain on his face, and she almost couldn’t stand to meet his gaze, but she did. “If you feel you must tell me what was done to you there, Sansa,” he said very quietly, “I will listen, for your sake. But you needn’t feel you must tell me anything you do not wish to. You know you can always speak with your mother. She will understand . . .”

“No!” Sansa cried, realizing that he didn’t understand at all. “I mean, yes, terrible things happened to me in King’s Landing, but I don’t want to talk about that! I want to talk about why it all happened. Why everything is all my fault!” She started crying then. All the resolve in the world could not stop her tears.

Suddenly her father was standing beside her with his arms around her, and she was crying against his shoulder while he held onto her, telling her everything was all right. She wanted to stay just like that and let him keep telling her nothing was her fault until she believed it. But it wasn’t true, and this man holding her up had taught her to speak the truth.

She sniffed and pushed herself away from him, raising her watery blue eyes to meet his concerned grey ones. “No,” she said clearly. “You do not know what happened, and I must tell you before you go. I cannot live with myself if I do not.”

Her father sighed. “I know very well what happened, Sansa. I failed to protect you and your sister. I failed to put your safety ahead of everything else, and I . . .”

“No!” she cried out. “It wasn’t your fault! You were going to send us away. You had it all planned, remember? You told me about it, and I yelled at you. I told you I loved Joffrey. Do you remember that? I said I wanted Joffrey.”

“Sansa, you were a child. You had no idea what Joffrey was like, then. I knew that,” her father said soothingly.

“I betrayed you!” She almost shouted it. She couldn’t remember ever speaking three words that hurt more to say.

“Being unhappy is not a betrayal, child . . .”

“I went to the queen,” she said quickly. “You told us to tell no one, but I went straight to Cersei Lannister.” Her father was silent now, simply staring at her. “I didn’t want to go back to Winterfell,” she said softly. “That’s all I could think about, and I thought she could talk to you and . . . I told her everything.” The last words were little more than a whisper.

“Oh, Sansa,” her father said, his voice nearly a whisper as well.

“So you see it is my fault. Your arrest, Jeyne’s father and Septa Mordane and everyone else being killed, everything that’s happened to all of us because of your arrest . . . even . . .even Robb.” Her brother’s name came as a choked sob. “I know it was unforgivable, but I am sorry. I am so, so, sorry, Father, and if you hate me now or send me away . . .I will understand.”

Her father continued to look at her as if he could not quite comprehend what she was saying. “Hate you?” he finally asked. “Send you away?” Then he grabbed her to him again. “Gods, child, I could never hate you! Don‘t you know that?” he said, holding her as if she might escape or be snatched away. “I would never send you away from me. Do you understand? And I would kill any man who tried to take you against your will.”

She heard his words, but she couldn’t believe he truly meant them. She shook her head. “I don’t deserve . . .” she started to say.

“You don’t deserve anything that happened to you,” her father interrupted her. “None of us do, Sansa. But none of it was caused by a child unhappy with her father.” He put his hand to her lips as she started to protest. Then he sat down in the nearest chair and pulled her onto his lap as he had not done since she was small. “You shouldn’t have disobeyed me,” he said. “You are correct about that. But it was hardly the first time a child was disobedient. I daresay all my children have disregarded my words at one time or another. My mistake was simply ordering you about without even trying to explain the magnitude of the danger.” He laughed bitterly. “I suppose I was trying to protect you from unpleasant truths. But all I did was make you more vulnerable.”

“Still, she never would have arrested you if I hadn’t told her about . . .”

“You’re wrong, Sansa,” he told her. Sighing deeply, he said, “Your telling her how I planned to send you girls home may have helped her make her own plans. I won’t deny that. But she didn’t arrest me for planning to return to Winterfell, Sansa. She arrested me to keep me from exposing her true relationship with the Kingslayer. To keep me from telling the truth about her children. And you didn’t tell her I planned to that. I did.”

“You told her that you knew?”

“I told her I was going to tell Robert. I wanted her to flee with her children. Her bastards did not belong on the Iron Throne, but they didn’t deserve to die for their parents’ crime. I feared Robert would kill them, and so I warned her to flee, to protect her children. She chose to protect them by having Robert killed and me arrested.” He looked at Sansa sadly. “I should have been more concerned with protecting you and your sister.”

“You tried to,” she told him. “You tried to protect everyone. You always do.”

He shook his head. “I can’t protect everyone, Sansa. Gods know I’ve learned that the hard way. But I swear I will always do my best to protect you, and your mother and brothers and sister. I do not intend to fail you in such a way again.”

“I won’t fail you again, either, Father. I promise.” She looked down at her lap. “But I do understand if you feel you cannot trust me, even if you do still love me.”

He put his hand beneath her chin and tilted her face back to look at him. “Sansa Stark, you must listen to me very closely. I put a child in terrible position in King’s Landing and she behaved as a child. You, my daughter, are still very young, but no longer a child. I would trust you with my life and with the lives of the people I love most. But I promise never to ask anything of you again without your knowing why I ask.”

“You really forgive me?”

“Of course. Will you forgive me?”

“Of course.” She threw her arms around his neck. “But I hate that you are going tomorrow! I’m scared for you.”

“So am I, sweet girl. Only a fool rides to battle completely unafraid. But I have many reasons to return to Winterfell. Rest assured I will do everything in my power to come home safely. I am counting on you to help your mother in my absence. Your sister and brother can each be quite a handful, and while she will not admit it, carrying the babe makes your mother tire more easily.”

“I will help her,” Sansa promised, even more grateful that her father had asked this of her than for the words of forgiveness he had voiced so easily. If he trusted her to look after Mother, he truly did feel she was worthy of his trust.

“Now, I do have other tasks I must attend to, Sansa, if you are certain you are all right.”

She nodded. “I should go back and check on Jeyne, now. I told Arya to sit with her, but who knows how long she actually stayed there.”

Her father kissed her forehead and helped her off his lap. “Sansa,” he said, as she stood up. “Your mother knows all I told you of my actions in King’s Landing. I keep no secrets from her regarding myself. Your own secrets are yours, sweetling. You may tell your mother or anyone you wish what you told me today, but no one, not even Catelyn, will hear it from me.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said, turning to go. Once she opened the door to leave, she turned to face him once more. “I love you so much, Father. Please be safe!” she said quickly, and then she turned away and left before she cried in front of him once more.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

She had a fire in the hearth when he finally reached her chambers that night. She smiled at him from where she sat beside the table, her lovely face clearly visible, for the candles on the table and the fire combined to bathe the entire room in a warm, soft, light. “Don’t worry, my lord,” she said. “The windows are open. You shall not melt.”

He raised his brows. _Light a fire only to open the windows?_

Her smile grew wider, and then a lovely red flush colored her cheeks. “I . . .I would see my husband this night,” she said. “I knew I wouldn’t have you here until after dark.”

His eyes took in the blue robe she had wrapped around her, and he wondered what she wore beneath it, hoping to find only her skin. “Come here, Cat,” he said softly.

As she rose from the chair and walked toward him, he noticed that her eyes were a far brighter blue than her robe and marveled at what the firelight did to the brilliant colors in her hair.

“You are beautiful, my lady,” he whispered as she stepped into his arms.

“So are you,” she murmured against his ear. “But I cannot see enough of you, I fear.”

He smiled as she was already undoing the buttons on his doublet. He was free of the garment rather quickly and then pulled the shirt he wore beneath it over his head. He stopped her, however, as she reached for the laces of his breeches. “I fear it is I who cannot see enough now, my lady.”

She returned the smile and stepped back from him, opening her robe and letting it fall to the ground in one swift, yet graceful motion. She was, as he had hoped, naked beneath it.

He stared at her, simply drinking every detail of her with his eyes. With the exception of the night Arya had spent in their bed, they had made love every night since Selyse Baratheon’s letter had come, no matter how exhausted they both were. They were like two starving people who feared they may never see food again, and they consumed each other as if their lives depended upon it. Yet, he had not truly seen his wife like this in some time. He swallowed hard as he felt his cock stiffen against his breeches in response to the sight.

She noticed his body’s response as well and leaned in against him to whisper, “Might I remove those breeches now, my love? I think you would be more comfortable without them.”

Breeches and boots were then shed amid the sound of her laughter and the taste of her kisses on his lips, and he wanted nothing more than to remain in this chamber with her like this for the rest of time. As she pressed against him, though, and her hand reached down to stroke him, he feared he wouldn’t last even another minute, and he held her slightly away from him. “Let me look at you, Cat,” he breathed.

Her eyes were somewhat hazy, and her lips slightly puffy from the kisses he’d pressed to them. He noticed her cheeks were now reddened from contact with his beard, and he gently stroked one cheek with his hand. “Do I hurt you, my lady?”

“Never,” she responded. “Have you seen enough?”

“Never,” he replied with a wolfish grin. “I’d almost forgotten,” he said then, thoughtfully, looking at her breasts. The changes that came over her body when she carried a babe within her were just beginning, but he knew her body well enough to notice them all.

“Forgotten what?” she asked, cocking one brow, as she saw where his eyes lingered.

“This color,” he said, reaching out to run his thumb gently over one of her nipples. “I’ve had plenty opportunity to recognize how much fuller they are now, but I had nearly forgotten how they darken like this.” He made slow circles with his thumb, first around one nipple and then around the other. He touched her very softly, remembering how tender her breasts could be in the early moons with child. The dark nipples stiffened and she made a tiny little sound of contentment. He bent his head to her breast then and teased the nipple with his tongue, and she moaned somewhat more loudly. When he stood up to look at her again, her breathing was coming in rather ragged gasps.

“Come to bed with me, my lady?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Please.”

He smiled and led her to lie down on her back. His cock twitched with impatience and desire for her, but he made himself stand still, just looking at her once more. He wanted to memorize everything about her.

She saw him staring again, and a tiny frown creased her face. “Do you mind the changes very much, Ned?” she asked him.

Caught up in admiring her, he almost didn’t understand her question. When it struck him what she meant, he sat down beside her. “Mind them? I love everything about your body when you carry our children, Cat.” He put a hand to her scalp and ran it through the thick auburn tresses, lifting a long segment above her face for her to see. “As impossible as it seems, I know that this will grow even thicker and softer from now until the babe comes.” He trailed his index finger down her belly in a line from her navel to the top of the bright hair covering her sex, smiling at the way she shivered beneath his touch. “And this line will darken as the little one causes your belly to become a firm little mound rising up just here.” He made circles on the skin between her hip bones. “And finally, he will grow bigger and bigger until I marvel that your body can still contain him at all.” He looked up at her face then to find her staring intently at him. “And through all of those days, you simply become more beautiful, my lady.”

A tear fell down her cheek then. “I love you, Ned,” she said softly. “I wish . . .I wish you could be here through all those days.”

“As do I, my beautiful Cat. As do I.” He bent then and kissed her over the spot where his child rested, too small still to have made a noticeable increase in the slight rounding of her belly. He imagined he could already appreciate a slight increased firmness of her womb beneath his hand there. He thought about the little fluttering movements and then the firm kicks that would become discernible in his absence, and he could have almost wept himself at the bitterness of this leaving.

He pushed those thoughts firmly from his mind and concentrated on spending this time with his wife, gradually moving his kisses lower until he found the little nub just above her opening and teased it with his tongue and lips, feeling her move frantically beneath him until she moaned and cried out for him. He stretched out and raised himself above her, and then lowered himself onto her, sliding his cock deep inside her at once, gasping at the sensation.

She gasped as well and clutched tightly at his back as he began to thrust. He was not gentle, now. He felt he truly was a wolf, wild and desperate to have her, willing to tear apart any man who tried to separate her from him. One tiny, rational part of his mind feared he might hurt her, but she was clinging to him and moving her hips upward to meet every thrust. As he felt her movements, that last vestige of rational thought fled, and he knew nothing but the want of her, the need of her, and the beautiful ache in the core of him that suddenly exploded into almost unbearable pleasure as his balls tightened, and his cock jumped, spilling his seed inside her.

He collapsed on her chest, gasping for breath. She was gasping as well, and he rolled off her then to keep from crushing her. Hands intertwined, they lay side by side on their backs, unable to speak until their breathing eased.

“Gods, Cat!” he finally exclaimed, between breaths. “I don’t know how you expect me to leave here after that. The Others won’t have to kill me. I shall simply think on this and die of sheer need.”

He turned to her with a grin on his face and was surprised to be met by troubled, serious blue eyes. “My lady?” he asked, hesitantly. “It was only a jest. I am sorry if it was a poor one.” He rolled on his side completely to face her and reached out to touch her hair. “It is only that I . . .”

“That you have needs,” she interrupted softly. “You are a man, Ned. I know that. And I won’t be there, and . .”

He stared at her incredulously as her words began to sink in. “Gods, woman!” he interrupted much more loudly, sitting straight up. “Do you think so little of me as that?”

“I think the world of you!” she cried, sitting up herself. “It’s only that . . .I don’t want you to . . .but I . . .” She put her face in her hands and started crying. “I love you, Ned. I love you,” she said through her sobs.

 _How did we get here?_ Ned wondered, helpless to fathom how they could have arrived in this place from where they had been just moments before. He had never been with another woman since they wed. He’d never even thought seriously about it. _How could she even think . . .?_ He shook his head. _Jon. Damnation. It always comes back to Jon._

He put his arms around her and held her silently while he gathered his thoughts. She knew he hadn’t fathered Jon. But she hadn’t always known it. _A man has needs._ Ned thought the words ridiculous and rather dismissive of a man’s capacity for self control, but he wondered how many wives had comforted themselves with such words. How many bastards and affairs had been overlooked by women who had no other real option, and who found solace in blaming these mysterious, inevitable needs of men rather than their husbands or themselves. _Is that what you told yourself, Cat? Is that what you had to believe in order to forgive me for Jon?_  

“Catelyn,” he finally said. “I need you to look at me.”

“I am sorry, Ned,” she said, wiping her hand across her eyes. “I have no reason to cry. I should not behave so tonight.”

“I beg to differ, my lady. Leaving you tomorrow promises to be the most difficult thing I have ever done. I sometimes wish I could cry, Cat. The gods know I will feel enough pain at this parting.”

“Ned . . .”

“Shh,” he said, laying a finger gently on her lips. “I need you to look at me, and to listen to me. Nothing else. All right?”

She nodded, and bit her lower lip which made him want to smile in spite of the seriousness of the discussion.

“You are correct in that stating that I am a man, Cat. I am nothing more and nothing less. And I most certainly have needs.” He tilted his head then and added, “And unless I have been very much mistaken about your behavior in our marriage bed these many years, so do you, my lady.”

She drew in her breath as if about to make some protest, but he forestalled her with a kiss. Pulling away, he said. “Do not fear, my love. I am not about to encourage you to take your ease in another man’s bed while I’m away. Nor do I think you would wish to.”

“But . . .”

He put his hand to her lips again. “But nothing. I said the same words in that sept that you did. I meant them just as much. At the time, I meant them because there is no other honorable way to speak such words. But now . . .Catelyn, vows or no vows, I would take no other woman to my bed. I want no other woman. I have needs, yes, but it is you I need. No other can take your place. None has and none will. You must know that. I will miss you desperately, my love. I know better now than I ever have just how much it is possible to miss you, and I dread it. And I will no doubt spend long nights aching with the need of you. I have before, you know. In the Iron Islands. In King’s Landing, and in Pentos. I did manage to survive, though. And all it does is make me that much more eager to return to your arms, my lady.”

“I am a fool,” she said softly.

“No,” he whispered. “You are frightened, and perhaps a bit silly because of it. But you have never been a fool.”

She touched his face then. “Perhaps, we should not waste any more of this night on my silly fears, then.”

Smiling, he drew her into his arms and kissed her deeply, somewhat surprised to find that after their previous lovemaking, he already wanted again so badly, and gratified that she apparently wanted him just as much.

They made love more quietly, more slowly, that second time. Their coupling was one of lingering touches, whispered endearments, and soft kisses. They each took their time as if by slowing the pace of their lovemaking, they could slow down and stretch out this night. He didn’t know precisely what filled her mind, but he was cherishing every touch, saving them all up against the cold, lonely nights ahead. When at last they lay still with her head pillowed on his chest, just as they had lain together thousands of times, he closed his eyes and wondered what more he should say to her. What words could he offer her in place of himself? He couldn’t think of any that weren’t wholly inadequate, and so he remained silent, running his fingers through her hair.

After a time, she broke the silence. “You must forgive me, my love, if I am not strong tomorrow.”

“Cat? You are the strongest person I know. But no one can be strong all the time. Tomorrow will be difficult for all of us.”

“I want to be strong for you. And I shall do my best. But tomorrow I must send you away truly knowing what I stand to lose.”

“My lady?” he asked, not sure what she meant.

She rolled so that she could place her chin on her hands on his chest, looking up at him. “I sent you off to fight the Greyjoys and sent you off to King’s Landing with Robert. I sent you off countless times on shorter trips, some of which I knew to be dangerous. I always knew, or thought I knew, that you might not return to me.”

She stopped speaking. “And?” he encouraged her.

“I knew nothing at all. Imagining losing you was nothing. Actually losing you is unbearable.” Her voice broke on the word. “I lost you, Ned. You were dead, and I mourned you, and I never stopped mourning you until you rode into the Twins. I don’t know if I can survive that again. I fear that I cannot.”

He turned on his side then to gather her into his arms and hold her tightly. “I do not intend to die, Cat. I hope to return for the birth of our babe, but I cannot promise you I will do so. Only that I will try harder than I have ever tried at anything.” He paused, but she remained silent. “If I should die,” he continued, and she whimpered. He tightened his hold on her. “If I should die, however, I do promise that you will survive. You will mourn me. You love me, Catelyn. I know that and thank the gods for it, but I know it will cause you grief should I fall. Yet, you will survive, and you will remain strong for our children. Just as you did before. Just as you will always do. I have no doubt of that, my love.”

She pressed a kiss to his chest where he held her and said nothing more. After that, he thought she slept some, and perhaps he even slept a bit himself, but he was awake to watch dawn creep into the open windows of her chamber. The fire had burned quite low, and the room was cool. Too cool for Catelyn who was bundled to the chin and curled against him like an overgrown kitten. He smiled at her sleeping face and slowly inched away from her that he might close the windows before she had to leave the warmth of the bed.

He was completely dressed before she stirred. “You would leave without saying goodbye, Ned?” she asked.

“I am not leaving yet, Cat,” he told her.

“You are not leaving Winterfell yet, but you are leaving my bed, and I don’t know when I shall have you in it again.”

He swallowed hard. If he were honest with himself, he had half wanted to leave her room before she woke. He could just possibly face leaving her publicly and formally, but the thought of walking away from her here left him shattered. “Were I to join you in your bed again now, my lady, I fear I should not leave it today.”

She sat up in the bed then, keeping the furs wrapped tightly around her. “I know,” she said quietly. “I will not ask you to stay.”

He did walk back to the bed then, laying a brief, chaste kiss upon her forehead, afraid that any longer contact would keep him rooted to the spot. “Shall you come down to the Great Hall to break your fast, my lady?”

She nodded. “I’ll get dressed and come right after you. There’s a lot to get done.”

He nodded. “I shall see you there, then.” He turned to go, but found himself stopped at the door. This was very likely the last time he would be alone with his wife until he returned from the Wall. If he returned from the Wall. Suddenly, a memory struck him like a hammer, and he was back on the deck of Vikor’s Daughter, howling like a wounded animal over the deaths of his wife and son, and tortured by the fear she had never known how much he loved her. He had never told her.

“Catelyn,” he said suddenly, turning about to see her already rising from the bed and reaching for her robe. “Cat . .” he said more quietly, watching her pull the blue garment over her lightly freckled shoulders.

“Yes, my love?” she replied, closing the robe over her lovely, pale skin.

“Cat, you do know, don’t you?” he asked her.

Amusement lit her blue eyes. “Know what, Ned?”

“You must know,” he said awkwardly. _Why is this so hard? I’ve been wed to the woman for more than fifteen years now!_ “I mean . . .you do realize that I . . .”

She smiled at him. “That you love me? Yes, Ned, I know that.”

He smiled back at her. “Yes. That.”

She just kept smiling at him as he backed toward the door. As he put his hand on the door, he said, “Because I do. I love you, Cat.”

He saw the tears shining in her eyes for only a brief moment before he spun around and left her chamber for the Great Hall.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The procession had been winding its way out the King’s Gate for well over an hour. Lord Eddard sat mounted on his horse with his standard bearer beside him. While he would ride at the head of the column, he wished to be the last to leave Winterfell, so all the men rode by him, and he acknowledged them as they passed. He sat tall in the saddle, his expression frozen into what Brienne had heard Lady Catelyn call his lord’s face more than once. That face softened very slightly when his eyes wandered to where Lady Catelyn and the children stood, lined up to bid the men farewell. Brienne, as captain of Lady Catelyn’s household guard, stood beside her.

Brienne felt a slight twinge of envy as she watched them all ride out. It would be a great adventure to journey beyond the Wall to fight these creatures from legend.. She was particularly sorry to see Maege Mormont ride out for she had taken a liking to the Lady of Bear Island and her daughter. Aly remained in Winterfell for now, as she was to ride for Bear Island in another day or two with Galbart Glover who was headed to Deepwood Motte. Brienne smiled slightly, thinking of the younger Mormont. While she admitted to a certain amount of wistful longing as she watched the army move out, Brienne was in truth quite content to remain in Winterfell protecting Lady Catelyn and the younger Starks as was her duty. Aysanne Mormont, however, was bitterly angry about being “sent home like a child.” Brienne didn’t see her anywhere at the moment. She did hope she hadn’t let her anger keep her from giving her mother a proper farewell. The two of them had been so overjoyed to see each other at Lady Maege’s arrival.

It was nearly midday now, and the wind had picked up considerably throughout the morning. Brienne hoped that didn’t mean foul weather coming in for Lord Stark and his men. She stole a look at Lady Catelyn and saw that her eyes remained fixed on her lord husband. She would nod briefly in acknowledgement to those who approached her as they rode out, but her eyes quickly returned to Lord Stark on his mount. They had sat rather quietly together at the High Table morning, speaking to others who came to ask them questions or tell them things, but they spoke almost not at all to each other. Yet, even in their silence, there was an undeniable connection between them, and Brienne could still feel it now, stretching across the sea of horsemen and foot soldiers between them and tethering the Lord and Lady of Winterfell together.

Lady Sansa stood next to her mother, looking for all the world like a younger reflection of Lady Catelyn in her posture and demeanor. Even Lady Arya was standing fairly still, seemingly struck by the solemnity of the occasion, her face set in a scowl rather reminiscent of one of her father‘s darker moods. Only Rickon was kicking dirt with the toe of his boot, but that was because he was still angry. He hadn’t shown up for the morning meal although he had told Osha he was headed to the Great Hall, and a great amount of chaos ensued until he was discovered hiding in a supply cart. He had to be forcibly dragged out to his parents while shouting that he wanted to go with his father to fight the White Walkers. Fortunately, Shaggydog and Nymeria had already been confined to the godswood lest they spook the assembling horses. Brienne had seen what Rickon’s wolf could do when the boy was angry had no desire to repeat the experience. Lady Catelyn had confined Rickon to his chambers until it was time for the army to ride out, and Brienne knew that Lord Stark had made time to go and speak to the boy there. He was more docile now, but still far from happy.

The tail end of the procession was now approaching the bridge across the moat, and Lord Stark spurred his horse toward them. Stopping just in front of his family and the assembled household guards and servants behind them, he called out. “People of Winterfell, I leave you in the keeping of Lady Catelyn. You shall obey her as you would me, and consider her words my own.” There was a murmuring of “Yes, my lord,” that rippled through the crowd. He nodded. “I trust you will all perform your duties faithfully, and I give you my word that I shall endeavor to return as soon as the threat from the north has been eradicated.”

Then, he dismounted and walked toward his family. Lady Arya could be still no longer, running at him and hugging him fiercely around the waist. He hugged her tightly, saying something Brienne could not hear, and then looked toward his son.

“Come, tell your father farewell, Rickon,” he said, and the boy grudgingly came to him. Lord Eddard swooped him up in his arms and said, “ Rickon, I need you to look after your mother and the girls. Can you do that for me?” The little boy nodded. “And I’ve told the Lady Brienne to have wooden practice swords made for you and Dak both. I expect you both to train hard so you can show me what you’ve learned when I return. All right?”

Rickon nodded again, seeming somewhat brightened by the prospect of his own practice sword, but still he clutched at his father tightly, and Lady Catelyn had to step forward to remove his arms from his father’s neck.

“Where is Dak?” Lord Eddard asked then.

“Here, milord!” the Pentoshi boy called, wiggling between two men to get forward to where the lord could see him.

“Come here, lad,” said Lord Eddard. “Did you hear what I said about the swords?”

“Yes, milord. I’ll practice. I promise. And I’ll help Rickon practice, too.”

Lord Eddard smiled at him. “Arya’s a fair hand with that little blade of hers. She’ll likely spar with you if you get good enough. But she won’t hesitate to knock you down.”

“Oh, I know that, milord,” Dak said with a grin, and Brienne saw that the scowl on Arya’s face had been replaced by a grin as well at her father’s words.

“Sansa,” Lord Stark called then.

“Father,” Lady Sansa said, stepping forward and giving her father a formal curtsy.

He smiled. “Come here, sweetling. I would have one last hug before I go,” and he held out his arms to her. She rushed into them, and Brienne saw the tears in her eyes. Just as he had with Lady Arya, he whispered something too quiet to hear into Lady Sansa’s ear, and she smiled and nodded.

“Lady Brienne,” he said, and Brienne jumped, startled to hear her name.

“Yes, my lord?”

“I realize you are not actually mine to command,” he said with a smile in the direction of his wife, “but I am entrusting you with the protection of all that matters most to me. I charge you guard them well.”

“You have my word, my lord.”

“There is nothing I would put more faith in, Lady Brienne,” he said, looking directly at her with those piercing grey eyes of his, and Brienne realized once again why so many were willing to follow this man.

“My lady,” he said then, turning to Lady Catelyn, who still had a fairly tight grip on Rickon. Brienne stepped in to take the little boy’s hand that her lady might approach her lord husband. “Walk with me,” he said softly, and offered her his arm. The two of them then walked toward the bridge and across it to the outer gate. There they stopped and stood facing each other, her hands in his. Brienne couldn’t tell what they said or even if they spoke, but after a long moment, Lord Eddard bent and kissed her hand, and then turned, motioning his man to bring his horse to him. He did not let go of Lady Catelyn’s hand until the horse reached them. Then, he turned away to check the saddle and say something to the man who’d led the horse to him.

Abruptly then, he turned back toward Lady Catelyn, put his arms around her and kissed her very briefly, but on the mouth. He then mounted the horse and rode off at a trot toward the front of his column without a backward glance. Lady Catelyn never moved. She watched him ride away until he couldn’t be seen any longer, and even then stood there in the open outer gate looking north up the Kingsroad in the direction he’d ridden. _They’re still tethered,_ Brienne thought. _It matters not how far apart._

When even the stragglers had left the castle, Brienne gave orders for everyone to return to their duties. Dak, Rickon, and Arya fled to the godswood to free the direwolves. Lady Sansa looked at her mother and then at Brienne.

“I will escort your lady mother back inside the castle, Lady Sansa,” she said.

Sansa nodded. “Thank you. I need to check on Jeyne. I’ve left her alone all morning.” Then she left for the Great Keep.

Brienne looked back to where Lady Catelyn stood, as unmoving as a statue, and walked out to meet her. Lord Stark would hardly want her to leave his lady wife standing alone outside the castle walls.

“My lady,” she said, as she approached.

At first, she didn’t respond, but when she did turn slowly to face her, Brienne saw that her eyes were dry. “Brienne,” she said. “I suppose you’d like to close the gate.”

“Yes, my lady,” she answered. “If you are quite ready,” she added.

Lady Catelyn smiled sadly. “I fear my readiness has little to do with it. Come, Lady Brienne. We still have much to do today.”

Lady Catelyn stood very straight as she walked with purpose back across the bridge, but Brienne almost imagined she could see an invisible line pulling her backward toward the man who had ridden away. It didn’t matter, though. Lady Catelyn would do her duty. And so would Brienne.

Striding purposefully across the bridge, Brienne of Tarth followed the Lady of Winterfell back into the castle, ordering the gates closed behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, once more to all of you who are reading Love and Honor. I continued to be overwhelmed by the response to this story, and I want every reader to know how much I appreciate you.


	45. A Threat From an Ancient Evil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another reminder that the characters are still all GRRM's. None of them are mine. I just love them a lot. :)

The moon was a half circle. The sky was so clouded, however, that it appeared only as an indistinct glow through most of the night, and few stars peeked from behind those clouds. The wolf howled once, but the boy within him took no pleasure in it. A half circle. How many days had passed since he had seen his mother in the godswood at Winterfell? How many days now had he pleaded uselessly with everyone that he had to get back to Winterfell himself?

A soft moan heard not by the wolf’s ears, but by the boy’s, pulled him from the wolf’s body back into his own. He opened his own eyes to see Meera leaning over her brother, Jojen. “Shh,” she was saying. “It’s all right.”

Bran raised himself up on his elbows. “What is it, Meera? Is he worse?” He was terrified for Jojen. He’d realized Jojen was weak, but hadn’t fully comprehended how much worse the older boy had gotten until these past few days during which he’d refused to sit beside Lord Brynden on his weirwood throne or eat any of the weirwood paste. The only travels he’d made from his present reality were when he ran with Summer. Spending so much more time actually in the company of the Reeds and seeing the extent of Jojen’s decline caused him to feel terribly guilty about how much he’d hated Jojen when the boy had argued so strongly against Bran leaving the cave.

“I don’t know,” Meera said softly. “He’s certainly worse than he was two days ago. He still hasn’t spoken since then . . .but I don’t know that he’s any worse than he was this morning.” She looked up at Bran with hollow eyes. “He’s going to die here, Bran, just as he knew he would. He won‘t fight it.”

“No,” Bran protested. “We can still leave, Meera. If we all stand together . . .” Even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. Jojen would die here. He didn’t speak and he barely opened his eyes anymore. He didn’t eat, so he couldn’t very well regain his strength. He would never leave this cave, and Meera would never leave her brother. That meant Bran couldn’t leave, either, as Lord Brynden and the Children were unwilling to help him go. He couldn’t do it with just Hodor.

Meera shook her head. “Jojen can’t leave, and you know it. He knew it all along, Bran. He only cared about getting you here, and now you won’t even do what you came for!” She sounded angry.

“I can’t help it, Meera!” Bran hissed at her. “I can’t sit there day after day with the Bloodraven, looking at the memories of the trees when I know my mother is in Winterfell! I know something important is happening, and he won’t tell me any of it! He lied to me, and he won’t help me.”

“He is helping you, Bran,” she sighed. “He’s helping you to become what you’re meant to be, to reach your destiny. And you owe it to Jojen to do just that.”

Bran shook his head stubbornly. “No. I am still a Stark of Winterfell, and if any of my family is there, that’s where I belong now. Why can’t any of you see that?”

Meera just shook her head and spoke no more, sitting silently beside the still form of her brother. Bran watched them for a few moments and then closed his eyes and escaped into Summer until the day came.

When next he opened the eyes of the broken boy, Bran knew it was morning because Leaf was there, telling Hodor to bring him along to Bloodraven.

“I want to go home,” he said loudly, as he’d said every day since he’d seen his mother in the godswood at Winterfell.”

“You are home, Bran Stark,” Leaf said quietly.

He didn’t fight as Hodor picked him up. There wasn’t really any point to it, and he didn’t want to cause Hodor distress. None of this was his fault. As Hodor carried him from the room, he realized that the Reeds weren’t there. “Where are Meera and Jojen?” he asked.

Leaf said nothing. “Hodor,” Hodor said sadly.

As Hodor followed Leaf to the place where Lord Brynden sat, entangled by roots on his weirwood throne, Bran asked again, “Where are Meera and Jojen?” Receiving no answer, he shouted, “Where are Meera and Jojen?”

It was the quiet, sawdust dry voice of the lord in the tree roots that finally answered him. “Sit with me, Bran. Go into the trees and seek your friends’ faces. A thousand eyes and one. You can find them there.”

Bran felt cold then, although the temperature in the cave had not changed. “No,” he said. “You cannot make me do this. I told you I need to go home to Winterfell. And I need Meera and Jojen. Where are they? You’re trying to trick me.”

“No, Brandon Stark. I am trying to teach you. My time grows short, and you have much to learn.”

Bran twisted in Hodor’s grasp to face Leaf. “Take me to Meera. I know she wouldn’t just leave me. And Jojen’s too sick to go anywhere . . .he wouldn’t even wake up all yesterday. He’s . . .” A terrible thought suddenly struck him. “Jojen’s not . . .Jojen’s all right, isn’t he?” he asked fearfully, looking from Leaf to Brynden.

Lord Brynden looked at him with that single red eye, and Bran wished there were fewer rush lights in the chamber. He still preferred to think of the greenseer as a three-eyed crow. Looking at his corpse-like face and body still made him shudder to think that he would one day be the same. “Jojen Reed is far from all right,” the corpse-lord said now, “but he is still among the quick.”

“Where is he? Where’s Meera?”

At a motion from Leaf, Hodor attempted to seat Bran on the soft moss seat of his own weirwood throne, but as soon as the big stable boy’s hands released him, Bran did as he had done since the dream of his mother, and used his arms to push himself off it, landing on the cave floor just in front of it. He was tired of never being listened to, and more than tired of never having his questions truly answered. “I told you I am not doing this now,” he said defiantly, aware that he was blinking tears from his eyes and that his voice had risen considerably in pitch. _I am not a baby,_ he told himself fiercely. _I am a Stark of_ _Winterfell._

Lord Brynden could not truly turn his face downward toward Bran on the floor as the weirwood root growing from his eye socket held his head fairly stationary, but he gazed downward with that red eye and said softly. “His sister has carried Jojen to the entrance of the cave. She knows that he wishes to go home and mistakenly believes that showing him the outside world might convince him to try and get there.”

Bran caught his breath. That was the most encouraging thing he’d heard in a long time. If Meera was trying to convince Jojen to get well and go home, maybe they all would leave this cave. _Mistakenly,_ he thought, suddenly, Lord Brynden had said ‘mistakenly believes.’ “What do you mean mistaken?” he asked now.

“Jojen Reed has had the greendreams all his life. He knows they come to pass. He knows what they mean. He knows he will never leave this cave. His sister would have him fight what he cannot.” Lord Brynden closed his eye briefly before continuing. “Some things end, Brandon Stark. Other things begin. It is the way of the world and cannot be changed. Endings are often sad, but must be accepted. Jojen Reed is more like those you call the Children in his understanding of that than he is like other men. Men always believe they can change things. Even when they cannot.”

“No,” Bran said, pushing himself up by his arms to look more directly at the Bloodraven then, hanging on to one thing he had said. “You are wrong. The greendreams do come to pass, but Jojen doesn’t always know what they mean. He thought his dream meant Rickon and I would be dead, but we only hid in the crypts. We aren’t dead at all. Whatever Jojen sees about himself might mean something else, too.”

“Jojen Reed will not leave this cave. His part has ended now that yours has begun. His part has always been to bring you here,” Lord Brynden said. “Now you shall become the greenseer that I may rest.”

“No!” Bran insisted. “That makes no sense! If nothing can be changed, why have a thousand eyes and one? Why see the past or learn from it or whatever you want me to do if it doesn’t change anything? Lord Brynden, there are things I need to do now! My mother is alive, whatever you say. I know it was different from when I saw my father. She is in Winterfell, and there is more. I know there is more!” Bran could feel the tears actually running down his cheeks then. “I can’t help her if I just stay here and go into the trees with you,” he said desperately.

Brynden’s red eye gazed down at him with something that looked almost like compassion. “You cannot help her if you die a broken boy wandering foolishly through the frozen North. You must fly, Bran, and you must see.”

Bran shook his head. “I don’t believe you. You didn’t tell me my mother was at Winterfell. What else haven’t you told me?”

Lord Brynden stared at him for a long time and then let out a long sigh which sounded like a cold wind through dead autumn leaves. “I see many things, Brandon Stark. But there are some things men do out of sight of all the gods. I did not know your mother lived when you arrived here.” He hesitated. “There are other things I did not know as well. If you would know it all, you must go into the trees and look.”

Bran looked at the man. He sounded more sincere than he ever had, more as if he truly spoke to Brandon Stark and not “the greenseer.” Still, he didn’t trust him.

“Please,” Lord Brynden said then. “I will show you what you wish to see. No more.”

 _Please? That was different._ Bran nodded and looked up to Hodor. Understanding immediately, the big man reached down to effortlessly lift Bran once more and seat him on his weirwood throne. This time Bran remained seated, although he waved away one of Leaf’s companions as she came forward to cover his legs with furs. “I don’t need those. I won’t be staying here long.”

Lord Brynden nodded, and she backed off. Turning to Bran, he said, “Come with me, Brandon Stark. Come into the trees,” and he closed his eye.

With only a moment’s hesitation, Bran closed his own eyes and slipped his skin as he did to find Summer or one of the ravens, but rather than their warm blood and beating hearts, he found the coolness and silence of root and soil. When he opened his eyes, he stared once more into the godswood at Winterfell. Vaguely, he was aware that he was not alone in the weirwood, and he felt Lord Brynden beside him. He had brought him here.

A young man stood in the godswood, and at first Bran thought he had once more been taken into the past for it looked like a younger version of his father standing there with bowed head before the tree. But then he heard a woman’s voice, his mother’s voice, call, “Jon.” The young man raised his head, and Bran could see that it was indeed his bastard brother, only bearded and much taller than he remembered. He was taller than his mother as she approached him. Her hair was covered by the hood of her cloak, but he could clearly see those same red marks on her face from his last dream of her. Jon gaped at her, and Bran heard her say, “My husband told me that he spoke to you of your mother.”

Then he could neither see nor hear anything for a moment, but as his vision cleared he saw Jon once more in the godswood, this time bending to say something to Ghost. As his brother scratched the wolf’s head, Bran heard a young woman’s voice. “It’s all right, Jon. He’s with me.” Bran turned his gaze toward the voice and saw . . _.Mother?_ . . .no, not Mother. The young woman approached Jon, and her hood slipped back revealing hair that shone like Mother’s at the top, but seemed strangely dull and darker further down. She smiled at Jon, and Bran gasped. _Sansa._ His sister seemed even more changed than his brother, even without whiskers. She was taller, too, more like Mother, and she looked much older and sadder than Bran remembered, even as she smiled.

Jon and Sansa disappeared, and Bran heard a shout. Two direwolves ran past the heart tree, the big black one quickly recognizable as Shaggydog, and the other a grey female. A snowball flew through the air behind them, and the same voice that had shouted cried out, “Missed me!” and Bran turned to see his little brother, Rickon, actually smiling, and running as two other boys pursued him. Both boys had dark hair, and one looked somewhat familiar. When that boy laughed and raised an arm to throw another snowball toward Rickon, he turned his face toward the heart tree, and Bran saw the grey eyes clearly. _Not a boy. Arya!_ Her hair was shorter than Rickon’s and the other boy’s, but he knew his sister. He almost cried out then, but the children and wolves faded as well.

The next image made him catch his breath sharply, and he knew that Lord Brynden had taken him into the past then, for he saw his father. Lord Eddard Stark stood bowed before the heart tree, his face as solemn as Bran had ever seen it. He held a sword, and there was something wrong about it, but before Bran could think more on it, he heard his mother’s voice call his father’s name, and Father turned to face her as she approached him. Bran barely looked at his mother or listened to their words. He couldn’t take his eyes from his father although the pain of it was almost unbearable. Eddard Stark was dead. Bran knew that. He started to pull back toward his own skin. Lord Brynden had said he would show him only what he wanted to see now. He didn’t want to get lost in the past. He didn’t need this. He heard his father’s deep voice ask, “Is it time then?” “Yes, my lord,” his mother replied, her voice full of sadness and compassion which drew Bran’s eyes toward her. She looked at his father with her own eyes filled with love, but her face set in a determined expression. Her face . . .Bran stared at her face, and then he did cry out. On his mother’s face were those same red scars, the scars that had not been there when last his parents were both at Winterfell.

As he cried out, Bran felt hands reaching for him, and found himself back on his weirwood throne in the cave with a concerned looking Hodor holding him by the arms.

“My father,” he gasped. “I saw my father. He’s with my mother. At Winterfell.”

Lord Brynden had opened his red eye to look at him. “He is not at Winterfell now, Bran. But he does live. He rides north.”

Bran swallowed hard, trying not to cry and trying to force his thoughts into some semblance of order. “You lied to me,” he accused Lord Brynden. “Why did you tell me he was dead? Why did you let me keep believing it?”

“For a long time, I believed your father dead. I told you that men hide many things. Even a thousand eyes cannot see all. Once I did know differently, it mattered little. It does not change who you are, Brandon Stark, or what you are meant to be and what you are meant to do.”

“Maybe not,” Bran said. “But if I’m like you, I have hundreds of years to do this. I only have now to find my family.” Dimly, Bran was aware of tears falling down his face, but he was too focused on getting Lord Brynden to understand him to worry about looking like a baby.

The red eye continued to stare at him, and Bran felt as if Lord Brynden were really looking at him rather than somehow through him. Finally, he spoke again. “How old are you in the years of men, Bran Stark?”

“Nine, I think. Maybe ten. I’ve lost track,” Bran said, wondering why it mattered.

“Ten years,” Lord Brynden said softly. “I forget. I forget how young you truly are. All men are young to me. My entire first life is but a moment to me now, and days at my mother’s breast no different in time than days fighting my brothers’ wars, or lying in my lady’s arms. You cannot understand that, Bran Stark. I must try to remember that.”

Bran looked at him. He wasn’t certain what the man was trying to tell him, but he was more certain than ever that he had to go home. His whole family was there except for Robb. _Robb._ He swallowed hard. Grey Wind was dead. He didn’t need Lord Brynden or the trees to tell him that. He had thought Robb was dead, too, but maybe . . .maybe he was only somewhere else.

“My brother, Robb?” he asked hesitantly.

“He is dead. There is no mistake about about that.” Lord Brynden’s voice was flat and dry as always, but not unkind. Bran resisted the urge to ask if he he was lying because in his heart he knew that the man spoke the truth in this.

He swallowed his grief and asked, “Riding north, you said? My father rides north?”

“What you saw in the godswood at Winterfell just now all took place in recent days, after you first saw your mother. Your father rides to the Wall to meet the threat from the Others with men and steel. He is a brave man, Eddard Stark, but he does not understand what he faces.”

Bran remembered the dead things in the snow and shuddered. “I have to go to him,” he said. “I have to help.”

“How can a broken boy fight?”

Bran bristled. “I don’t need to fight. I can tell him things. I can fly with the ravens and run with Summer. I can learn things.”

“You can do those things here.”

Bran pounded his fist hard into his thigh, feeling nothing. “But I can’t tell him what I know if I’m here! I’m useless!”

“You seek to make a difference, Bran Stark? Or do you simply wish to see your family?”

“I . . .” Bran hesitated. His father had always asked honesty of him. “Both,” he said, after a moment. “I want both.”

Another long, cold sigh escaped Lord Brynden. “It will be a difficult journey.”

“He cannot leave here,” Leaf protested at those words. “He is the last greenseer.”

“He is,” Lord Brynden agreed, “And a greenseer must follow his own path. He cannot be forced onto another.” He looked back to Bran. “I would have you stay with me. I do not know how much longer I can wait. But you will do as you do, Brandon Stark, and I will do what I can.”

Leaf said no more at that point, and Bran began to allow himself to hope. They were going to let him leave. He was going to find his father, and then his mother and his brothers and sisters. A genuine smile had just started to appear on his face when he turned and saw Meera enter the chamber.

Her face was deathly white, and her eyes looked dull and far away.

“Meera?” Bran said, wanting to go to her, and painfully aware that he could not.

She looked at him. “Jojen told me to leave him there where he could see the light outside,” she said in a voice as dull and distant as her eyes.

“He’s awake?” Bran asked. “He spoke to you?” As he watched Meera’s face, the initial excitement and hope he’d felt at her words died quickly.

“He’s awake,” she said in a barely audible whisper. “But he won’t speak again.” She turned and walked away then. Not back the way she had came, but toward the little chamber that served as their sleeping room.

Tears began to fall down Bran’s cheeks once more as the meaning of her words sunk in. Jojen had told his sister to leave him to die. He wanted to protest. He wanted to yell at her to go and get him. But everyone in the chamber was silent. Bran inwardly cursed his useless legs and Jojen’s greendreams and all the evil that had befallen them, but he remained silent, too. Jojen had told Meera to leave him, and whether she liked it or not, Meera always did what her younger brother said.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark would never have imagined himself capable of such joy at the sight of a massive wall of ice, but as the Wall became visible through the swirling snow ahead of them, his heart leapt. They had made it. For more than six weeks, they had struggled northward through ever deepening snows, some days barely able to move ten miles through the wind and heavy snowfall. They had lost at least fifteen men to illness, injury, or freezing to death, and more than a few men who still lived would likely be without parts of noses, ears, and fingers due to frostbite. Ned had endeavored to make everyone keep well covered throughout the long, miserable journey, but he couldn’t dress and wrap each man himself. Still, he led these men, and he felt the weight of every death, every injury.

Now, true shelter and more warmth than they’d had since Winterfell was within their reach at Castle Black, and Ned spurred his horse, knowing that the sight of the Wall would do for all the men what it had done for him. He only hoped that Jon and his company had reached it safely, and that they had met with a warm enough welcome. Jon had left the Wall under terrible circumstances, and Selyse Baratheon’s letter had been anything but reassuring about the situation at Castle Black.

As Ned rode on, he spotted a small company of riders coming toward them, and he slowed his pace, holding up an arm to halt the entire column. Of course, only the few men directly behind him could see him in the snow, but the signal would be passed down the line.

“Wait here,” Ned said to the man beside them. “Hold the column until I have met with these riders.” He urged his horse just slightly forward, and as he expected, he saw three horses coming up the line toward him as rapidly as their riders dared in this weather.

“Riders from the Wall?” asked Yohn Royce as he pulled his mount up next to Ned’s. “Do you suppose they mean to escort us or turn us back?”

“They’d better be the bloody welcoming committee,” Greatjon Umber roared as he joined them. “My arse is frozen to this horse, and I’m ready for a nice warm fire to warm it up.”

Maege Mormont had ridden forward as well, but she had not stopped at the men, but ridden a bit further on, peering into the snow. Turning her horse back toward them, she said, “I count five. Hardly a force capable of turning us back, Lord Royce. Likely they bring us news, and hopefully it’s good.”

Ned wondered silently how much good news could possibly await them at the Wall, but he nodded to the others, and they rode forward together. Once the two groups of riders came close enough that some recognition was possible, Ned did smile, for one of the men riding toward them was Howland Reed. He also recognized Hothar Umber, but did not know the other three.

Howland called out in greeting as the riders met, “Lord Stark! Well met, my lord. We feared greatly for you when that dreadful storm came through just after our arrival!”

Ned wondered to which storm he referred. The gods knew they had ridden through more than one. “We feared for ourselves, my friend. It is good to see you. When did you arrive at Castle Black?”

“More than a fortnight ago, my lord. We had much fairer weather, fewer men, and less baggage.”

Ned nodded. “Jon?” he asked his old friend, attempting to keep any hint of fear out of his voice or expression.

“The Lord Commander awaits you at Castle Black, my lord,” said one of Howland’s companions who was unknown to Ned, and Ned’s heart leapt at his use of the title, hoping it meant that Jon had been able to establish himself as the leader of the Night’s Watch upon his return to the Wall.

Still, he had to be certain. “Lord Commander Snow awaits us?” he inquired. The man hadn’t used Jon’s name.

Now another man spoke, a rough looking young man who likely was very tall when standing, judging by how low his stirrups hung on the horse to accommodate his long legs. “Don’t know any other Lord Crows. No doubt you’ll recognize him. He looks just like you!” The man laughed then at Ned’s expression. “You and your men are welcome, Eddard Stark. And needed. We’ll take all the kneelers we can get in this fight because there aren’t enough crows, and more of ’em fly off every day.”

Howland smiled grimly. “This is Torreg, son of Tormund, my lord. He’s one of the free folk who’s agreed to help defend the Wall.” Indicating the man who had spoken before and the other stranger, he continued, “These are Mully and Ty, two brothers of the Night’s Watch, men the Lord Commander thinks highly of, and, of course, you all know Hothar Umber.”

At the mention of the man’s name, it occurred to Ned that the Greatjon’s uncle was uncharacteristically quiet and somber looking. It must have occurred to the Greatjon at the same time because he bellowed, “Have you forgotten how to speak, Uncle? It seems you were a good deal happier to see us when we arrived at Winterfell.”

“I’m glad enough you’re here,” Hothar Umber rumbled. “But there’s damned little to be glad about as you’ll know soon enough.”

There was a very brief silence at that ominous pronouncement after which Ned took the opportunity to formally introduce himself and his three companions to the men from the Wall. The two men of the Night’s Watch assured them that preparations had been made for their arrival and encouraged them to push on in order to get the entire company to Castle Black before nightfall.

As they rode, Ned fell in beside Howland Reed. “Tell me what has transpired here,” he said shortly.

“Jon can tell it better,” Howland said, “but we arrived to near chaos. Selyse Baratheon and her daughter are holed up in the King’s Tower and what knights she still has let no one in. The First Steward and her red priestess are still missing and presumed dead beyond the Wall. The First Builder was apparently killed in the fighting that took place after the attack on Jon. No one has been named to their offices or elected Lord Commander o replace Jon. Close to fifty men--brothers of the Watch, wildlings, and some of the Queen’s men were killed the night Jon and Perwyn left, as well as a giant, apparently. Young Torreg’s father finally restored order with the help of Castle Black’s master-at-arms, a steward called Satin, and another wildling by the name of Soren Shieldbreaker.”

“How did they do that?” Ned asked.

“Sheer force,” Howland replied. “Tormund had arrived from Oakenshield with fifty men, and this Satin apparently mustered all the men of the Watch he knew to be loyal to Jon, although I am quite certain he didn’t fight, himself. He’s a bright enough lad, but I don’t think he knows which end of a sword to hold. Anyway, they finally forced all the combatants into their quarters at sword point, and set up guards to keep them there til morning.” Howland went silent.

“And?” Ned asked, sensing his old friend had more to say.

“They didn’t think to set guards on the dead,” Reed said quietly, and Ned felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach. “They rose in the night, regardless of the state of their corpses and set upon the living indiscriminately, making no distinction between those who once were friends or enemies. They simply killed without cause. The dead giant apparently slew close to a score of men himself.”

“Gods!” Ned breathed. “But they were this side of the Wall. And they were not killed by Others. Why would they rise up as wights?”

Howland shook his head. “The Wall is warded, to be sure, my lord. More than ice was needed to keep these creatures from the Seven Kingdoms. But something changes now. I cannot say what.” He paused. “The wildlings knew the wights had to be burned, and as they fought them, they sent archers up the Wall to fire burning arrows down on them from relative safety. Those men saw the Others. Just on the north side of the Wall. They could not pass, but they were there in fairly large numbers. Perhaps their presence so close was enough to raise the dead as their servants.”

“The fire arrows didn’t kill them,” came a new voice from Ned’s other side, and he looked to see the man of the Watch called Ty beside him. “I was one that went up the Wall,” the man said quietly. “It was colder than death. The Others brought the cold, or they are the cold.” He shook his head. “I know I hit some of them, but the fire just went out.”

“But you did destroy all the wights?” Ned asked him.

Ty nodded. “It took a lot of burning arrows to bring down that giant,” he said. He went silent for a moment. Then turning to face Ned as he rode, he continued, “Queen Selyse’s red priestess came out from the King’s Tower then and said we had to burn them. All of them. So we did.”

The men rode in silence for a few moments then, as the Wall grew immense before them, the faint outlines of Castle Black now visible against its expanse. “What has occurred since?” Ned finally asked.

Ty sighed. “When the sun came up, there was no sign of the Others. Tormund and Leathers said we should send men out to see what was there. Ten went from the Watch and ten of Tormund’s own. None came back. I don’t think the Others go anywhere during the day. I just think you can’t see them.” He swallowed. “Some men have gone out and come back since, but only those that stayed in sight of the Wall. And at night, you always see the Others. I don’t know what they’re doing, but they’re always there. Satin had Clydas send ravens to the other castles on the Wall. Eastwatch and Shadow and all those with wildlings in them. Those that answered said they were seeing the same. And men started leaving. We catch and bring back those we can, but too many go for us to catch them all.”

“Those that answered. Some have not?” Ned asked.

Ty’s face darkened. “Most have by now, my lord. But Lord Commander Snow wishes to speak to you of that.”

“What of this journey beyond the Wall by Stannis Baratheon’s red woman?” Ned asked.

Ty scowled. “The red woman had more men at her night fires every night, and she spoke of her R’hllor. Him she called the one true god. She talked of how only this R’hllor could defeat the evil beyond the Wall. That it came of darkness, and R’hllor was lord of light. Even some of the wildlings started going to her night fires, and other wildlings, they didn’t like that. Said it was wrong for the free folk to turn from their ways and pray to some foreign god. They started having more fights among themselves than with the men of the Watch.” He shook his head. “Leathers, he’s master-at-arms, and Satin convinced Tormund to send Soren Shieldbreaker and his men on to Stonedoor, where the Lord Commander had meant to send them, because one of his men, Borroq the skinchanger was the worst to the wildlings who went to the night fires. But the night before they were to go, Borroq’s big boar attacked and killed three men, including one of the Queen’s nights, so Tormund had him and three of his friends arrested. The Lady Melisandre said our only hope to appease the evil beyond the Wall was to burn these men alive north of the Wall where the Others are. She wanted to burn a weirwood north of the Wall, too, to show that R’hllor need not fear false gods.”

Ned inadvertently gasped at the thought of willfully burning one of the ancient white trees, but he silenced himself that Ty might continue.

“None of the wildlings would go. Not even those who said they follow R’hllor now. So Bowen Marsh said he’d take men out.” Ty looked at Ned thoughtfully. “He’s First Steward, but he’d been kept under guard himself because he’s one of the men who attacked the Lord Commander. He kept saying it was for the Watch he’d done it. That Lord Snow was killing the Watch and he had to stop it. When Lady Melisandre started talking about burning Borroq and the others, he said if that were the only way to protect the Watch, he’d do it. He’d take men out. For the Watch. When he and his men got ready to go, with the four wildlings all trussed up, they were set upon by another group of wildlings, but those were quickly subdued. Queen Selyse deemed those men too dangerous to be on this side of the Wall so they were sent out with Marsh’s men as well, to be left north of the Wall. Counting up the red woman, the men of the Watch, the four for burning and the eight to be left, almost 40 people went through the gate that day. None have returned, and no one else has gone north since. Queen Selyse and her daughter have not set foot outside the King’s Tower.”

“And what has Jon to say about all of this?” Ned inquired.

Ty nodded his head in the direction of Castle Black. “Why not ask him yourself, my lord?”

Ned looked up to see that they were, in fact, approaching the stables of Castle Black, and standing there waiting for him was Jon. He had Perwyn Frey at his side, and two other black brothers stood close behind them. The relief Ned felt at seeing the boy in front of him, alive and whole almost overwhelmed him. He had felt the pain of this separation from his family more keenly than any in the past and to have even one of them back with him caused his heart to lift in spite of the dire circumstances.

“Jon,” he said, as he pulled his mount to a stop. “I am most glad to see you, s . .” He almost said son. It came to his lips unbidden as it had thousands of times, but he bit the word off, fearing it would be unwelcome.

“I am glad to see you as well, Lord Stark,” Jon replied, and Ned heard genuine gladness in the young man’s voice in spite of the formal address. “We have prepared for your arrival. We have ample room to house your men,” he said ruefully, “although I would rather we had the problem of being too crowded. I have men here to attend to your horses, my lord. If you would come with me, we have much to discuss.”

Ned looked around to see that some of his companions had already dismounted, and Jon and Hothar Umber were in whispered conversation while Maege Mormont greeted Perwyn Frey. He swung himself out of his saddle, aware of the deep ache in his bad leg worsened by weeks of riding through cold weather. A warm fire would help it, although not as much as Catelyn’s fingers could. She had insisted he bring some of her foul smelling linament, but he always thought Cat’s touch did more for him than her potion. He wondered if the bitter cold had Winterfell in its grasp and if the crossbow wound in her back troubled her because of it. He worried that it might pain her more as the babe grew and cursed that he would not be there to ease her.

“My lord?” Jon asked, a small frown of concern appearing on his face.

Ned wondered how long he’d stood there lost in his thoughts. Shaking his head to clear thoughts of Catelyn and home from it, he said, “Lead on, Jon. I would like to bring my lords and lady as well.” He indicated his companions.

Jon nodded. “You come, too, Hothar,” he said. “Torreg, your father awaits you on the Wall. Ty, Mully, you help Leathers and Jax oversee the quartering of Lord Stark’s men and horses. I’ve got Rory and the Flea with me.”

Ty and Mully nodded and turned their mounts toward Ned’s main company. Ned heard the comfortable tone of command in Jon’s voice as he directed his men, and he took pride in it. While he couldn’t stop thinking of him as a boy, Jon was indeed a man, and a leader.

As the group of men and one woman walked with Jon to his quarters, he turned to Ned and for one moment let the face of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch drop completely. “Rickon and the girls? They are well?”

“They were very well when I left them, Jon, although that was some weeks ago. Winterfell was decently, if not lavishly provisioned, and Lord Manderly’s supplies for them should be arriving before too much longer. I am certain they will be fine.”

Jon nodded, but looked less reassured than Ned would have liked. Something was bothering him.

“And Lady Stark? She is well, also?” asked Perwyn Frey.

Ned smiled warmly at the man who bore a name he hated above almost all others, and yet had given him back first Catelyn and then Jon. “She is. She is undoubtedly working much too hard and resting too little as she rules Winterfell in my absence, but I fear I cannot change that about her.”

Perwyn returned the smile. “No, my lord. I do not think you can.” His smile grew wider. “But I do not think you would have her be any different in any case.”

Ned didn’t have to answer as they had reached the door of Jon’s chambers, and Perwyn turned away from him to go in. _You are right,_ he thought. _I would have her safer, yes. But never anyone but who she is._

As they passed through the door, the temperature increased almost immediately, and Ned saw a roaring fire in the hearth being tended by a young appearing man with curly black hair. He turned around as they came in, and Ned saw that he was almost shockingly pretty. He had large, dark eyes and the skin of his face looked as soft as a girl’s for all he had a short beard the same shiny black as his curls. The only other person already in the room was Mance Rayder. The wildling king sat beside a table with a steaming mug of something in his hands and his brown eyes fixed on the entering men. He looked considerably less gaunt than he had when Ned first discovered him at Winterfell, although he was naturally lean, and when his eyes fell on Ned’s, he gave a small nod of greeting.

“Please, my lords, make yourselves comfortable,” Jon said. Then looking at Maege Mormont, he added belatedly, “and my lady.”

She smiled at him as she removed her cloak. “No need to worry about titles and ceremonies,” she said. “We are all anxious to hear what you have found at your Wall.” The black haired boy stepped up to take her cloak, and began making his way among the men, helping them with their outer wrappings.

Jon sighed. “There is much to tell. Please be seated, everyone. Satin, if you could bring warm drinks for guests, please.”

The curly-haired boy nodded, and laying aside the bundle of cloaks, he went into another room.

 _Satin,_ thought Ned. _The steward who helped hold the Night’s Watch together after Jon was attacked._

When everyone was seated, Jon began to speak, first relating the things Ned had already learned from Howland and Ty on the way here. With a start, Ned realized he hadn’t seen Howland since that ride. He’d drifted back a bit on his horse when Ty had taken over the narrative, and had not been at the front with them when they’d reached Jon. Ned mentally shrugged, knowing that the crannogman always did things his own way in his own time, and attended to Jon’s story as he felt he could benefit from hearing it again.

“You have truly not seen Queen Selyse since you have returned?” he asked Jon when he reached that part of the tale.

Jon shook his head. “Sers Malegorn and Benethon take turns at the door of the King’s Tower and admit no one. They do send two of their men to bring back food, but no one else has gone in or out since . . .Satin?”

The steward had long since returned and given everyone warmed wine. “It was five days, my lord,” Satin said. “The first five days after Lady Melisandre went north, Queen Selyse held the night fires and prayed to R’hllor every night. During the day, she even went to the top of the Wall to look down on the other side. Each day, though, she seemed to despair more, and after the fifth, she had a raven sent to her husband at Winterfell. We had told her about the Bastard of Bolton’s letter, but she said she could not believe that. She said she had to believe the fires of R’hllor. Then she went into the King’s Tower and hasn’t come out.”

“Have you tried to see her, Jon?”

“Of course,” Jon snapped. “But I am not going to cut down her last two remaining knights to get to her. I have told both Ser Malegorn and Ser Benethon that King Stannis is alive at Winterfell, but if they gave her the message, it does not seem to have moved her.”

“Does she have anyone else in there with her, other than servants?” Ned asked.

“Her uncle. Axell Florent, whom she calls her Hand.”

“Now don’t forget about the true king of the wildlings,” came an amused voice, and Ned turned toward Mance Rayder. It was the first thing he’d said since they’d arrived and almost the first thing Ned had ever heard him say, as the man had remained stubbornly silent when questioned at Winterfell until Jon had spoken to him.

“He means Gerrick Kingsblood,” Jon sighed now. “He’s a tall red haired wildling who’s got Selyse Baratheon convinced he’s descended from Raymun Redbeard and the true king of the wildlings. He looks lordly enough, but Tormund says he’s really descended from Raymun’s younger brother, not that wildlings honor hereditary titles anyway.” Jon shook his head. “The queen married the man’s eldest daughter to Axell Florent and his younger two to Sers Malegorn and Brus. Although Brus went north of the Wall with Lady Melisandre so it’s likely his red headed bride is a widow now.”

“They just sit there? In the King’s Tower?”

Jon nodded. “I promised her lord husband I would see her sent to safety, but I’m not entirely certain how to go about that when I can’t see her at all.”

“We shall deal the Lady Selyse presently,” Ned said. “I sense you have more to tell. Your man, Ty, told me that ravens had been sent to all the outposts on the Wall, but not all had responded. Have any more responses arrived since your coming here?”

Jon looked grave. “Yes.”

“Jon?” Ned asked when his son said no more than that word.

“Eastwatch finally replied. Only five days ago. What’s left of Eastwatch anyway.”

That sounded ominous, and no one in the room moved as they waited for Jon to continue.

“I told you I had sent Cotter Pyke with a fleet of ships to rescue the free folk at Hardhome. And what had happened to that fleet.” Ned nodded and Jon went on. “Glendon Hewett was left in charge of Eastwatch. He is no friend to me, especially after I took his friend Janos Slynt’s head, but he is an able enough man. When Satin and Clydas told me no word had been received from him, I feared there’d been troubles with the wildlings coming through. When Tormund’s men came through, we sent some others with the mammoths around to go through Eastwatch where there’s actually a way large enough for them.”

“You think this Hewett and his men would try to stop them coming through?” Yohn Royce asked. Ned didn’t think he’d spoken before, but the idea of someone committing so great a betrayal would not sit well with the Lord of Runestone.

“I confess I considered it,” Jon answered. “But not now. The wildlings and their mammoths never made it to Eastwatch. That was one thing in the letter, but not the worst.” He’d been looking around at everyone in the room as he spoke, but now he turned his eyes directly to Ned’s. “Ser Glendon had not responded earlier because the men at Eastwatch had been fighting and dying without much respite. The Others are south of the Wall at Eastwatch.”

A collective gasp went up at that.

“How can that be?” bellowed Jon Umber. “You said they weren’t able to cross!”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” his uncle said. “For whatever reason, it seems they could cross there, and now there’s nothing to keep them from Last Hearth!”

The Greatjon’s face paled at the thought of his isolated castle, the northernmost seat in Westeros besieged by Others and wights.

“That’s why Mors isn’t here,” Jon said softly. “I allowed him to take his men and ride for Last Hearth as soon as we got the letter. Hothar waited for you.”

“And what can Mors do against them?” the Greatjon roared. “If swords break when they touch them and fire won’t burn them, how the bloody hell do we fight them?”

“With these,” Jon said softly, and he held up a small black object. Ned looked at it closely and saw it was an obsidian arrowhead.

“Dragonglass,” he said. “Where did you get it?"

“Beneath the Wall,” Jon answered. “The tunnels beneath the Wall go on and on through storerooms and side passages that haven’t been used in years. There are things down there that haven’t been touched in centuries, and I wondered if some of those things might have belonged to men who knew more about fighting White Walkers than we do now. I‘ve had men combing through the oldest things day and night. We have found a fair amount of these, but I fear not nearly enough. I‘ve sent to the other castles to have them look for the things as well.”

“That little thing kills them?” Yohn Royce asked, disbelievingly.

“It’s dragonglass,” Jon said, “Just as my f . . .Lord Stark said. This is an arrowhead. We also have some daggers, although I’ve not put those to the test as I’ve not sent anyone through the Wall since my return. The arrowheads work well enough, though. We shot some at the creatures from the top of the Wall the first night we found them, and the two that were hit near the heart died . . .or melted . . .or disappeared. It was hard to tell what happened to them really, but they were destroyed.”

“So now you just shoot them down each night?” Royce asked.

“We have managed to destroy several more, yes, but they stay largely out of arrow range now. Whatever these Others may be, they do not appear to be stupid.”

Ned’s mind was racing. “How did Ser Glendon defeat them?” he said. “He did finally send a response to Castle Black. That would seem to indicate at least a lull in the fighting. What happened there?”

Jon swallowed. “I don’t think he knows. There were certainly Others when their fight began. He described them too accurately for there to be any mistake about that. But as the days wore on, it was mostly wights they fought, and when the men he had remaining finally managed to kill and burn the last dead thing, there were no Others. They had gone.”

“Gone where?” Ned asked in a hushed voice.

Jon shook his head. “No one knows.”

Jon Umber swore loudly, standing up and pacing across the room. “My lord,” he started to say.

“Of course, you must go, Jon,” Ned said. “But not this evening. We must make a plan. We must make good use of what dragonglass we have. And Valyrian steel. You did say Valyrian steel would slay them as well, did you not, Jon?”

Jon nodded. “We believe so. Again, I haven’t had opportunity to test it.” He looked at Lord Umber. “I did send letters, my lord. To Last Hearth and to Sigorn and Lady Alys at the Karhold. I told them about the dragonglass and Valyrian steel, and fire for the wights. And I did send what dragonglass weapons I could with Mors.”

Jon Umber nodded silently, and walked to the hearth, staring into the flames as if wishing they could show him a way to protect his home. Maege Mormont, who had been largely silent asked Jon, then, “What about Shadow Tower? If these things have come through at one end of the Wall, have they come around the other?”

Her voice was level, but Ned knew she thought of Bear Island and her daughters.

Jon shook his head. “No. We have actually sent several letters back and forth to Shadow Tower, and they see fewer of the White Walkers than anywhere. I have asked them to keep men at Westwatch-by-the-Bridge around the clock, but there are no Others seen there past the end of the Wall, even on the north side of the river. I don’t know why.”

It seemed to Ned that the why was less important than the how. If they could figure out how these things crossed the Wall at Eastwatch, perhaps they could stop any more from doing so, and prevent them from crossing anywhere else. Because once they crossed, there was nothing keeping them from moving further south, even beyond the Last Hearth. Even to Winterfell.

“Have you sent a letter to Catelyn?” he asked softly.

“No, my lord,” Jon answered. “Winterfell lies much further south which gives us more time . . .and I thought perhaps you would want to send it.”

Ned nodded, feeling as cold as he imagined the presence of an Other might make him feel. He had ridden countless leagues away from his family only to learn that the danger could easily be headed directly toward them. He closed his eyes and desperately attempted to come up with some plan. He had to give Catelyn some plan, some hope. He thought of Lady Brienne and her Oathkeeper--one Valyrian steel blade standing between his family and these creatures of cold and dark. He understood Lord Umber’s feelings all too well. He wanted nothing more than to jump back on his horse and gallop south as quickly as the beast would carry him, ride into Winterfell and grab Catelyn and the children up in his arms, defying any fell creature to take them from him. Yet he knew he could not do that. All the North was in peril, and Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, had to stand his ground and decide how best to protect it.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

As Catelyn Stark made careful entries into her ledger about the supplies just arrived from White Harbor, she was suddenly struck by the date. Two moons. It had been precisely two moons since Ned had ridden out from Winterfell, and she had as yet heard nothing from him. _The Wall is far,_ she reminded herself, _and winter has come. It has not been too long yet._ It certainly seemed too long, though. During the days she had more than enough to occupy her mind and her hands, but the nights lasted forever, and she couldn’t remember the last one she’d slept completely through. She would wake in the dark and reach for him, saddened and terrified anew every time as she remembered he was not there.

She stood up to stretch and felt the babe shift within her. She smiled as several soft kicks landed within the right side of her belly, and she rubbed the spot with her hand. Even the sweet affirmation of the life she carried within her gave her a twinge of sadness at the moment, though, for the kicks themselves were another reminder of the time passed since Ned’s departure. She had not felt the babe move before he left, and now she felt it more each day, as if her unborn child felt as restless as she did.

She had been at the ledgers all morning. There had been a lot to write down, as Lord Manderly had most generously kept his word on sending needed supplies. He’d sent an abundance, including a fair number of glass panes which Catelyn knew came dearly. She strongly suspected he’d had them removed from some structure in White Harbor, for there certainly hadn’t been time for any to have been sent from Essos, where the best glass was made. Wherever he’d gotten it, she was grateful. While there wasn’t enough glass to rebuild the glass gardens as they had been before, she could make a good start and at least get something planted within another couple moon’s turns. She’d already set builders to the task, and the men from White Harbor had only arrived three days ago.

She had men working on any number of building projects around the castle. The winter town was filling up as it did whenever winter descended on the North, and that meant an influx of potential new workers. Catelyn was generous with payments of food and supplies, so men were more than willing to labor at repairing the damaged buildings of Winterfell in spite of the cold and the snow. The winter town itself was sorely in need of construction work as well, both from the natural decay of disuse during the long summer and the destruction wrought by the Bastard of Bolton. Catelyn allotted resources toward the work there as well, and much to Lady Brienne’s dismay, had insisted on riding out to let the returning small folk see her. She wanted none of them to doubt that both she and Ned indeed lived, or that Winterfell stood strong against all enemies.

She frowned at the thought of Ramsay Snow. Several of the small folk had reported raids in areas remote from Winterfell, and more recently even a few raids somewhat closer to the castle. The horrific deeds described by the survivors certainly sounded like it could be the work of Roose Bolton’s bastard. With Ned and the great bulk of his army gone north, the man might think Winterfell ripe for another attack. _If so, he is gravely mistaken,_ she thought grimly.

Her garrison would soon be increased in number by the arrival of several hundred men from Riverrun. She had received a raven from her brother soon after Ned’s departure which informed her that he felt his own seat secure enough to send some of his men north against this new threat. With so much still unsettled in the south, he did not feel he should leave Riverrun himself, and Catelyn agreed with him on that, but she rejoiced to read that he was sending men under the command of Lord Jason Mallister who was a formidable commander. To her even greater joy, Edmure had written with obvious pride and happiness that Roslin had been delivered of a son which they had named Hoster.

She could see through the window that no snow currently fell. As she didn’t think she could look at parchment and ink for one moment longer, she decided to go out to the practice yard and see if Brienne was there with her new pupils. She smiled at the memory of the young woman’s face when she’d asked her to train Arya as well as the little boys as Ned had asked.

“My . . .my lady?” Brienne had stammered, those enormous blue eyes of hers going even wider.

“Yes, Brienne. You’ll find her somewhat more advanced than the boys as Lord Eddard apparently had engaged a sword master for her in King’s Landing, but I’d still prefer she practice with a wooden training sword for now.”

“A sword master,” Brienne had repeated.

“Yes. A man from Braavos skilled in some particular sort of fighting. Water Dancing, I believe Arya calls it.”

Brienne had nodded. “That would be well suited to her, my lady. It is a style that depends on quickness and agility rather than size and strength.” Twisting her mouth slightly, she had added. “It is not a style that suits me, my lady, and I fear I know little of the techniques. I would not be the best teacher for her.”

“You are the best I have at the moment, Brienne, and the fact that you recognize you should not change what she has already learned proves you are better than most. Let her fight as she will, but any foes she chances to come across here will likely fight in the same style you do. Learning to defend herself against you will prepare her to defend herself against them.”

“You intend your daughter to fight, my lady?” Brienne had asked, those blue eyes going wide once more.

“I intend my daughter to grow up safe and happy and be married to a good, kind man who will treat her well, respect her for the woman she is, and give her children to cherish,” Catelyn had said sharply. “I have come to know that what I intend often means little. I would have her continue her training at arms.”

Brienne had simply nodded then, and Arya had been ecstatic when she’d been told about the arrangement. She hadn’t even let Catelyn’s insistence on wooden training swords dampen her enthusiasm.

As she walked outside now, Catelyn pulled the hood of her cloak tightly around her face against the cold. She could hear Rickon’s shouts and laughter long before she reached the practice yard and knew she had been correct in thinking they would be taking advantage of this break in the weather. When she drew close enough to watch, she saw that Brienne had Dak and Arya sparring while she traded easy parries with Rickon. Dak was going at Arya for all he was worth, and while Catelyn suspected her daughter was taking it somewhat easy on the boy, she had to admit that the young Pentoshi was a quick learner. He seemed to have a natural affinity for swordsmanship. She swallowed the lump in her throat as she remembered that Robb had been the same. Arya looked up and saw her watching them. With a grin, she disarmed poor Dak with one swift motion and pushed him down into the snow.

“Ow,” the boy said, rubbing at his wrist.

“Oh, don’t be a baby, Stupid,” she said, still grinning at him. Then she held out her hand to help him up. “You are getting better, you know,” she said.

A startled yelp caused Catelyn to turn away from Arya and Dak, and she was startled to see her youngest son lying on his back in the snow, with the point of Brienne’s training sword against his chest. She started to protest that Rickon was far too young to be taken down in such a manner, but she bit her lip and listened to what Brienne was saying to him.

“You took your eyes off me, Rickon,” Brienne said sternly. “Do not ever do that. Never.”

“I was watching Arya knock down Dak,” the boy protested.

“I know what you were watching,” Brienne answered, not moving her training sword away from his chest. “If you want to watch Arya and Dak spar, tell me, and I shall let you watch. But when you spar with me, it is not a game. You are young, Rickon, but not to young to learn that you never take your eyes off someone who holds a weapon to you. If you do that, you are dead. Do you understand me?”

Rickon nodded solemnly, and Brienne let him up. “Can I be finished now?” he asked. “I want to play with Shaggy.”

“Go on,” she said, holding out her hand for his little wooden sword.

Dak had asked Arya to show him what she’d done to his wrist and while the two of them discussed that, Lady Brienne approached Catelyn. “He really is very young, my lady. Too young for serious sword training. That’s why I let him come and go as he pleases for the most part. If you don’t mind.”

Catelyn smiled at her. “I think you are right,” she said. “But you are also right in what you told him just now. That is one lesson I would have him take to heart with things in the North as they are.”

“Yes, my lady,” Brienne said. “Is there anything you needed of me?”

“No, Brienne. I only wished to watch the children at practice for a moment.”

“Mother!” Catelyn turned around to see Sansa rushing toward her.

“What is it, sweetling? Is something amiss?” she asked as her daughter reached her.

Sansa shook her head as she tried to regain enough breath to speak. “Letters,” she finally said. “Two of them.”

Catelyn’s heart skipped a beat. “Your father?” she asked.

Sansa made a non-committal sort of gesture. “I know one of them’s from Oldtown. The Citadel,” she said.

Catelyn swallowed her disappointment. A letter from the Citadel could be important. She wondered if it was in response to the letter Jon Snow had sent before he left. The boy had picked up on Ned’s uneasiness at leaving Winterfell without a maester which was remarkable in itself as the two were barely speaking. Even more remarkably, he had agreed it was a less than optimal situation, especially with the Lady of Winterfell being with child. Ned was not inclined to trust anyone in the south, even at the Citadel, especially after all Wyman Manderly had to say of his maester, but Jon told him of a young man he had sent there to become a maester. He doubted he’d had enough training as of yet to actually have earned his chain, but said that he was smart, well-read, and could be trusted implicitly. Ned let him send the young man a raven, but no response had come.

“Where are these letters?” she asked.

“Father’s solar,” Sansa answered. “I thought I’d find you there.”

Without another word, Catelyn turned to go back to the Great Keep, Sansa at her heels. When they entered the solar, Sansa stepped quickly to the desk, handing her mother one of the rolls of parchment. “It’s addressed to Jon,” she said.

Catelyn nodded absently and broke the seal to unroll the parchment. She read the neatly written lines and then looked up at her daughter. “It would appear we are getting a maester. Or a maester in training at any rate.”

Sansa raised her brows slightly. “A man of the night’s watch," Catelyn continued. "Jon Snow had sent him to be trained as a maester because their old maester had gotten quite elderly, I believe. His name is . . .” She looked down at the parchment again. “Samwell. Samwell Tarly.”

“Tarly?” Sansa said sharply. “The Tarlys are Lannister men.”

“Not this one, apparently,” Catelyn said sharply. “Jon swore to your father he would trust him with his life, and ours.”

“But if he’s a man of the Watch, can he be the maester at Winterfell?”

Catelyn shrugged. “I suppose he can do whatever his Lord Commander orders him to, and that would be Jon Snow. He didn’t reply until he procured permission to leave the Citadel and found transport. Apparently, the trouble with Ironborn in the Reach continues, but their blockade of the Honeywine is not impenetrable. He’s taken a ship that will sail around Dorne and then north to White Harbor, as sailing up the west coast is too perilous thanks to the Greyjoys. Gods only know how long that journey will take him, but I shall write to Lord Manderly to let him know he is expected. I can give him the name of the ship and he’ll have it watched for. Give me the other letter now.”

At that, Sansa blushed. “It’s from Father,” she said, handing it over.

“Sansa Stark! Why did you not tell me immediately?” Catelyn exclaimed, snatching it from her hand, her fingers trembling as her eyes fell on the familiar direwolf seal.

“I’m sorry, Mother. It’s only . . .I knew you would wish to give proper attention to the other letter as well and if I gave you this one first . . .oh, please open it now, Mother.”

Catelyn didn’t need to be told to to that as she was already breaking the seal. The salutation was a single word. Her name. _Catelyn._ She knew his hand as well as she knew her own, and he had written this himself. No one had penned it for him. That alone gave her some comfort, and she simply held the letter tightly in her hands for a moment, relishing the fact that his hands had held it as well.

“Well?” Sansa asked.

“It’s a fairly long letter, and he’s written it himself so it appears he arrived at the Wall in good health,” she told her daughter.

“Thank the gods,” Sansa murmured. Then, she looked at Catelyn for a moment and said, “I’ll leave you to read your letter, Mother. It is for you, after all. He wrote your name large enough for me to read it from here.”

Catelyn smiled at her. “Thank you, sweetling. I’ll share it with all of you, I promise.”

Sansa hugged her tightly and said, “I’m just glad he’s safe.” Then she planted a quick kiss on her cheek and left the solar.

When she had gone, Catelyn seated herself in Ned’s chair, the one original piece of furniture left in the room, and sighed. _Safe,_ she thought. _I fear he’s far from safe, but he is alive, and that is something._ She carefully spread the parchment out on the table before her and began to read.

_Catelyn,_

_We have arrived at the Wall after a journey made too long by foul weather. We lost a few men to the cold and other mischance, but most have arrived in reasonably good health. I am well, as are all in the company known to you. I pray that you and the children are well, and I hope that the newest Stark is not troubling your rest too terribly yet._

She choked back a small sob at that. He remembered how Rickon had kept her up nights with his almost constant movements and strong kicks. Arya had actually been worse, but Ned hadn’t been present for most of that pregnancy. She put a hand over this new babe, thinking that the only thing troubling her sleep now was his father’s absence.

_The news from here is grave. While Castle Black is secure enough at present, and the Others do not seem able to cross the Wall here, they are present just to our north and have presumably killed all those who’ve journeyed far beyond the Wall since Jon and Perwyn left there. They do not come as close to the Wall now as the men of the Watch have discovered arrows of dragonglass which do kill the creatures. I had thought to send Queen Selyse and her daughter to you at Winterfell for their safety, but the woman has barricaded herself into a tower here and refuses to come out. In any event, I do not know that I would send her away from Castle Black now even if she did come out._

_Catelyn, my love, the Others cannot cross here, but they have come south of the Wall at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea._

Catelyn’s hand went to her mouth as she read those words.

_I do not know how many of them crossed, nor do I know how far south they have gone. Mors Umber had ridden for Last Hearth before my arrival, and I now have sent a large contingent of men toward the south and east, roughly in the direction of Last Hearth hoping to intercept any of these creatures before they can go as far as Winterfell, but I do not know how successful our attempts will be._

_We know that dragonglass can kill them. We have evidence that Valyrian steel may kill them as well, so keep Lady Brienne and her sword near you and the children at all times. Fire kills their wights, so the archers should have a large and easily accessible supply of flaming arrows. The Winter Town should have fires burning at its perimeters as well, for I fear you cannot possibly bring everyone within the walls of Winterfell. Jon tells me Ghost is sensitive to the presence of the Others and their wights, so have Arya and Rickon keep Nymeria and Shaggydog close by. A good number of the castles along the Wall are manned now, and if these Others cross at any more points, word shall be sent to you at once._

_I shall likely not be able to write again myself for some time as Jon, Mance Rayder, a wildling by the name of Tormund Giantsbane, Howland Reed, and I are taking a company north of the Wall on the morrow._

Catelyn cried out when she read those words, and the hand holding the parchment shook so badly, she could barely continue reading.

_We take a good number of men, all brave and seasoned fighters, and we go armed with dragonglass. We do not intend to be slaughtered, my lady. I told you I mean to return to you, and I do. But we must know more of what goes on north of the Wall. Mance and Tormund seek answers about a large number of their people apparently stranded on the coast of the Shivering Sea. And I seek answers about our son._

The tears which had sprung to her eyes at Ned’s first mention of riding north of the Wall began falling freely at his mention of Bran.

_We cannot gain any of these answers by remaining south of the Wall in the relative safety of Castle Black, and so we must go._

_I will not lie to you, my love. This threat is unlike any we have faced before. Yet, we are not without hope. I shall do my part here, and I know you shall do your part in Winterfell. Your courage and strength will see you through this. Send no more men to the Wall at present for I do not know what more they can do here. Instead, make Winterfell as strong as it can be and direct our bannermen all to do the same with their castles and keeps._

_I do not know when I shall be with you next, but you must know that I see your face whenever I close my eyes and that the thought of you sustains me. Knowing that you and our children are in Winterfell means that there is one thing right in the world, whatever ancient evil may threaten us. I hold to that, and I pray that you hold to it as well._

_Be strong, my Cat, and I shall endeavor to be strong as well._

_Ned_

She stared at the letter for a long while unable to move or even think coherently. _North of the Wall. Ned is north of the Wall_ _even as I read this. Our Bran may be north of the Wall as well. Oh, gods, Ned._ She shook as she sat there and wondered how the gods could be so cruel as to put so much of her family back together only to bring them to this. She felt herself slipping away, feeling cold and distant as she hadn’t in a long time.

Suddenly she felt a sharp kick in her right side, stronger than anything she had felt from this babe before, and she found herself once more anchored to the present. This was her child to protect, just as Sansa, Arya, and Rickon were hers to protect. She could not go to Ned. She couldn’t hold him or keep him safe. But he had placed Winterfell in her hands, and she wouldn’t let it slip through her fingers. Her lord husband had entrusted her with their children, their people, and their lands. He deserved more than a woman too weak and craven to rise from her seat.

Catelyn Tully Stark wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dress. Then she carefully rolled up the parchment, rose from Ned’s chair, and carried the letter with her from the solar. First, she would find Brienne. Then they would gather the most senior members of the household guard and plan their defense. This ancient evil, whatever it was, would not threaten her home unanswered.


	46. Into the Cold and Dark

“Of course this man is Eddard Stark. Do you not have eyes, Ser Malegorn?” Selyse Baratheon’s voice was cold and disdainful as she turned her gaze from Ned to the knight who stood beside him. It had not been an easy thing to gain admittance to see her, but Ned had been persistent, and Ser Malegorn had finally returned to the door to lead him within, leaving Ser Benethon to bar the way to others.

“I . . .I had never met Lord Stark, Your Grace,” the knight now protested. “With everything that has gone on, all the treachery, surely you understand my caution . . .Lord Stark was executed at . . .”

“You’ve looked on his bastard often enough,” the woman interrupted. “Obviously this man is his father. In any event, I have met Lord Stark. I assure you this is he, and I ask you to leave us to speak privately.”

“But . . .Your Grace?” Malegorn said hesitantly.

“Do you intend harm to my person, Lord Stark?” Selyse asked flatly, turning back toward Ned.

“What?” Ned exclaimed. “No! I mean, of course not, my lady. It is your safety I wish to assure, just as your lord husband asked of Lord Commander Snow and myself.”

Turning again to Ser Malegorn, she said, “There. Surely, you’ve heard of Lord Stark’s unimpeachable honor; and save the one unfortunate bastard who plagues us here, I am unaware of any violations of it. I am quite safe with the man, Ser Malegorn. Leave us.”

Ned regarded the woman who watched Ser Malegorn all the way out of the room before turning again to face him. He remembered her only a little from her wedding to Stannis. That had been an abysmal affair thanks to Robert’s behavior, and he had been glad of the fact that leaving Catelyn in Winterfell with their young infant Sansa had provided him an excuse to leave quickly. Selyse Baratheon was as tall and thin as he remembered, although her face was more lined. Her most striking feature was still her unfortunately large ears, marking her as a Florent as surely as Cat’s copper tresses marked her as a Tully.

“Is it true that my husband lives?” she asked now.

“Indeed, my lady,” Ned replied. “Lord Stannis was grievously wounded in battle or he would have been here himself. He is convalescing at Winterfell, under the care of my lady wife.”

“Your Grace,” she said shortly.

“What?” Ned asked, honestly at a loss for a moment, wondering why she would call him that.

“You shall address me as ‘Your Grace,’ Lord Stark. I am your rightful queen. And you shall speak of His Grace, my husband, by his appropriate title as well.”

The woman stood as stiffly as if she had an iron rod from her feet to the crown of her head, and Ned wondered how Stannis Baratheon had managed to acquire a wife with even less warmth than himself. Jon had warned him that the woman was prickly over titles, and even though it did not sit well with him to do so, he needed to have this conversation and be gone, so he nodded rather stiffly himself. “Your Grace,” he said. “King Stannis lives.”

“In the care of your lady wife, you said. And who would would that be?”

Ned sputtered. “Why, the Lady Catelyn, of course. You know well who my wife is, m . . .” The ‘my lady’ at the end of the statement came almost by rote, but he closed his mouth on the words and simply used no title at all.

“I heard she was killed in that abominable wedding at the Twins. Although, as Ser Malegorn said, you were supposed to be dead as well. How is it that you are not?”

Ned sighed. “It is too long a tale, m . .Your Grace, but I was spirited from the Red Keep and another died in my place. The Lannisters believed me dead as well as my family and bannermen did.”

“As well as everyone did,” Selyse added. “It certainly took you long enough to appear and declare your fealty to your rightful king, Lord Stark.”

Ned sighed. The woman seemed to perceverate on the most trivial matters when so much was at stake. “I was not removed from my cell by friends, Your Grace, but simply another set of enemies. I was held prisoner across the Narrow Sea for many long weeks. Once I escaped and returned to Westeros, I learned that my lady wife had not been murdered at the Twins, but merely held captive.” _Merely held captive._ He tasted bile and felt the rage rise as it always did at the thought of what had happened to Catelyn at the Twins, but he was not going to discuss that with Lady Selyse, and he forced those thoughts away. “I gathered men loyal to me and undertook to rescue her and bring the Freys to justice for the death of my son.”

“So your son actually is dead, then? I began to think perhaps no one truly died, as you, your wife, your bastard, and my husband the king have all been reported dead, only to be found alive it seems. Why did you not attempt to contact the king, Lord Stark?”

The woman was infuriating. “My son, Robb, was indeed murdered by the Freys and Boltons. I have been rather busy seeing to the safety of my remaining family and dealing with those villains who had taken possession of my castle.” He sighed. “I had sent a letter to L . .King Stannis, but he had marched from Deepwood Motte before receiving it.”

“You took Winterfell, then? Not my husband?”

“My lady,” Ned said in some exasperation. “If you wished to know of these things, why have you not spoken with the Lord Commander? He has been here some time, and has been most anxious to speak with you. Why do you keep yourself and your retainers apart? For that matter, I am certain Ser Malegorn and Ser Benethon could have asked anyone these questions when they leave your tower.”

“Your Grace,” she corrected once more. “Will you not answer me?” she then insisted without answering him.

“I took Winterfell rather easily because most of Roose Bolton’s forces had ridden out to meet Lord Stannis in battle. His forces faced a far fiercer battle than mine, but they also received unexpected assistance from some who had ridden out against him only to turn upon the Bolton forces when the battle was joined. Now, please tell me why you have asked these things of me alone, and why you remain within this tower. Are you aware of the threat here?”

At this, Selyse Baratheon actually laughed. “Am I aware of the threat? It is you, Lord Stark who is woefully unaware of the true threat. This evil of darkness can only be defeated by the power of R’hllor, only by the Lord of Light. Without Melisandre, we are trapped in the darkness, and your bastard would keep us in the dark. He opposes burning Mance Rayder’s child, and now I hear Mance Rayder himself still lives! You left him out of your list of the not-so-dead, but if what I have heard is true, Jon Snow somehow managed to save him from the flames and spirit him away. There is power in the blood of a king! We have told His Grace this! King Stannis must be Azor Ahai! Lady Melisandre has seen it.”

As she spoke all this, the woman’s voice gradually increased in volume, and Ned saw her eyes glow with the fervor of a true religious zealot. Jon had told him how Mance Rayder was spared. Obviously, Selyse Baratheon did not know her own red priestess was responsible for the man’s survival, and he felt no need to enlighten her. “I intend to ride beyond the Wall, and among other things, seek your Lady Melisandre,” he said. “As for the power of a king’s blood, does your new wildling king Gerrick know what use you might make of him? And if I recall the legend correctly, did not Azor Ahai thrust his sword through his lady wife‘s heart?”

At that, the woman’s eyes went cold. “Do you dare to mock me, Lord Stark?”

“No,” Ned said quietly, regretting the words that had come from his frustration. “I only wish to keep you safe. That is your husband’s wish--that you and your daughter be kept safe. My original thought was to remove you to Winterfell, and I shall still do so if that is your wish. You would be with your husband there. However, as the Others have apparently crossed the Wall at Eastwatch I do not know that Winterfell is any safer than Castle Black at present. They do not seem able to cross here at any rate.” _Or perhaps they simply do not wish to,_ Ned thought grimly.

The woman seemed to consider his words. “If danger could strike at either place, it would seem prudent to keep Shireen and His Grace separate, Lord Stark. She is his only heir. I would not have them cut down in one blow.”

It was a strategically sound consideration, Ned knew. Yet, he could not help but think of how badly he wished he could be at Winterfell with Catelyn and all their children gathered closely around him now. He felt an odd sort of pity for Stannis and Selyse Baratheon that their marriage seemed to be nothing beyond strategy and the preservation of their heir, although surely they both loved their daughter. “You would stay at Castle Black then?” he asked her.

“I do not trust these men of the Night’s Watch any more than the wildlings your bastard filled the castle with,” she proclaimed. “Bastards, rapers, and murders, all of them. There is no honor in them. The cravens will likely flee or even turn on us rather than protect us when the evil comes here. Just as they did the night your bastard deserted.”

“Jon did not desert,” Ned said coldly. “Although there is some truth in the rest of what you say. If you choose to remain here, I can have you guarded by your husband’s own men. We can leave a company of the knights and men who rode with him to Deepwood and Winterfell. They have returned under the command of Lord Seaworth. Surely you . . .”

“The Onion Knight!” she snorted derisively. “I would not have him in my presence. A common criminal.”

Ned sighed deeply. He had found Lord Davos to be worth at least ten of any of the other men in Stannis’s company, but he would not argue with the woman. “Lord Seaworth can lead the men who ride out. The men who remain can be placed under your own command or that of Ser Axell or whomever you choose. Surely, your knights have told you what men have returned. They worship your god, my lady. I do not believe there is anyone else you would prefer to have about you.”

“They came back with Jon Snow and the Onion Knight, not with my husband,” she said quietly. “Melisandre is gone. I didn’t know whom to trust.”

Ned stared at her and for the first time realized precisely how terrified Selyse Baratheon was. She was rigid, but she was also brittle, and being basically alone here without her husband or her red priestess threatened to break her. “You can trust me, Your Grace,” he said just as softly, taking care not to stumble over the title that was so important to her. “King Stannis lives. He greatly desires that you and your daughter are protected, and the men he sent are loyal to you as their queen.”

She was silent a moment before nodding. “Shireen and I shall stay here. Send my men to me. Will your bastard be riding out with you?”

Ned clenched his jaw, but ignored her refusal to use Jon’s title. “Yes,” he said simply. “The Lord Commander intends to leave Ser Perwyn Frey in charge at Castle Black in his absence.”

Lady Selyse pursed her lips. “Wretched family, the Freys, but I will say Ser Perwyn has more courtesy than most of the men here. My men and I will work with him, Lord Stark, first and foremost to keep my daughter safe, but also toward the defense of the Wall here.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Ned said, bowing courteously in preparation to leave.

As he walked toward the door, however, she called after him. “We will not succeed, however, without Azor Ahai. You should pray for my husband’s recovery, Lord Stark.”

“I do,” Ned said softly. “I pray to the gods for all of us.”

“God,” she said shortly. “There is only one true god, Lord Stark, and if you have any wish to survive, you had better learn that.”

Ned bowed briefly once more without comment and stepped out of the room, passing Ser Malegorn, who stood by so closely, he must have been listening at the door. That put him in mind of a conversation with another woman who fancied herself queen, his interview with Cersei Lannister in his cell beneath the Red Keep so long ago. If Edmure’s letter was to be believed, that queen had now fallen from grace, and having been publicly shamed still faced being tried for her life. Ned honestly didn’t know how he felt about that. He hated the woman, certainly, but he had tried to save her and her children once. It would seem that she and her firstborn at least were beyond saving. He had no particular affection for Selyse Baratheon, but as he walked out into the snow, he prayed to his gods, the ones that she scorned, that she and her daughter would find a kinder fate than Cersei Lannister’s.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Bran shivered in his basket on Hodor’s back in spite of being bundled up so thickly he could barely see or move. He wondered how cold Meera and Hodor must be, as neither were wrapped in quite so much since they both had to walk. Perhaps the walking kept them warm. He hoped so. He craned his neck to look around Hodor at Meera’s solitary figure walking just ahead. She still wouldn’t speak to him. She hadn’t spoken to him since the terrible things she’d screamed at him when he steadfastly insisted on leaving the cave after Jojen’s death.

“For nothing!” he could still hear her shouting. “You would have my brother die for nothing! You would go back to Winterfell as if none of it ever happened!”

“Meera,” he’d pleaded with her. “That isn’t true. I am a greenseer. I know that! And I never would have known any of it without Jojen.”

“And yet you will leave him here and forget,” she’d said coldly.

“I will never forget,” Bran had said softly. “But there is nothing anyone can do for Jojen now, and I have to go to my family. I know you don’t want to stay here. Come with me! You can find your family, too. Meera, I know we can get home.”

“Home,” she’d repeated bitterly. “And what will I find there? Not my brother.”

“Your father and mother, perhaps,” Bran had said softly.

“Yes, and I will tell them I did as they asked. I brought my brother to Winterfell. I listened to him in all things. I pledged myself to House Stark. And it was all for nothing.”

She had turned to walk away from him then, and Bran had realized how lost she really was. Strong, brave, capable Meera, who’d hunted food for them and kept them going when they didn’t think they could go on, was lost without Jojen. He had been her guide. She’d listened to him even when she’d hated it, and done as he directed even when she didn’t understand. Bran supposed she had been taught to do that all her life, or at least since Jojen’s green dreams had become apparent. Now she had no direction, and she was lost.

“Meera,” he’d said sharply, and she had stopped although she didn’t turn around.

“You did pledge yourself to House Stark,” he’d said to her back. “Heart and hearth and harvest, you said. You pledged your swords and spears and arrows. And you swore it by earth and water, bronze and iron, and ice and fire. I remember it even if you don’t.” He’d paused then, but she had remained still and silent. “House Stark still needs you, Meera. I need you to come with me.”

She’d walked away without answering him, but later when Lord Brynden had spoken to him of the way he must take and how the ravens could help to guide him, she had sat silently in the shadows listening to it all. While the singers packed food and prepared clothing and supplies for the journey, she’d sharpened her spear and her knife and tried different packs upon her back to see what she could carry.

Watching her walk ahead of Hodor now, Bran marveled at how much she was carrying on her back and felt ashamed once more of his broken body and useless legs. Sighing, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to slip into one of the ravens that flew just ahead of them. The other raven quorked at him and flew toward the left. Bran followed. Unlike Coldhands had seemed to do during their journey to the cave, Bran the boy could not understand the sharp caws and quorks of the ravens, but as a raven, he understood perfectly well that he was to follow the other.

The other dove suddenly, landing on the ground before a small opening beneath some rocks that was almost invisible from above. Bran’s raven landed beside it and hopped through the opening on little bird claws. After several feet the small tunnel opened into a larger space which appeared to be capable of accommodating three people and a direwolf.

Bran the boy opened his eyes. “It’s not far,” he said to Meera’s back. “A cave. But the entrance is little and so low I don’t think you can see it standing up.” He had a moment of panic, wondering if Hodor would even fit through the tunnel.

Meera stopped and turned to face him, raising her brow in silent question.

“Follow the birds,” he said. “I’ll bring them back here.”

Closing his eyes again, he went to his raven and stayed with it until he had guided his companions to the little cave. As it turned out, Hodor did fit through the tunnel, but only barely, and he couldn’t carry anything with him. Bran dragged himself through using his arms to pull himself along through the dirt, and Meera was left to push and pull all their supplies into the cramped space. Summer took off, and Bran had to resist the urge to run with him, out into the last hour or so of daylight.

It was much warmer in the little cave than outside, but also much darker, and Bran knew that once the sun set, it would be impossible to see anything at all. They were sheltered enough from the cold that it made no sense to risk a fire here, so they would spend the long hours til dawn as if blind. Fire was their defense against wights, but it could also be seen far too easily and Lord Brynden had cautioned them that remaining undetected by the Others, wights, or anything else that might wish them harm was far better protection than any weapon.

“Hodor,” Hodor said softly, resting his back against the rocky wall with his legs out in front of him. He sounded tired and forlorn.

“Rest,” Bran told him. “We came farther than usual today, and I know you’re tired. This is a really good place, though. I think it’s pretty much invisible from outside so we should be safe here.” The big man just sat quietly. “Safe, Hodor,” Bran repeated. “We’ll be safe.”

Meera, having gotten everything inside, was taking advantage of what little light they had to pull nuts and dried mushrooms from her pack. She gave each of them a small portion and silently began to eat. For water, she had pushed a substantial amount of snow into the cave, some of which she piled into bowls for each of them.

After finishing his meager meal, Bran couldn’t take the silence any longer. “This is our eighth day, right?” he asked.

Meera held up her hands in front of her, but he could barely see them in the darkness. “I can’t see your fingers, Meera,” he said in frustration. “Just talk.”

To his great surprise, she answered, “Nine.”

“What?” he said, stunned at the sound of her voice.

She sighed, and he realized that the light had faded so quickly, he couldn’t even really see her outline clearly any more. “Nine days,” her voice came again in the darkness. “We’ve been walking nine days, although we never go far.”

“We can’t start until the sun is well up and we have to stop long before it goes down,” Bran said. Lord Brynden had been very clear about that. “And we have to stop wherever some shelter exists.” Shelter had been anything from a thick grove of trees to old animal burrows to little caves like this one. Lord Brynden had gone over the route with Bran before they had left the Children’s cave, but as the Children of the Forest did not write, there had been no parchment or ink to mark it down. Bran knew he would be hopelessly lost were it not for the Three Eyed Crow himself coming to them in the ravens to help guide them along.

Meera sighed again. “It’s only that we make less progress than we did when we rode with Coldhands and his elk. I don’t know if we can make it back to the Wall, Bran. I don’t think we should have left.”

“You didn’t want to stay there,” Bran said softly. “I know you didn’t.”

“I don’t matter. You do. And if you die out here, what is it for?” The words were almost the same as those she had shouted at him, but she wasn’t shouting now. She sounded tired and empty.

 _You do matter,_ he thought. _You matter to me._ “We won’t die, Meera. We’re going to get home.” He tried to sound certain, but he feared he just sounded young.

“Hodor,” said Hodor encouragingly, and Bran smiled slightly at the fact that his voice at least sounded somewhat more cheered.

“Sleep, Bran,” Meera said. “We should all rest. Is Summer outside or should I stay awake and watch?”

“Summer’s just outside,” Bran lied. “Go to sleep, Meera.” He hadn’t seen any threats nearby when he flew with the raven and sensed nothing dangerous when he’d gone briefly into Summer. He didn’t think anything would disturb them here, and he knew Meera was exhausted.

As if in confirmation of that, she didn’t argue. He heard the rustle of movement as she simply lay down. He knew she would sleep with her spear in her hand. He lay down himself and closed his eyes, seeking Summer almost before the boy’s body fell asleep.

The moon was not quite full anymore, but it was bright for the sky was clear. He sniffed at the air, but scented no prey. No threat, either. He raised his head and howled. After a moment, long answering howls came in response. The pack he had hunted with since coming to the cave of the Children. He started to turn toward the sound, wondering if they had chanced upon any prey, but just as he started to run, another sound stopped him abruptly.

From somewhere to the south, much farther away, came another howl, almost too distant to be heard even by the wolf’s ears. The boy’s would never have heard it. Standing very still, the boy/wolf reached out and felt _brother_. His brother was here, north of the Wall! His white brother, he was sure of it. The wolf started to race toward the south; the pull of his pack, his true pack, too strong to resist. At first, the boy felt the same. _Ghost. Jon._ The man words didn’t come easily into the wolf brain, but they were right, and it made the boy very happy. Then he remembered the sleeping girl and man in the cave, and his own sleeping body. He couldn’t run yet. Reluctantly, he stopped, turning his face upward to howl once more in the direction of his brother, sending him one message. _I am here._

When Bran Stark awoke, cold and stiff, to see pale fingers of light creeping onto the cave floor from the tunnel, he cried out.

“What is it?” Meera asked in alarm.

Blinking, Bran saw that she was already sitting up, sharpening her knife.

“We will get home, Meera,” he said with quiet certainty. “My brother is here. They will find us. Ghost. And my brother, Jon.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Jon’s horse was blowing hard as he came up to the top of the ridge to look northward. He saw nothing but snowcovered trees ahead of them.

“Craster’s Keep lies that way,” he said, pointing off to the left. “But if we intend to stick to our plan to go due north and then turn east toward Hardhome, our way lies there.” He moved his arm to the right.

Lord Stark nodded grimly. They were seven days out from Castle Black. Initially they had taken a fairly meandering course through the woods just north of the Wall seeking any sign of the missing men or Lady Melisandre. There had been none. More concerning to Jon was that there had been as of yet no attacks by Others or wights either. They had seen them in the distance from the Wall on the night before they left, but it was as if they had melted away since the company had ridden north. Jon couldn’t understand it, and that worried him.

“Is there any reason for us to go to Craster’s Keep?” Stark asked him now.

“I don’t think so,” Jon said, remembering all Sam had told him. “Craster’s dead. I don’t think anyone who managed to survive there would have stayed around.”

Ned Stark’s face looked troubled, and Jon realized he was thinking about Craster’s wives, wondering if any of them remained at the Keep largely defenseless against attack. Before he could say anything, Donnell Boden spoke up from his horse on the other side of Stark’s.

“We can’t rescue everyone, my lord,” he said softly. “We have a plan, and we should stick to it. We have to think of our own provisions and the safety of our men.”

As Lord Stark nodded, Jon looked at Boden. He didn’t know the man well, but it appeared that the man certainly knew Eddard Stark well enough. Jon had heard some of Donnell‘s story during their journey to the Wall, and knew the man had come from Pentos with his father, _uncle,_ although he was obviously a northman by birth.

“You’re right, Donnell,” Stark sighed now. Scanning the landscape, he turned to Jon. “It looks clear enough ahead, but the gods only know what could be concealed within those trees.” He shook his head. “The woods here make the Wolfswood look like someone’s castle garden. I’ve never seen a place so wild and overgrown.”

Jon laughed. “I thought the same my first time this side of the Wall. We can make camp there,” he said pointing to a spot just at the bottom of the north side of the ridge. There’s a clearing you can’t quite see from here. It will do.”

“You camped there before?”

Jon looked down. He knew that his father, _uncle,_ was aware of the connection between the direwolves and his siblings, _cousins,_ and himself, but he still felt uncomfortable discussing it. “No,” he said shortly. “Ghost found it.”

Thankfully, neither Ned Stark nor Donnell Boden asked him any further questions about it, and they turned their horses back toward their main company.

They had everyone over the ridge and into the clearing before sunset, and men set to ringing the perimeter of their camp with fires. No one had any illusions that it was possible to hide over one hundred men and all their horses, so the decision had been made never to be without fire. Those who had been involved in the battle with the wights the night Jon had left the Wall insisted upon it.

As darkness fell, Jon sat by one of those fires with Ned Stark, Donnell Boden, Mance, Tormund, and Howland Reed. Mance and Tormund easily appeared the most comfortable of the men. This wild land was their home, after all, in spite of the threat it now contained. Boden asked them questions about the land, their lives here, and their thoughts on the White Walkers and other creatures he’d once not believed in. Those three spoke quietly, but easily to one another. His father’s, _uncle’s,_ face had that faraway expression it got when Jon knew his thoughts were at Winterfell with his wife and family. Howland Reed looked . . .haunted.

That was the only word Jon could think of to describe the little crannogman. He had been quiet on the ride north from Winterfell to the Wall, but not like this. He had occasionally made enigmatic statements that made Jon uncomfortable for he was well aware that Howland Reed was the only person alive other than Lord and Lady Stark who knew the truth of his parentage. He didn’t know if he wanted to ask the man anything about it or not, but there had never been the opportunity to do so anyway. And since they’d crossed the Wall, the man had gone from quiet to silent to haunted. Even as Jon thought about him, Reed suddenly rose, and nodding to Ned Stark, walked off by himself in the darkness.

“Should I go with him, my lord?” Donnell Boden asked quickly. “It isn’t safe to wander off alone.”

“No, Donnell,” Stark said softly. “He will not go far, but he does not wish company.”

“What has he seen?” asked Mance Rayder then, looking at Lord Stark with knowing eyes.

“What?” asked Donnell and Jon together.

Tormund gave one of his big laughs. “Ah, you and your friend cannot see it, can you, Jon Snow?” He nodded his head in the direction Lord Reed had gone. “The little man is a dreamer. He has that look. And his spirit is troubled since we rode through your gate.”

Jon looked at his father, _uncle._

Ned Stark sighed. “He dreams things, Jon. Don’t ask me to explain it. I can’t. Most of the time he can’t either. But he dreams things that have meaning. He believed Bran and Rickon to be alive before my lady wife and I received Robett Glover’s letter. He had seen them with his own children.”

“What does he see now?” Jon asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

His father, _uncle,_ shook his head. “I do not know. He will not speak of it to me. He had not said anything of dreams for a long time until after we rode out from Castle Black. He was troubled after our first night north of the Wall, but when I asked him he only told me he believes Bran is alive.”

“Why would that trouble him?” Jon asked, confused. Any indication that his little brother lived, regardless of how small, was a joy to him.

Ned Stark looked up at him sadly. “Bran was with his children, Jon. And he did not speak to me of them.”

Everyone sat silently for a moment before Mance asked, “Val and the boy. You are certain they are safe at this Long Barrow?”

Jon sighed. He felt a twinge of guilt that this talk of fathers and children had drawn Mance’s thoughts to Val and the infant he believed to be his own. _Your son is safely in the south with Gilly,_ he wanted to say, but now was not the time. “They are as safe as anyone can be in the North,” he replied instead. “Leathers and Satin sent them to Long Barrow because Val had no wish to remain near Selyse Baratheon with her love of fires and talk of the power in a king’s blood. You know I sent a raven when we arrived offering to send them to Winterfell, but she apparently has no wish to be near Stannis Baratheon either. Edd Tollett will allow no harm to come to them, Mance. He’s a good man.” Jon would have liked to have had Dolorous Edd here with him.

Mance nodded. “I’d sooner see them surrounded by spearwives than by your crows in any event.”

“Better fighters, that’s for sure,” Tormund agreed.

“Speaking of women who fight, how did you ever keep Lady Stark from ordering our Lady Brienne to come and protect you, my lord?” Donnell said with a grin.

“The children,” Ned Stark replied easily. “She’d no doubt have fought me on it had it only been herself at Winterfell.” He shook his head with a fond expression on his face. “Just as she did over you and Hal Mollen before the battle at Riverrun.”

“Hallis Mollen?” Jon asked, gladdened at the mention of a name from Winterfell. “Hal rode with you at Riverrun?”

Now, Stark’s expression turned grim. “Hal died for me at Riverrun. I wanted him to lead Catelyn’s personal guard during the battle. She wanted Donnell and he to ride with me as my personal guard. I lost the argument. Hal lost his life.”

“Hallis Mollen was a good man,” Donnell Boden said, “who died doing precisely what he wanted to do, my lord. Your lady wife chose well.”

Jon watched his father, _uncle,_ as he regarded Boden carefully. His expression changed slowly almost into a smile, and he asked the man, “And what instructions did the Lady Catelyn give you before you rode from Winterfell, Donnell?”

Boden’s eyes widened and he seemed to splutter a bit, making Jon almost laugh.

“I can see by your face she told you something, Donnell. Out with it. That’s an order,” Ned Stark said.

Boden bowed his head and conceded defeat. “She said it was fine for me to ride out with Lord Commander Snow, my lord . . .”

“But . . .” Stark encouraged.

Boden looked first at Jon apologetically, and then back to Lord Stark. “But that if you ever got north of the Wall, I was not to leave your side,” he said quickly.

At that, Mance and Tormund laughed out loud, and even Jon found himself smiling. One charge he would never level at Lady Stark was a lack of concern for her husband. His father, _uncle,_ just shook his head before slowly getting to his feet. He tried not to let it show, but Jon could tell the leg bothered him worse after days spent outdoors in the relentless cold. “I am going to get some sleep,” Lord Stark announced. “I have drawn the third watch. I believe you are on the second, Jon. If you could wake me?”

Jon nodded, and then watched him walk away, making every effort to limp as little as possible. “I think I’ll try to sleep some as well,” he said. He went to his tent, stopping to make certain one of the men on first watch would wake him at the allotted time.

As he lay down, he thought about Howland Reed, Mance Rayder, and his father. _Uncle, damn it! Why can’t I think of him as my uncle?_ He wondered what it felt like to have a child and worry for it. He was a man of the Night’s Watch. That was something he would never know. Yet, he thought about the way he’d felt when he saw Arya, Sansa and Rickon at Winterfell and the hope that surged through his heart at hearing that Howland Reed believed Bran to be alive. He still carried the bitter grief of Robb’s death and didn’t think he’d ever truly lay that down. His oath to the Night’s Watch had not made them any less his sisters and brothers, and he realized that even knowing they shared no parent at all made them no less his siblings in his heart. _Was that what Lady Stark had meant?_ He recalled her words in the godswood at Winterfell. _Eddard Stark has been your father all your life, boy, and whatever I may wish or not, the fact that you are Rhaegar’s seed changes that not at all._

 _Doesn’t it, though?_ Jon thought. _He lied to me. He lied to everyone about me._ Jon twisted and turned on his pallet as he contemplated his father’s, _uncle’s,_ actions and motives, and then tried to tell himself that none of it mattered compared to what they faced now. He didn’t think he would be able to fall asleep with his mind so full of troubled thoughts, but he did.

He was running through the dark wood, the snow cold and soft beneath his paws. He thought he caught a distant scent of prey, but then thought it was wrong somehow. It was dead meat he smelled. One of the dreadful, wrong, dead things, but far away. Not close enough to trouble him. He turned his nose to the wind, hoping to scent something more promising, and as he stood there he heard it. From far to the north, he heard a howl. A shiver ran through him. _Brother,_ he thought. He lifted his head high and howled in reply as loudly as he could. After a few moments, the distant wolf called again, and in the howl he heard an invitation, a plea for him to come. He started to trot toward the distant call.

“Lord Snow . .” Someone was shaking him. “Lord Snow . . .”

Jon opened his eyes, disoriented at finding himself flat on his back in a dark tent rather than out in the moonlight, face raised to the stars that shone between the tree branches. As he sat up groggily, he heard a loud howl.

“That’s your wolf, isn’t it, Lord Snow?” the man who had awakened him asked. The apprehension in his voice told Jon that the man dearly hoped it was.

“Yes,” he said as he got to his feet and pulled on his outer cloak before crawling out of the tent into the night. Ghost howled again.

“What’s wrong with him?” the man asked.

“Nothing. He’s just howling to . . .to the night, I suppose.”

“It’s a fearsome noise, milord. I’m glad it’s only your wolf and not some other.” The man who was now finished with his watch then turned to find his own place to sleep, and Jon stood very still trying to hear Summer howl in reply. It had been Summer. He was sure of that, but he could hear nothing now. That troubled him at first but then he thought, _My ears are not as keen as Ghost’s._ If Ghost could hear Summer, then Summer could hear Ghost. Bran was there. He would know Jon was here. Jon felt that surge of joy in his heart once more. In the morning he would tell his father that they must ride north.

Jon’s watch passed without incident. Ghost did not return to the camp, remaining somewhere to the north, but he did eventually stop howling, much to the relief of many of the men. As he had promised, Jon went to wake Lord Stark, who arose from his pallet so quickly that Jon wondered if he had been asleep at all.

“Bran is to the north of us,” Jon said as soon as his father, _uncle,_ _he’s my uncle,_ stood beside him in the moonlight. He’d thought to wait til morning, but found he could not.

Lord Stark looked at him, waiting to hear more.

“I dreamed with Ghost,” Jon said hurriedly. “You know about that . . .right?”

“I do.”

“I heard Summer howl. Bran’s wolf. He’s to the north of us. I . .Ghost . . . howled in reply and he heard me . . .him. He answered back.”

His father was silent a moment before asking, “You know it was Bran’s wolf and not some other? There are other wolves, even direwolves, this side of the Wall, Jon.”

“I know. But I know this was Bran’s wolf. Ghost knew him. They are brothers. I am sure.”

In the moonlight, Jon watched a quiet joy and hope come over the older man’s features, so like his own. “Then we go north,” he said softly. “In the morning, we go north. If the direction takes us away from our planned path at any point, we will split off.” He looked directly into Jon’s eyes with determination in his. “But we will find your brother.”

 _Brother._ Jon didn’t correct him.

“Lord Stark,” Donnell Boden called from their right, and Jon and Ned both turned to greet him. Jon grinned at him.

“I see you and Lord Stark have drawn the same watch once more, Donnell. Or is it that you are simply following Lady Stark’s orders?”

Boden laughed. “I serve the Lord of Winterfell,” he said boldly. “But I would not cross the Lady save on his explicit orders.”

At that, even Lord Stark laughed, one of his real laughs, and it made Jon inexplicably happy to hear it. “Come Donnell,” his father said, clapping the man on the back. “Let’s take up a post along the perimeter, and I promise I shall tell Catelyn you never left my side.” Turning to Jon, he said, “Get a few more hours sleep, Jon. We ride in the morning.” The hope and joy remained in his eyes.

Jon watched the two men walk away together and then turned toward his tent. As he started toward it, he heard Ghost’s voice again, this time much nearer the camp. This was no joyful howl, however. It was a low, snarling whine. Something was wrong.

“Ghost!” he shouted. “To me!”

Even as the words left as throat, he heard his father’s shout. “Donnell! Look out!” followed by an almost whispered, “Gods be good!”

He turned to see three figures approaching Boden and his father. They were difficult to see clearly in the moonlight, but one had no flesh on one side of its face, and all had bright blue eyes. “Attack! We are under attack!” he shouted and started to run toward his father.

Before he had taken three steps however, something reached from behind a tree and grabbed at his arm. He looked down and saw a hand with rotted flesh hanging off it clinging to his arm like a vise. He slashed at it with Longclaw and the arm fell free from the creature beside him, but did not release its grip. Nor did the creature fall. It merely grabbed at Jon with its remaining arm.

“Fire!” Jon cried as he slashed the thing with Long Claw, watching in horror as it kept after him however many bits he hacked off it.

“Look out, Jon Snow!” he heard, and he turned to see Tormund Giantsbane rushing toward him, holding a burning brand he must have just snatched from one of the fires in his bare hands. Jon ducked, and Tormund whacked at the wight and then at the still moving pieces of the wight that held onto Jon or lay upon the ground. When the thing was well in flames, Jon whirled to face Tormund. “My father,” he gasped.

“Lord Stark does well enough,” Tormund gasped. “But there are more there!” Tormund turned to run toward several men battling against five or six wights. Jon saw Ghost leap upon one of the creatures, knocking it into one of the fires.

He turned to look for his father and saw that Tormund spoke the truth. Eddard Stark was fighting two of the things, but someone had given him a torch which he held in his left hand. He hacked at the things with the sword in his right and set them alight with the torch. Jon was amazed at how well he moved in spite of the way he favored that bad leg. Donnell Boden fought at his side, fending off another attacking wight with a torch in his hand.

Jon forced himself away from the pair of them, and grabbing a torch from beside a fire himself ran to assist some men who were not faring quite so well. After what seemed an eternity, but was actually probably less than a quarter of an hour of furious fighting, all the wights were down and burning. Jon didn’t even know how many there had been.

Panting heavily and leaning on a tree, he tossed his still burning torch into the nearest fire and looked around at the camp.

“Jon! Are you well?”

He looked up to see his father and Donnell Boden start toward him from some distance away.

He nodded. “I’m fine,” he called. “I just . . .” He stopped suddenly. He felt cold, much colder than he’d been before. Then, from behind a tree beside his father, he saw it. He had never seen one this closely before, and he was struck by the fact that it was impossibly, terrifyingly . . .beautiful . . .and deadly. It made no noise at all as it approached his father, but Lord Stark must have felt the cold as well for he turned toward it just as it raised an unearthly white sword high and swung it down at his head.

Jon screamed as that sword flashed down. His father’s sword went up to block the blow and shattered into pieces as the Other’s sword made contact with it. The Other’s stroke had been deflected enough that it only hit a glancing blow off his father’s shoulder, but that was enough to knock him to the ground, helpless and now unarmed.

Jon ran toward him, Longclaw in his hand, screaming as he ran, but as he watched the Other raise its sword again to plunge it into Eddard Stark’s defenseless form, he knew he’d never get there in time. He watched that white sword flash downward again and screamed in anguish as he tried to reach his father.

Just then Donnell Boden threw himself upon the creature, waving his own sword wildly and knocking the Other from Lord Stark. The Other slashed viciously at the man who had grabbed onto it, cutting a wide gash across Donnell’s middle, slicing through the thick clothes and boiled leather as if they weren’t there.

Jon reached them just as Donnell fell to the ground, and as the Other turned back to his father, he reached out and thrust Longclaw into the spot where its heart should be. The thing stopped moving, and Jon thought he saw steam coming from it. As he stared, it began to melt away, sword, armor, all of it, until Jon stood there holding a sword in front of him in the empty air. He touched Longclaw’s blade in disbelief and drew back his hand sharply, for the blade was so cold it burned his fingers even through his glove.

He looked wildly about him, but saw no other creatures and realized he no longer felt that unearthly cold. The men stood staring, stunned, and he saw his father get to his hands and knees and crawl to Donnell Boden. Jon ran to him as well. The man was conscious, but bleeding heavily from his belly wound.

“Bandages!” he called. “Help him!”

His shout seemed to shake the men out of their stupor, and within minutes the entire camp was a frenzy of activity, the wounded being tended to and the burnt and burning wights being piled into one large fire. Donnell had been carried to a tent, and soon the wound in his belly was packed and bound. Jon had seen it, though, and it didn’t look good. His hands, where he had grabbed at the Other, were already blackened by frostbite.

His father wouldn’t leave the man’s side. After going in search of someone to bring milk of the poppy to ease the man’s pain, he returned to the tent to find the two of them talking.

“You’ll look after that young rascal, Dak, won’t you?” Donnell asked, his voice hoarse.

“Dak does a remarkable job of looking after himself, but I’ll do what I can,” his father replied. “Perhaps, if we both stay on top of him, we can make a civilized man of the lad. We‘ll likely have more luck with him than with my younger daughter.”

Boden laughed which caused him to start coughing, and Jon watched his father carefully hold and support him until the coughing fit passed. He felt wrong just standing there watching and listening, but it didn’t seem right to interrupt them, and he couldn’t make himself walk away.

“I remember when I first knew him,” Donnell rasped. “Crazy little kid at the docks always asking about what he called the Sunset Kingdoms.” He shook his head. “I must have spent hours talking to that kid without realizing he was a spy for my liege lord.”

Lord Stark chuckled.

Boden swallowed. “I didn’t believe him, you know. When he told me. Even when he gave me your letters, I still . . .until I climbed up that godsforsaken wall and into that window and saw you there . . .I couldn’t really believe it.”

“I’m glad you had enough faith to make that climb, Donnell.” Jon could hear the emotion in his father’s soft words.

“I am, too, my lord,” Boden replied. “It has been the greatest honor of my life to serve you and ride with you. And to serve your family.” He swallowed. “You will tell the Lady Catelyn I tried to keep my promise to her, won’t you?”

“You have more than kept your promise. But you shall tell her yourself.”

“My lord . . .” Whatever else the man was going to say was cut off by another spasm of coughing, and this one caused something to bleed heavily again. Jon saw the bandages around his middle soak through far too quickly and shouted for someone to come.

When his father stood up to let the healers get to Donnell’s side, Jon moved toward him. “How is your shoulder?” he asked.

“What? Oh, the shoulder. It’s fine.” That was a lie, and Jon knew it. The wound, while glancing, was deep enough that it needed stitches, but Lord Eddard had thus far refused to leave Donnell and have it done. He couldn’t move his left arm well at all. “It isn’t my sword arm, Jon,” he said now as he looked at Jon’s concerned expression.

“I know that, but it still must be tended. Look, they’ll give Donnell poppy now. He will sleep. Go and get your own wound seen to, and I promise I’ll not leave his side.”

Reluctantly, Lord Stark nodded and left the tent. Jon sat down beside Donnell who was arguing vehemently with the man trying to get him to drink the milk of the poppy.

“Donnell, drink it,” he said as he sat down. “There is no need to suffer.”

The man shook his head. “In truth, I do not hurt that much. And I know that is not a good thing, Lord Snow.” He smiled wryly. “It will be a great surprise if I live to see another sunrise, but I would prefer not to sleep through it if I do.”

Jon smiled at him. “All right.” He waved the man with the cup away. “We can talk to pass the time. What would you like to speak of?”

The man smiled weakly. There were torches burning in the tent, and Donnell’s face appeared to get paler by the minute in their light. “How about your brothers and sisters? Perhaps it is prideful of me, but I feel as if I played some role in returning their parents to them, and they are dear to me because of it.”

Jon smiled again. “I like to speak of them.” He then told the man stories of the Winterfell of his childhood, his and Robb’s countless adventures, Sansa’s songs and insistence on all of them playing the parts in them with her as the fair princess, Arya’s endless torn dresses and scraped knees and general fearlessness, Bran’s ability to climb to dizzying heights without fear or seemingly any effort, and Rickon’s babyish insistence on doing everything his older siblings got to do.

In turn, Donnell told him of the reunions between his siblings and their parents, and of his time in charge of them in a little hut on a beach outside White Harbor. Even as the man’s voice grew softer and weaker, those stories caused Jon to laugh with genuine mirth.

“I am sorry I did not get to know your brother, Robb,” Boden said, as the dawn began to lighten the interior of the tent. “And sorrier still that I shall not get to ride with you to find your brother, Bran.”

“You shall meet Bran when we bring him back to Winterfell,” came a soft, deep voice from the entrance.

Jon looked up to see his father standing there and wondered how long he’d been listening.

“Good morrow, my lord,” Donnell croaked. “I admit I’m rather surprised to see it.” He nodded slightly toward Lord Stark’s shoulder. “How many stitches?”

“Not many. Only twenty or so,” his father said without concern. Jon saw that the shoulder was bandaged rather heavily now. “Jon,” his father said to him. “It appears Donnell and I took the most serious injuries. Everyone else is easily able to ride on, and I can certainly ride on, even if not so easily. It only remains to decide who shall escort Donnell back to Castle Black when he is able to . . .”

“No.” The man’s voice was weak and quiet, but it was firm.

“What do you mean, no?” Lord Stark asked.

“I’m not going back to Castle Black,” Donnell said. “My lord, this wound is fatal. We all know that.”

Jon watched his father’s jaw clench tightly. “It’s bad, Donnell. I won’t deny that. But mayhaps back at Castle Black . . .”

“There is no mayhaps, my lord. You know that.”

Jon looked at the man’s middle where the blood had continued to seep slowly through all the cloths, now more brown and black than red and knew he spoke truly.

“I can’t just leave you here, Donnell,” his father said desperately.

“No,” the man whispered. “You can’t. You can’t take me with you. You can’t send me back, and you certainly can’t just leave me.” His eyes had been closed or nearly closed most of the time as he spoke, but he opened them widely now and looked directly into Lord Stark’s. “I’ll not be left here to die and rise up cold and blue eyed and hunt the very man I serve, my lord. I won’t have that.”

His breathing was far more rapid and shallow than it had been, but he’d spoken those words with conviction. “I’d die now, my lord, if you please. Now that I’ve seen another sunrise, and I’ve seen you to say farewell. Will you help me?”

He took his eyes from Lord Stark’s then and looked toward his dagger which had been laid beside him with his sword. Jon saw his father’s eyes go wide when he realized what Donnell Boden was asking him.

“Donnell,” he gasped. “I can’t . . . you can’t . . .we’ll give you poppy. You won’t suffer.”

“It’s not the suffering I fear, my lord. It’s the lingering. You don’t have time for that.” He coughed again, and Jon saw blood in the spittle. “It’s a gut wound, my lord. I could hang on for days, but I’ll still end up just as dead of it. You cannot wait on my dying. I’d have it over now.”

His father’s face was hard and frozen, but his eyes were anguished. He looked at the man who’d rescued him from imprisonment in Pentos and did not speak.

“My lord, please. I’ve never asked you for anything, but I’m asking you for this.”

Jon watched his father’s stern face crumble just a little as he nodded. When he reached out to take Donnell Boden’s dagger, the Lord of Winterfell’s hand shook badly.

“You are a good man, Donnell Boden,” Eddard Stark said as he lifted the dagger toward his friend’s chest. “A far better man than I ever deserved to have in my service. You shall never be forgotten.”

Donnell closed his eyes. “I could ask no more than to die in the service of my liege lord,” he said quietly. “And I could ask for no better lord than Eddard Stark of Winterfell.”

Jon watched his father’s chest heave as he attempted to control his breathing then. _He cannot do this,_ Jon thought. _It will kill him to do this._

Stepping forward, he laid his hand over his father’s. “Stop,” he said. Slowly, his father turned his tortured face up to look at him, and Donnell opened his eyes slightly.

“I cannot linger,” he whispered.

“No,” said Jon, resolutely. “You cannot. But you cannot ask this of him. He loves you. Taking your life, even as an act of mercy would be for him like taking Robb’s or Bran’s or Rickon’s.” Turning to face his father, he added softly. “Or mine.”

His father and Donnell both continued to look at him as he took the dagger from his father’s hand. “I’ll do it,” Jon said. He laid his free hand on Ned Stark’s shoulder. “Go outside, Father,” he said softly. “I will do what Donnell needs.” As his father started to protest, he interrupted him. “I know you would do this for him, but you do not have to. It is better that this task fall to me.”

His father looked at him for what seemed like a very long time. Then he rose slowly, reaching out a hand to touch Donnell Boden’s face. “Go with the gods, Donnell,” he said. Then he turned and walked slowly out of the tent.

“Jon Snow,” whispered Boden, as Jon leaned in to press the dagger against his chest.

“Yes, Donnell?” he asked.

The man opened his eyes fully again, this time to look at Jon. “Bastard or no,” he said clearly. “You are a true son of Eddard Stark.”

Then he smiled and closed his eyes, and Jon took a deep breath and slid the dagger home. Donnell made no sound, and it was over within seconds. Jon knew he needed to get the men to make a pyre for him as soon as possible. He would not allow this good, honorable man to be corrupted into something undead and evil. Yet, he sat there with him for a few minutes more, pondering his last words.

 _You’re right, Donnell,_ he thought. _Lady Stark was right, too. Bastard or no. I am his son._

Then Jon Snow stood and went to find his father.


	47. Attacked On All Fronts

“What happened to your face?”

The little boy’s question hung in the air of the open area near the center of the Winter Town that served as a public square. After a few seconds, the sharp sound of a slap cut through the stunned silence. Turning from her now red-cheeked child, the boy’s mother fell to her knees and looked up at Catelyn desperately.

“I am so sorry, milady! His father will beat him for it, I swear! You needn’t think he’ll go unpunished!”

“No!” Catelyn cried, more stunned by the woman’s reaction than by the child’s inquiry. “Please do not hit the child again. I did ask if anyone had questions.”

She had ridden into the square with Brienne and a dozen armed men and now stood on a small raised platform with Brienne beside her and the men stationed on horseback and foot on the ground all around. She only wanted to speak to the people of the new threat from the north Ned’s letter had warned about, but she imagined that to these people, her guards seemed far more threatening than fairy tale creatures from far away.

The woman was shaking, and the little boy’s eyes were filled with tears. Catelyn cringed at the sight of his mother’s handprint standing out sharply on his pale cheek. _She slapped him from fear,_ Catelyn thought. _Fear of what I might do to him._

Sighing, she moved forward to step down off the platform, and Brienne put a hand on her arm. “My lady,” she said warningly.

“It’s fine, Brienne,” she said, shaking off her hand and continuing toward mother and child, knowing perfectly well her lady knight would follow her.

When she reached them, she knelt down to put herself at eye level with the little boy. “What is your name?” she asked him softly.

“B . .Ben,” he stammered.

She smiled at him. “A very good name. My lord husband has a brother named Ben. I am not angry with you, child. You meant no offence by your question, and I haven’t taken any. Everyone stares at the scars on my face, you know, but no one ever asks about them. I shall answer your question, Ben, but I’ll step back up where everyone can hear me, and then no one need stare without asking anymore.”

She was glad of Brienne’s presence just at her side then, as the old wound in her back combined with the growing babe in her belly made rising unassisted difficult. Once back on her feet, she spoke to little Ben’s mother. “Do not have him punished. I do not wish it.” Then she turned and ascended the platform once more.

“The boy wishes to know how I got the scars on my face,” she said calmly and clearly. “I received them at the Twins during the wedding at which my son, your king, was murdered. The marks on my face are are not the only scars I bear.” She opened the front of her cloak and pulled the collar of her dress down just low enough to reveal the ugly thick, red line across the front of her neck. She heard several people gasp. “This is from a knife. I also have a scar on my back from a crossbow quarrel, but you shall never have to see that one.”

The crowd was completely silent now. “I know that many of you have suffered greatly since Lord Eddard’s arrest and the war that followed. Some of your husbands, brothers, and sons marched south with my son, and like him, they never came home. Others came home bearing scars, like myself and my lord husband. You’ve suffered hunger, fear, and uncertainty and had no lord to protect you for far too long. And now I stand here today telling you that still more death and pain threatens us in the North. Ben has every right to ask about my scars. You all have the right to know that the Starks of Winterfell are no more immune to the current dangers than you are. But we will stand against them as best we can. That is why Lord Eddard has ridden north and why so many of your men have marched with him.”

After a moment, a woman called out, “My Allem’s gone to fight demons and dead things?”

Catelyn supposed she should be pleased the woman at least seemed to have understood the basics of what she had told them. “I don’t know if the Others are demons, but they are certainly not human. And their wights are assuredly dead things. I don’t know if they shall come here or not, but, as I said, some have crossed the Wall far to the east and Lord Eddard wishes us to be prepared. That is why I have ordered the fires to be kept burning in the castle and around the town, and why I propose to station some of my soldiers out here at all times.”

“What if we don’t want soldiers?” a man called out from the back, and Catelyn heard several others mutter in agreement.

 _They do not trust us,_ she thought. She couldn’t blame them given the actions of the most recent inhabitants of Winterfell. These people had no reason to think well of lords or ladies. “I shall not force them on you,” she said. “But I encourage you to accept the protection. These creatures are not the only threats we face. The Bastard of Bolton is still free and has been raiding closer to Winterfell.”

“You think we don’t know that?” a woman called out. “It’s us being raided, milady. Not you behind your walls.”

Brienne started to move toward the woman, and Catelyn raised an arm to stop her. “He has been behind my walls, though,” she said softly to the woman who had spoken. “He has done terrible things behind the walls of Winterfell, and I would see him brought to justice.” Raising her voice, she called out. “Anyone who knows anything of Ramsay Snow or his men should report it to our soldiers. Winterfell will protect you, but we need your help in doing so.”

After that, no one asked anything that hadn’t been talked about already, and Catelyn began to feel very tired, so she ended the audience and called for her horse to be brought to her. As she rode out of the square, a cheer went up with people shouting her name and Ned’s, and that gladdened her somewhat. The smallfolk may be frightened and unsure, but they were still their people.

Just as she and her escort reached the edge of the Winter Town, she heard a woman’s voice call out, “Lady Stark! Please, milady!”

She turned to see Ben’s mother running after them, and she stopped her horse. Brienne reined up beside her.

“Milady,” the woman panted, running up beside the horse. “Thank you . . .I . . .”

“Your boy did nothing wrong,” Catelyn said. “My own children have asked far more indelicate questions of people.” She smiled then, thinking of Arya, in particular.

The woman smiled back, but then quickly looked behind her. Seeing no one from the town standing nearby, she turned back to look up at Catelyn with a much more serious expression on her face. “What you said, milady, about the Bolton bastard being behind your walls . . .” She hesitated briefly, looking around once more. “They needed cooks and maids and such when the Boltons were at Winterfell, you know. And men to work. I think some of those men still work for the bastard now.” Her last words were scarcely above a whisper, and Catelyn had to lean down to hear them.

“Men from the town?” she asked.

The woman looked behind yet again before nodding her head and running back toward her son before Catelyn could ask anything else.

“Shall I go after her?” Brienne asked.

“No. The poor thing is terrified of someone.” Catelyn bit her lip. “We need to learn more about this, Brienne, but I wouldn’t put her in danger if it can be helped.”

Suddenly, Catelyn wanted nothing more than to be back inside Winterfell and closer to her own children. She turned her horse toward the castle and gave it a kick. The short ride back to the gate seemed much longer as she turned the woman’s troubling words over in her mind.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

It had been over a week since Donnell’s death. Ned Stark silently led his horse through snow drifts which came up to the animal’s chest. The horses couldn’t manage at all with riders here, so Ned and both his companions had been forced to dismount and clear a path on which to lead the animals as best they could. They had not seen any White Walkers for the past two days, but that was the only positive thing to be said about their current situation.

Since the initial attack in which Donnell had died, wights had come upon them nearly every night, never in large numbers and always fairly easily defeated. Twice more, an Other had appeared as well, both coming alone save for a small number of accompanying wights. Jon had dispatched the first with his Valyrian steel blade, and the other had been discovered at a distance from the camp and shot with a dragonglass arrowhead. No further men had been lost or even seriously injured.

There was no sense in it. If the creatures wished them dead, they need only come in large numbers. Ned had no illusions about their ability to defend themselves from such an attack. They had too few weapons effective against the Others to long survive a mass assault. Yet, the creatures persisted in these solitary attacks. _Why?_

A long howl to the northwest interrupted his musings, and he turned back to look at Jon behind him. “Ghost?” he asked, the sound of his voice seeming out of place in the cold silence all around them.

Jon nodded. His face was largely covered by his thick scarf, and Ned could read nothing in his grey eyes. Jon had spoken little since Donnell’s death and even less since they’d parted ways with Tormund, Mance, and the main body of their company three days ago.

Behind Jon, Howland Reed silently led his mount along through the breaks in the snowdrifts created by Ned and Jon. His friend spoke almost not at all now, and on the rare occasions he unwound the scarf from his face, he appeared to Ned to have aged ten years at least. Howland’s silence scared him. The grief in the man’s eyes scared him more.

Ned turned his horse slightly to be certain he moved in the direction of Ghost’s howl. They’d been following Jon’s direwolf more or less since Jon had told him about Bran’s wolf being to their north. When the way obviously diverged from the direction of Hardhome, Ned had decided to send the entire company on toward Hardhome under Tormund’s command except for Howland, Jon, and himself.

He had given Jon the option. As Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, if he felt he needed to stay with the men, Ned would not have pressed him to do otherwise. No one pretended that this particular excursion had any purpose other than the recovery of Bran and the Reed children, and the Watch was not supposed to take part in the affairs of the realm.

Jon had merely laughed harshly and said that they were north of the Wall and nothing that occurred here was in the realm of the Seven Kingdoms. He had then put his hand on Ned’s shoulder. “Bran is my brother,” he had said solemnly. “I will stand with the Watch against these Others, but I will have him safe first.”

Ned had only nodded, unable to reply, but infinitely grateful to have Jon with him. Tormund had argued with them about taking more men, but in the end they all had to agree that cutting the party in half made everyone far too vulnerable. They simply didn’t have enough men to effectively defend against large attacks, and Ned, Jon, and Howland could defend themselves against solitary attackers as well as a larger group could.

Ned looked at the darkening sky. They would have to stop soon, and he saw nothing around them offering any decent shelter to the three of them. _It should be four of us._ He couldn’t stop thinking of Donnell. When he closed his eyes, hoping to see Cat’s face or the children’s, he would instead see Donnell hurling himself at that cold creature just before its sword could cut Ned himself in two. He would see Donnell’s white face as he begged to be put to death. _One more,_ he thought. _One more good_ _man._ _One more life taken because of me. Donnell, Hallis Mollen, Jory Cassel, all my men in King’s Landing, the men who once rode with me to the Tower of Joy._ He ran down his list of lives ended violently on his account, always ending with the most painful of all. _Robb._ He couldn’t bear to think long about Robb.

 

“The land slopes downward into a bit of a valley not too far ahead,” came Jon’s voice from behind him. It isn’t much , but it should at least provide some relief from the wind. We can pitch the tent there.”

Ned nodded. He never asked Jon how he knew these things. Obviously, the wolf had seen it, and Jon didn’t like to talk about his connection with the wolf. “Tell Howland,” he said, and continued to lead his horse toward Ghost’s last howl.

Just as the sun set, the three men had their tent set up and were settled in for the night in a shallow, narrow valley along a frozen creek bed. They were so far north, Ned found himself wondering if the ice there ever thawed enough to truly run. It must have at some point, to form the narrow bed. Ghost had returned to them and now prowled slowly back and forth just at the edge of Ned’s vision, outside the light of their fire.

Wordlessly, Howland Reed handed him a very stale hunk of bread, and Ned ate without comment. Jon sat staring into the fire. “How much further do you think, Jon?” Ned asked after a few moments of silent eating.

“I don’t believe it is far at all.” It was Howland Reed who answered, his voice sounding hoarse from disuse. He looked up at Ned, and his eyes looked old and tired.

“What do you see, my friend?” Ned asked him quietly. “What do you dream?”

Howland shook his head, and Ned put a hand on the crannogman’s shoulder. “The same as always,” Reed finally said softly. “I dream of the children, yours and mine. I see them in the dark and the cold.” He hesitated. “But I cannot see my son.”

Ned swallowed hard. “You don’t know what that means,” he said. “It could mean anything. If you see only Bran and your daughter, it could be . . .”

“I see more than Bran and Meera, my lord,” Howland interrupted. “I see all your children save Robb. I see them all in the dark and cold. Just as I see my daughter.”

The man’s words made Ned’s blood feel as frozen as the creek beside them. “My other children are at Winterfell,” he said. “With Catelyn.”

Howland nodded, but said nothing more, and Ned feared to ask. Then Ghost started snarling at something in the trees beyond the fire’s glow, and Ned started to rise.

“I’ll go,” Jon said, drawing Longclaw and taking a brand from the fire. Ned stood up as well, but remained where he was, pulling the little obsidian dagger from his boot. He stared after Jon, prepared to run to him if any danger threatened or if he moved beyond his line of sight.

Behind him, he heard Howland Reed’s sharp intake of breath. “Ned, go.” He turned and saw the little crannogman standing up staring in the opposite direction from the one Jon had taken. Moving toward them from the shadows there were at least a dozen wights.

Ned picked up a burning brand just as Reed turned to do the same. “Ned, go,” Reed said again. “If this were the true threat, Ghost would be here. I fear for Jon.”

Just then, Ghost gave a terrible howl and then growled fiercely. Ned turned again, but could see neither Jon nor the wolf. Then he felt something grab at him and realized the wights were upon them. He stuffed the dragonglass blade back into his boot, and drew his sword. _Donnell’s sword,_ he thought. He had taken Donnell’s sword since his own had been destroyed by the Other’s icy blade. Hacking and slashing with blade and fire, he fought alongside Howland as the wights seemed to keep coming. Finally, their numbers seemed to decrease, and Howland yelled, “Go! Go to Jon!”

Ned looked at his friend, fighting madly, but handling the wights around him admirably, and then he turned to run toward the sounds of an angry direwolf. The blazing wood in his hand lit the ground before him as he ran beyond the circle of light from their small campfire.

He felt the cold before he could see them. Two white walkers had converged on Jon. He was slashing at one furiously with Longclaw, but the creature blocked each of his thrusts with its own blade. The other was advancing on Jon from behind as Ghost leapt and snarled at it. Without hesitation, Ned dropped his own sword to the ground and grabbed once more for the dragonglass dagger in his boot. He ran forward and stabbed the Other behind Jon in the back. With an odd high pitched keening noise, it whirled to face him, and he quickly plunged the dagger into it once again, this time going for the heart.

Jon remained locked in combat with the other one even as the Walker in front of Ned began to melt, and Ned pulled his dagger back, the cold emanating from it painful to his hand. He started toward Jon once more, but felt a cold deeper than any he’d ever known grabbing at his arm. He spun to face the new threat, but put too much weight on his bad leg and found himself face down on the ground. He then felt an icy grip take hold of both his ankles, and he felt himself being dragged away from Jon at an alarming rate of speed. He tried to twist and kick, but he couldn’t break the grip or even twist around to see what had taken him. It had to be one of the Others. Nothing else could be so cold.

The pain in his ankles was at first intense, but it was rapidly replaced by numbness as cold spread up his legs. He couldn’t hear the sound of the swordfight any more. He still gripped the dagger tightly, but couldn’t get turned around to use it. Finally, he realized he was no longer being moved across the ground. He felt weak and disoriented, but he tried one last time to turn himself onto his back, and this time, he was successful. Directly above him was an Other, no longer holding his legs, but bent down and peering at his face. The cold emanating from the creature chilled him completely and threatened to numb the upper part of his body as well. In desperation, he gathered the last bit of strengh he had, and heaved himself upward into a sitting position, thrusting the dagger into the Other which bent over him. It fell down onto him like a blanket of icy air, having almost no weight, but knocking him back to the ground with the force of a winter wind. His last conscious thought was of warmth, of Catelyn’s chambers in Winterfell, and firelight illuminating his wife’s hair and face.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Sansa will be very proud of you, Jeyne,” Arya said. In truth, Arya was thoroughly annoyed at Sansa for leaving her with Jeyne Poole for so long, but she was honestly impressed that the girl had mustered the courage to come this far from the safety of her room. Jeyne had looked like a frightened rabbit as they’d crossed the expanse of the courtyard, but seemed to relax somewhat now that they had reached the godswood.

“Nymeria will stay with us, won’t she?” Jeyne asked tentatively.

“Of course.” Arya scratched at the wolf’s head. “I would like to let her run a bit, though. She’s so tired of being cooped up. She won’t go far, and she’ll come right back if I call her.” Since receiving her father’s letter more than a fortnight ago, her mother had insisted that she and Rickon keep their wolves right with them almost all the time. She’d barely let the animals outside the castle to hunt, and Arya knew Nymeria missed her freedom and the small cousins who would still run with her in the Wolfswood. At Jeyne’s slight nod, Arya gave the direwolf a small pat, and the animal streaked into the trees as if she had read Arya’s mind. Arya supposed she had, although she still didn’t really understand exactly how that worked.

Mother had gotten even worse since her last visit to the Winter Town, seeming suspicious of almost everyone in the castle and demanding to know where she and her brother and sister were every moment of the day. Arya had started to chafe at the restrictions as much as her direwolf. With a slight pang of guilt, she realized she hadn’t told anyone that she and Jeyne were leaving the Great Keep. She’d been so surprised by the girl’s agreement with her suggestion to visit the godswood, she’d hurriedly gotten them both bundled up against the cold before she could change her mind.

“I know you’d rather be practicing at swords with Dak and Rickon,” Jeyne said now, sitting down on a large rock and absently picking up snow to form into a ball.

That was true, of course, so Arya didn’t contradict her. She simply shrugged. “My Uncle Edmure’s men from Riverrun have been seen not far from here. Mother is holed up in Father’s solar all day with Brienne and her other captains planning out where to use them, how to defend Winterfell and the town, and how to . . .” She bit her lip. She’d been about to say ‘how to find Ramsay Snow,’ but that was a stupid thing to say to Jeyne. “Just keep everybody safe,” she finished hurriedly. “So, she had to ask Sansa to make sure there was ample food prepared for their arrival. Sansa’s good at that sort of thing.”

“And you got stuck with me,” Jeyne said sadly, packing her snowball tightly.

“I don’t mind,” Arya said quickly. At Jeyne’s disbelieving glance, she grinned. “Well, I don’t mind that much.”

Jeyne actually laughed then, and it occurred to Arya that she hadn’t heard Jeyne Poole laugh since King’s Landing. And then Jeyne had been laughing at her.

Jeyne’s thoughts must have gone in the same direction because she said, “You should mind. I don’t know why you’re being nice to me, Arya. I was never nice to you.”

Arya shrugged again. “Neither was Sansa,” she said. With a half-smile, she conceded, “But I wasn’t nice to the two of you either. We were all stupid, I guess.”

“You never wanted to do anything that we did. And you gave poor Septa Mordane fits over your needlework,” Jeyne laughed as she said that, and Arya couldn‘t help but wonder if her sister‘s friend was making fun of her again.

“Septa Mordane gave me fits over my needlework,” she protested. “I got tired of hearing how perfect Sansa’s was.”

“Yours was pretty bad.”

“Needlework is stupid!” Arya realized she had shouted her when Jeyne cowered backward a bit on her rock. After everything that had happened to both of them, she was actually screaming at Jeyne Poole about sewing.” _Stupid!_ She bit her lip. “I’m . . .I’m sorry, Jeyne,” she said. “I just get . . .angry sometimes.”

Jeyne looked at her with a terrible understanding in her brown eyes. “I know. I get angry, too.”

“Hey,” Arya said suddenly, as a thought came to her. “I do want to practice with this Needle.” She pulled her sword out of its sheath and held it up. “And you can help me.”

“Me? I don’t know anything about swords.”

“No, but you made a pretty good snowball. Throw it at me.”

Jeyne grinned and lobbed the snowball toward her. It was a soft, slow toss, and Arya easily sliced it with Needle’s slim blade long before it got near her.

“That was really good, Arya,” Jeyne said, and the admiration sounded genuine enough.

Arya smiled. “That was nothing. Make another snowball and throw it a lot harder.”

Soon, both girls were busily making snowballs so that Jeyne might have a large enough arsenal to throw several missiles in rapid succession for Arya to fend off with Needle. They were laughing so hard that they didn’t hear the men approaching. Arya didn’t know they were there until a large rough hand clamped over her mouth while a beefy arm grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back away from Jeyne.

“Be still now, little milady,” a man with sour breath whispered against her ear. “Lord Bolton just wants his bride back. No harm’ll come to you if yer good and quiet.”

Jeyne was screaming and kicking as a second man grabbed hold of her. “Lord Bolton’s little bride’s got some fight,” he said with an ugly grin, before smacking Jeyne hard in the face. At the contact from his hand, she went still, and Arya saw all the fight leave her eyes.

“Keep her quiet,” the man holding Arya said. “I got rope. We can take her out over the wall just like that Greyjoy fellow did.”

“What if she won’t climb?”

“Then we’ll haul her like a sack of meal. Lord Ramsay won’t mind her banged up. He just wants her back.”

At the name Ramsay, Jeyne’s dead eyes came alive for a brief second with fear before she seemed to retreat once more into herself. Arya held herself perfectly still, willing the man holding her to loosen his grip. She could see Needle lying in the snow where she had laid it down to help Jeyne with the snowballs and prayed that these men did not see it.

“Why don’t we take her, too?” the man holding Jeyne asked her captor. “Maybe Lord Ramsay would like the real Lady Arya, too. Even though the one he got seems more of a woman to me.”

“Don’t be a fool! You think old Lady Stark would just sit in her castle if we took her little girl? She’d burn the North down looking for her! No, we’ll tie her up and leave her to be found.” After he spoke, he let go of Arya’s waist for only a few seconds to reach for the rope at his own waist, but that was all the time she needed. She stomped hard on his foot, causing the hand over her mouth to loosen enough that she could open her mouth and bite his finger hard. She tasted blood, and the man jerked his hand away.

“Nymeria!” she screamed. “To me!”

The man’s fist slammed into her face then, knocking her to the ground. She blinked hard against the pain, but she couldn’t see. She didn’t have time to wait for her vision to clear, so she listened intently and heard the rustle of the man’s sleeve cutting through the air as he swung down at her. She rolled out of his reach just as his fist came down again into the snow where she had lain. She could smell the man’s sour sweat as he reached for her again, but she smelled another scent, too--the wild scent of winter’s fiercest hunter, and she was not surprised to hear a single vicious growl followed by choked off scream from her attacker.

Her vision began to clear and she pushed herself up into a sitting position. Nymeria was just in front of her, standing on the corpse of the man who had grabbed her only a few moments ago, her muzzle buried in his throat. Turning to her right, she saw Needle lying on the ground, and she snatched it up before turning again to search for Jeyne and her captor.

There they were. He had dragged Jeyne about ten yards away, but now stood still, gripping the near catatonic girl tightly, but seemingly unable to look away from the direwolf savaging the dead body of his companion. _Swift as a deer,_ she thought. _Quiet_ _as a shadow._

Staying low to the ground, she moved toward the man who held Jeyne Poole as quickly as she could without drawing his attention away from the gruesome sight that held his gaze. She was vaguely aware of shouting from somewhere near the gate into the courtyard and the sound of people running, but she couldn’t think about that. _Quick as a snake. Fierce as a wolverine._

The man turned and saw her just she’d almost reached them. He tightened his grip around Jeyne, and Arya watched him bring a small dagger up to her neck. “I . . .I’ll kill her. I will. Keep that . . .that thing . . . away from me!” _He’s afraid,_ Arya thought. _Fear_ _cuts deeper than swords._

“Let her go or I’ll call the wolf, and she will rip your throat out just like your friend’s,” Arya said softly.

The man whimpered. “Please . .please, no . . .”

Jeyne was pale and still in the man’s grip, staring in front of her as if she could not see. Arya hated this man who’d come into her home, into her godswood, and dared to hurt someone she’d promised to keep safe. She hated him for his violent hands, hated him for his cruel words, and hated him for his craven pleading.

“Let her go,” she said again in a voice like ice.

“Arya!” she heard someone call her name, but she did not take her eyes of the man who held Jeyne. He took his eyes off her, though, turning to look at whoever approached and lowering his dagger slightly as he did so. That was all the opening she needed. With her left hand she reached out and pulled Jeyne hard out of his grasp and down into the snow. With her right, she buried Needle in his gut up to the hilt.

“Arya!” the voice called again. This time she turned to look toward it as the heavy, dying man sagged to the ground, sliding off her blade as he fell.

 _Dak. The voice was Dak’s._ Her friend stood there, not twenty paces away with several soldiers. They all stared at her standing there with her bloody sword. Jeyne now began to cry softly as she curled up in a ball at her feet. The snow beside them had begun to redden from the blood of the dying man, and the only sound Arya heard for a moment was the almost obscene ripping and gulping noise of Nymeria feasting on the already dead man behind her.

Arya didn’t move. She had been so filled with rage as she’d driven Needle into the man, and now she was filled with . . .nothing.

“Arya?” Dak asked again, an almost pleading note in his voice. She looked at his face then, but couldn’t find any words to reply. As she looked at him, she heard the sound of more people approaching.

“Arya,” came another voice, a soft and sad voice with a hint of fear that the speaker was trying hard to to conceal. This voice reached Arya through the emptiness and the rage, and she felt tears begin to fill her eyes as she looked away from Dak to her mother who did not stop where the others were, but walked right past them to Arya, mindless of the corpses, the wolf, or even Jeyne.

“Give me Needle,” Mother said softly when she reached her. Wordlessly, Arya held the crimson stained sword out to her, and she took it from her hand. “Dak,” Mother said softly. “Would you please clean Lady Arya’s blade?”

Arya was vaguely aware of Dak stepping forward to take the sword from her mother, and then more aware of her mother pulling her into her arms. “Lady Brienne, please see to poor Jeyne. Take her to her room and send someone for Sansa.” More loudly, she said, “The rest of you may go. Your presence is terrifying this poor girl further.”

“Lady Stark,” said one of the men. “What about the dead men?”

Arya stood within the circle of her mother’s arms, but she looked out at the others. Brienne had come forward and crouched down by Jeyne. Dak was a few paces away, rubbing snow on Needle and wiping it with his own cloak. The other men seemed frozen in place, and Arya realized they were all afraid of Nymeria.

“Take this one to the courtyard and see if anyone can give his name,” her mother said, and two brave souls moved forward to follow her direction. “Leave the other for the wolf,” Mother then said coldly. “His face is already gone, and he deserves no better.”

Arya stood silently as the men left the courtyard, dragging the man she had killed with them. Once they had gone, her mother spoke again. “Brienne,” she said. Her voice was hard, and Arya looked up at her face then. Her mother looked nothing like her father. She had always been summer with warmth in her hair and blue skies in her eyes, but Arya shivered as she looked at her now. The blue eyes were ice and her expression was stone, as hard as Father’s ever was. As hard as the Starks in the crypts.

“Yes, my lady?” Brienne said as she rose from the ground, holding Jeyne in her arms like a baby.

“When you have seen to that poor girl, send men to Winter Town and find that woman. The one with the little boy. She must be brought here to tell us whatever she knows. Whether she wishes to come or not.” Mother’s voice was as cold as her face.

“Yes, my lady,” Brienne turned to carry Jeyne away, but Mother spoke to her once more.

“And Brienne, I want every damned gate in this castle closed. And not one is to be opened unless you or I personally order it.”

“Yes, my lady.” This time when Brienne turned away, Mother let her go.

“Thank you, Dak. You can give Needle back to me and go now,” Mother said then, and her voice was not quite so hard as before.

“It . . .it’s not quite clean, my lady,” Dak said. “I’ve done what I could with the snow. It needs more water.”

“And I know where to find that,” Mother said. “You’ve done a good job, Dak.”

Dak looked at Arya then, and she found that it was hard to meet her friend’s gaze. She just nodded to him, and he understood that it was all right to hand Mother the sword. Once he had gone, Mother put her her hands on Arya’s shoulders and looked at her face. “Come with me, sweetling,” she said in a voice that sounded much more like her own.

Taking Arya’s hand, her mother led her deeper into the godswood, to the place with the heart tree and it’s pool. She sat Arya down on the same stone she had seen her father sit on countless times. Then Mother unwrapped the scarf from her neck and dipped it into the pool. Wordlessly, she handed the wet scarf and Needle to Arya.

“Whenever your father had to kill a man, he would come here,” her mother said softly. “He said this was the place he could cleanse his sword and his spirit.”

Arya began wiping at the blade with her mother’s wet scarf. “You don’t like it here,” she said. “You never liked it here.”

She heard a smile in her mother‘s voice as she said, “But you always did. I am not of the North, Arya, and I will not ever completely belong to the gods of these trees. I used to feel a stranger here.” Arya looked up from her sword at that, but her mother was still smiling. “I am no stranger here now, though,” she continued. “Your father has always told me that I am welcome here, for whatever else I am, I am the mother of wolves. This is your place, Arya, and these are your gods just as they are your father’s. As your mother, it is my place to bring you here when he cannot.”

The tears which had been brimming in her eyes since her mother’s arrival now began to spill down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she whispered as she wiped at the last few remaining spots dulling Needle’s bright blade. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Those two words sounded almost as hard as those she’d spoken to Lady Brienne and the soldiers. “You defended yourself and Jeyne. I am glad of that. I am only sorry that I allowed you to come under such threat in our home. It will not happen again.”

Arya didn’t say anything to that. She merely dried off the now gleaming Needle with the bottom of her cloak and replaced it in its sheath. She didn’t want to leave the godswood yet. Looking past her mother, she saw Nymeria had come to the pool. She drank deeply from the water, but when she raised her head and trotted over toward them, Arya could still see traces of the man’s blood on her muzzle.

Amazed, she watched as her mother stretched out a hand toward for the direwolf to lick. She had not replaced her glove after removing it to dip her scarf in the pool, and the skin was red and chafed. Arya’s shock apparently showed in her face, because her mother laughed when she looked up at her. “Arya, sweetling, I am not shocked by your wolf. The beast only did what I would if I could. Bran’s wolf once licked my own blood from this hand after killing the man who wanted to take your brother’s life. You killed the man who held Jeyne, so I can only guess that Nymeria killed the man who held you.”

Arya nodded.

“And for that, I love her,” her mother said simply. She pulled her hand back from the wolf’s muzzle then to replace her glove, and Nymeria came to Arya putting her furry head in her lap.

“Can we stay here a bit, Mother?” she asked.

“We shall stay as long as you like.”

Suddenly, Arya realized her mother had been kneeling on the ground near her for some time, and she felt guilty. The bulge of the babe she carried showed clearly now in her mother’s midsection, although it wasn’t yet as large as she remembered from when Mother carried Rickon. “Sit with me, Mother,” she said, and she reached out a hand to help her mother rise. When she sat down on the rock beside her, Arya laid her head down in her mother’s lap, smiling briefly at the way her baby brother or sister competed for the space there.

It was quiet in the godswood, quiet enough for Arya to listen to her own thoughts, and she wondered if that’s what her father did when he spent silent hours here. She honestly didn’t know if she wanted to hear her own thoughts too clearly because some of them scared her more than she cared to admit even to herself. However, she couldn’t think of anywhere she’d rather be right now than before her father’s heart tree with her mother and her direwolf, so Arya Stark stayed just as she was for a very long time.

 

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It had been a long, cold journey, and no place on Maege Mormont’s body was completely without pain. They had traveled roughly southeast on a path designed to take some of them all the way to the Bay of Seals, leaving companies camped along the way to form an arc of sorts that extended from Castle Black to a point on the east coast to the north of and midway between Last Hearth and the Karhold. Ned’s son had sent letters to the Karhold asking this Sigorn person he’d wed to Alys Karstark to send out men to reinforce the eastern portion of the line, so those who had ridden from the Wall had left larger companies at the western waypoints. Ravens had also gone to the castles on the Wall between Castle Black and Eastwatch requesting the wildlings who held them to patrol to the south as well as watch the Wall to the north. In such a manner, they hoped to find and contain these White Walkers before they could reach any keeps or towns. The land which made up Brandon’s Gift and the New Gift was largely flat and barren of trees from Castle Black to just north of Last Hearth, so frigid winds and snowfalls had been the greatest impediment to their progress. The lack of natural shelter made for bitterly cold nights even with tents, and many men grumbled about being sent off to freeze to death in search of mythical creatures.

Each company had been given ravens trained to fly to Castle Black, Last Hearth, and the Karhold, and if any saw these Others, the first order of business was to see that a warning was sent to all three places so that riders might be sent out to warn men throughout the line. It was not a bad plan in terms of locating any Walkers as they moved south or west, but Maege couldn’t help but wonder if such thinly spaced forces had any chance at actually killing the creatures or turning them back. She had command of a company stationed just at the north of the forest’s northern edge, some ninety miles north of Last Hearth. She stood outside her tent and peered into the unrelenting whiteness, seeing nothing but cold white and wondering if you could even see creatures made of cold white against such a background before they were upon you.

Unconsciously, her hand went to the spiked mace she kept at her side at all times, although it gave her less comfort than it ordinarily would as she pondered that it was of little use against wights, other than to smash them to the ground before burning them. And if the men at the Wall had spoken truly, it was worth even less against the Others. She pulled the crude ten inch black bladed dagger from her belt that she had been given before leaving Castle Black. The idea of trusting her life to such a thing gave her no comfort at all. The thought that Alysane should be back at Bear Island by now with little Lyanna, and that Lyra and Jorelle were safe in Greywater Watch gave her considerably more comfort. She offered a prayer for the continued safety of her living daughters and fought down the bitter grief that never seemed to lessen as she thought of her eldest, Dacey, lost to her forever.

As she stood there, lost in her troubled thoughts, she heard one of her men call out. “Lady Mormont! Riders!”

She looked up to see there were indeed riders approaching from the northwest. These were not apparitions of white, however, but appeared to be ordinary men in various shades of greys, browns, and blacks, although they were too far away to recognize. Quickly, she called for her own horse and commanded several of her company to ride out to meet them.

Soon, she was close enough to see that one of the lead riders in the approaching group wore the eminently recognizable armor of Lord Yohn Royce, who commanded the group just to the northwest of her company. Her body tensed as she saw him, for she could think of no favorable reason the man himself would be heading toward her camp. If he only needed to get a message to her, he could send a rider.

Her dread increased as Royce and his men drew nearer for she saw that many of the riders appeared wounded and that several of the horses carried double, indicating that some of the men were too injured to ride on their own. She sped her own mount toward them, and motioned for her men to gallop as well.

“Lord Royce!” she called out as she soon as she was near enough.

“An attack!” came the reply. “I have wounded in need of assistance.”

By now, the two groups were coming together, and Maege could see clearly that of the thirty to forty men in Royce’s group, scarcely a half dozen, including Lord Royce, appeared unscathed. She quickly directed her men to attend to the riders who looked most unable to continue without help and get them back to the camp. She pulled her own mount alongside Lord Royce’s.

“You are not wounded, my lord?” she asked him.

The man looked dazed, but shook his head. “I am . . .untouched. They would not touch me.”

His words made little sense, but Maege simply asked, “Who attacked you? Or what?”

Bronze Yohn shook his head again. “Dead things,” he said ominously. “An army of dead things.”

“Are you pursued?”

The man shook his head a third time, and Maege looked at his grim face carefully. “Let us get you to a warm fire, my lord, and we shall speak of it then.”

It took some time sitting by the fire before Maege got all of the man’s tale, for he spoke haltingly and without his usual bravado, seeming at times to disbelieve his own words. While they spoke, her men cared for his as best they could, and plans were made to send the more seriously wounded on south to Last Hearth. Jon and Hothar Umber had already taken their men to Last Hearth to see what defenses Mors had set up there, although they planned to bring a number of men back up to the line.

“It was only wights, then?” she asked Royce as he stopped speaking. “Not Others?”

“I saw no Others,” he said. “Nor were there reports of them from the companies north of us who were also attacked--the two led by those rangers of the Watch--Pypar and the other man, whose name I cannot recall.”

“Grenn,” Maege said softly.

“That’s the one,” Royce said. “It was the same at all of our camps. Dead men and animals, all with blue eyes, came in the night. Hundreds of them. Half my men froze in terror just at the sight of them. And any men they struck down . . .” Royce shuddered. “They did not stay dead long, my lady.”

Maege felt bile rise in her throat. “I . . .I cannot imagine.”

“I fear you will not have to imagine, my lady. They seem to be moving south,” Royce said grimly.

“But you are certain none of them got through the line?”

“Fire is remarkably effective against them. Most of our casualties occurred very early. Once I had the archers rallied and firing volleys of flaming arrows, the tide turned. Whatever corpses we did not destroy turned back to whence they came. The companies of the Watch report similar experiences, so I do not believe any of these things are west of us.”

Maege offered a brief, silent prayer of gratitude for that, thinking of Bear Island far to the west.

“But the northernmost company was attacked first, and ours most recently, so the things appear to be moving southward. You are likely in their path.”

“How many men still hold your position?” Maege asked him.

“About two thirds of my original company. As I said, our losses slowed once all kept their heads and we used the fire to good advantage. I came to warn you, that you might be better prepared than we were, and also to see my wounded safely to Last Hearth.”

“And why did you come yourself, my lord?” Maege asked. She knew enough of Yohn Royce to know he was no craven and certainly not a man to desert his own men in time of trouble.

He laughed harshly then, and looked at the elaborately inscribed bronze glinting in the firelight beside him. He had agreed after some protest to remove his armor for comfort, but insisted on keeping it near his person. “Because I dared not spare a large number of men to escort the wounded, my lady. As they could hardly defend themselves, I felt they deserved at least one invincible defender.” His voice sounded bitter rather than gloating, and Maege did not understand what he meant.

“Have you heard the tales of my armor, Lady Mormont?” he asked her after a moment. “I cannot read any of those symbols and runes or tell you their meanings. In truth, I know not how old the armor is, although legend has it over a thousand years. I only know that it has been in my family since before memory, always to be worn by the Lord of Runestone. It is suppose to ward me from harm.” He laughed again. “I have been unhorsed in tourneys, my lady, and I have been wounded in battle. And I assure you those experiences have indeed hurt me. I have always rather believed my success in the tournaments and on the field of battle was more due to my own skill than to any magic in my armor.”

“You are not wrong, my lord,” Maege told him. “I have seen you joust and seen you with your sword. You are a skilled warrior.”

He nodded his head in graceful acceptance of her praise. “Perhaps, but my greatest advantage against these dead things is that they would not touch me. They grabbed at everyone else, even as their limbs were hacked from their bodies, but they all fled from me. Whole corpses, animated bits of corpses--not one would touch me.” He shook his head slowly and stared into the fire as he continued. “Perhaps that armor truly is thousands of years old, and perhaps it is warded, but against an evil none have seen for thousands of years.”

Maege swallowed. She had no reply to that. Finally, she said, “You should rest, my lord. We shall post extra watches from now on, but you and your men needn’t take watch tonight. On the morrow, your wounded will be sent on to Last Hearth with a sizable enough escort of my men. You may go with them, remain here, or return to your camp, as you choose.”

Bronze Yohn Royce, a man Maege had never considered taciturn, a man ever ready with an opinion, a plan, a joke, or a wildly inappropriate remark, simply nodded and continued to stare into the fire.

No attack came that night or any of the next three. Lord Royce did accept her offer of an escort for his wounded, and returned to his own camp with the four completely healthy men who had ridden with him the morning after his arrival, riding out clad in his rune covered bronze armor. Maege had wondered idly if its magic worked against White Walkers as well as wights. Then she had wondered precisely how and when consideration of magical properties had become a serious tactical consideration. Maege Mormont was a practical woman, and none of this sat easily with her.

On the third morning after Lord Royce left, Greatjon Umber and two hundred men arrived from Last Hearth, swelling the ranks in Maege’s camp. Ravens had arrived to Last Hearth telling of the wight attacks, and the Greatjon and his men had met up with Maege’s own as they escorted Lord Royce’s wounded south, so he had heard most of the news before reaching her.

“My uncles have Last Hearth defended as well as can be hoped,” he told her. “I would prefer to turn back these creatures here at some distance from my castle if possible, so I intend to stay here and fight alongside you should the battle come this way, my lady.”

“I would be pleased to have you, Lord Umber. I send companies of riders to the east and west nightly to see if any of these wights attempt to go around us. We have little cover here, but at least we can see a great distance when the weather is good.”

Umber snorted. “It’s winter, Maege. The weather won’t stay good.”

Greatjon Umber proved prophetic by nightfall when heavy snow began to come down just after sunset. Maege Mormont could not shake a heavy sense of forboding, and increased the numbers of watchmen even further, not that any of them could see more than five feet in front of them.

The wights came about two hours into the first watch. Although she was not on watch, Maege had still been awake, moving among the men by their fires, admonishing them to be alert, and encouraging them not to allow fear to paralyze them. She honestly couldn’t say from where the wights appeared. In a single moment, it seemed, they were simply there, grabbing at her, stabbing at her with their own weapons or weapons they took from those they felled.

They didn’t seem to be felling many. She was proud to see that her men did not panic as they sought to defend themselves with weapons of flame from the very beginning of the attack. The wights moved slowly, but the snowstorm combined with the sheer number of animated corpses kept her men and Umber’s from definitively turning back the attackers. The heavy snowfall made the archers useless so all the combat was hand to hand. She didn’t know how long she’d been fighting when one of her own captains tried to kill her. In battle, five minutes could feel the same as an hour, and she couldn’t tell the difference. She only knew that when she saw the young man she’d known and trusted since they had ridden south with Robb Stark slash viciously at her with his sword, she was temporarily paralyzed by shock. Then she had taken in the awkwardness of his movement, and seen clearly the caved in side of his head. She hadn’t waited to see the bright blue eyes before smashing her mace into his chest and knocking him into the fire behind him.

As she watched his corpse burn, she nearly vomited, grabbing onto her belly. Another wight approached from her left however, and she quickly grabbed up another torch and swung at it. It fell back and she caught a glimpse of her own hand in the light of the torch. It was covered in blood. Only then, did she look down at her middle and realize her dead captain’s sword had cut her.

She had no time to think on that. She could hear Lord Umber shouting to his men. The northmen were slowly pushing the wights back out of their camp now, and she had to press the advantage. She shouted to her own men, urging them forward, and rushed forward herself, brandishing the torch. As she turned to battle a badly decayed man on her right, she became aware of an intense cold on her left. Maege Mormont had lived her entire life on a northern island in a frigid body of water appropriately known as the Bay of Ice. Yet she had never known cold like this.

She thrust the torch she held into the gut of the gruesome wight and turned toward the dreadful cold, terribly afraid of what she would see. As her eyes fell upon the tall, white, terrifying creature in front of her, she reached reflexively for her mace, but as the thing advanced upon her, she forced her fingers to close on the dragonglass knife in her belt instead, for this was no wight.

The thing held a long sword aloft, and Maege realized she could never reach the Other with her short knife without coming well into the range of that sword. _We are winning,_ she thought. _I cannot allow this creature to take that from us._ If there were as many of these as there were wights, they were lost. She knew that. But if there were only a few . . .or only one . . .

Maege Mormont charged directly at the creatures the wildings called a White Walker. As its sword came down at her, she raised her left arm to deflect the blow and was vaguely aware of an excruciating pain somewhere below her left elbow. She ignored it and continued her advance until she had plunged the black knife into the creature’s chest.

Impossibly, she felt even colder. Her vision blurred, causing the Other to seem fuzzy at the edges. Or perhaps it really was fuzzy, because after a moment, it didn’t seem to be there at all, and she could still see men battling wights around her, although not clearly.

She sank to her knees and saw a hand wearing a glove that looked like hers lying in the snow beside her. Comprehension dawned slowly and she turned to look at her left arm. Blood spurted from the end of the limb which now ended just several inches below the elbow. She lay back in the snow and put her right hand on her belly. She could feel the slick blood there still coming from her earlier wound.

 _Dacey,_ she thought. It wouldn’t be so bad to see her daughter again. She started to close her eyes, imagining Dacey’s face before her. Then she opened them wide again as she imagined herself with bright blue eyes, killing the very men she’d fought beside for so long now. _No!_

It took more strength than she thought she had, but she rolled onto her stomach, putting the belly wound into the snow, and she forcibly thrust what was left of her left arm deep into the snow as well, in an attempt to staunch the blood flow. She began to recite the lyrics of songs in her mind and then the ancestry of her house as she’d learned it as a girl. Anything to keep from losing consciousness.

After five minutes or an hour, she couldn’t tell which, she heard a familiar voice shout, “Maege!”

She felt herself being rolled over and found her eyes looking into the large, bearded face of Jon Umber. “Gods, Maege,” he choked.

“Is it over?” she whispered.

She wasn’t sure she spoke out loud, but she must have because the Greatjon nodded.

“Did we win?”

“Yes, my lady. A hard fought victory, but it’s ours. Lie still. I’ll get you aid.”

“No.”

“Maege . . .”

“There is no aid for this, Jon,” she whispered. Talking was becoming impossible, and he had to know about the Other, if he didn’t already. “More . . .more than wights,” she croaked.

He nodded. “I saw the one you slew, my lady. I was too far away to reach you. Two others were seen as well, but they left when the last wights did.”

She coughed. She was cold. Almost as cold as when she’d stabbed the Other. “Burn me now,” she whispered.

Her vision was fading, and she couldn’t see Jon’s face anymore, but she heard his voice. “No, Maege. Hold on, my lady.”

“Dacey,” she whispered. “Please, Jon. Burn me now. Promise me.”

There was silence, and she was terrified that her hearing was gone. That she wouldn’t know his answer. But then, from very far away, she heard, “I will Maege. I promise.”

Then Maege Mormont, Lady of Bear Island, heard no more.

 

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Brienne looked at the straight back of the woman riding in front of her and then scanned the landscape all around them, looking for any sign of threat. She had riders positioned in front of and on both sides of Lady Catelyn, but could not shake the feeling that this excursion placed the lady in unacceptable danger. She didn’t like being behind her, but it was the only place she could keep both Lady Catelyn and their surroundings within her sight, so she had reluctantly taken up position there.

It was a ride of no length at all from Winterfell to the Winter Town, but Brienne feared her lady would be no safer among the smallfolk there than she was during the ride. Tensions ran high in castle and town, and nothing save the death of Ramsay Snow might serve to ease them at this point.

It had been over a fortnight since the attack on Lady Arya and Jeyne Poole in the godswood. The poor Poole girl had not left her room since, and Lady Sansa was in almost constant attendance on her. Lady Arya stalked the castle grounds with her direwolf, a sullen, angry expression almost permanently etched on her face. Brienne had no time for training the children now, but she knew that Lady Arya still came to the practice yard almost daily, challenging any man there. Few would spar with her, and those that did would not risk injuring her, and that served to make her even more angry. Poor Dak had bruises all over him as reward for his status as Lady Arya’s most frequent sparring partner, but as well as the boy had taken to swordplay, he was no true match for her. He tolerated the anger she so often unjustly directed toward him remarkably well, but Brienne could see the boy growing quieter every day. He never ran with Rickon any more. Rickon, himself, still ran wild through the godswood with Shaggydog, but he resented the two guards that accompanied him at all times by his lady mother’s command, and by turns seemed full of both rage and fear. As his wolf seemed frequently to reflect the child’s wild moods, Brienne found that many men were reluctant to serve as his guards.

As problematic as each of the children were at present, her greatest concern was the woman riding in front of her now. She had begged Lady Catelyn not to take this risk. She was nearly six moons gone with child now, and Brienne had always heard ladies should not even be on horseback in her condition. Lady Catelyn had scoffed at that concern, declaring she was not an invalid and did not intend on sprinting or jumping her horse. The lastest trouble in the town had thoroughly convinced her that the people there needed to see their lady at least, in the absence of their lord, and not simply more armed men in their midst.

Brienne remembered Lady Catelyn’s face as she stood in the Great Hall the evening of the attack in the godswood staring down all the townspeople who were trapped in the castle by the closed gates. No one had come forward to identify the dead man in the courtyard and she was having none of it. In a voice as icy as any her lord husband ever used, she had informed them that she knew perfectly well that the man was known to someone there and that no one would enter or leave Winterfell until she had that name. She had then turned on her heel and left them looking after her as she left the hall and crossed the courtyard to the Great Keep and Lord Stark’s solar. No less than three men and two women had come forward in the next two hours to report that the man was Arryk Lonn, a stonemason who’d come to the Winter Town only a few weeks prior, but had been involved in rebuilding projects at Winterfell since Lord Bolton first arrived there.

Lady Catelyn had immediately ordered the gate opened so that any who wished to leave the castle might do so, but refused entrance to anyone save the men who brought the little boy’s mother from Winter Town. Kella, she was called. She had not wanted to come at all, and the men had been rougher with her than necessary. When Brienne had seen the woman’s swollen lip, she had regretted not going after her herself, but she hadn’t felt able to leave the castle with everything going on.

Lady Catelyn had ordered the woman brought to her own chambers. “She is no doubt terrified,” she had told Brienne. “I wouldn’t have her freezing as well.”

Brienne had taken her there herself, and Lady Catelyn had received her with great courtesy, but no intention of allowing her to leave without telling her everything she knew.

“I am sorry you suffered a hurt,” she had started out. “That was ill done. Let me see to it, Kella.”

The woman had stared at her in fear and shock. “It is Kella, is it not?” Lady Catelyn had asked her. “That is what Lady Brienne told me.”

“Y . . .yes, milady.”

“Sit down, please. I have no desire to hurt you, and I will allow no further harm to come to you.” She’d gotten the woman seated in a chair, and she began dabbing at her cut lip with a warm, wet cloth. Kella had stared at her like a frightened animal, seeming unable to believe that the Lady of Winterfell was tending her injury.

“My daughter was attacked today,” Lady Catelyn had said as she gently wiped Kella’s face. “She was attacked behind these castle walls, in our godswood, by Northmen who likely claim to pray to the very gods whose place they desecrated with violence.”

She’d replaced the cloth in the basin and sat down in a chair facing the woman from the town, staring at her silently. “Is . . .is she all right? Your daughter, milady?” Kella finally asked hesitantly.

“She took no hurt. Yet, I fear she will. I fear for all of us, in the town and the castle, Kella. As long as those who can name our enemies refuse to do so, I cannot act against them.” The words were courteous enough, but there had been steel in Lady Catelyn’s voice.

“Please, milady,” Kella had whimpered. “I am afraid . . .”

“And you think I am not? I am a mother just as you are. You feared for your son when he spoke of my scars in the town, but you have no reason to fear me. We both should fear the Bastard of Bolton. He is the monster in our midst, and neither your children nor mine are safe while he lives. You must realize that.”

“M . . .my husband, he . . .”

“If your husband does Ramsay Snow’s bidding, you must tell me,” Lady Catelyn had demanded.

“No! Gods, no!” Kella had cried. “Morrick’s a builder, milady. He’s an honest man, and he never did no work for the Bolton’s when they had yer castle. I swear it!”

“Then what about him?”

“He . . .he heard some of the other builders and masons talking is all. Heard ‘em talking right here in Winterfell when they was working.” The woman hesitated, and then blurted out, “They said Bolton’s bastard was living in the Wolfswood. That he had hundreds of men. That he would pay good coin for those willing to do jobs for him in the town and the castle. My Morrick don’t want no part of it, though, milady. I tell you true. I’m just scared, is all. There’s some in town that do take his coin, I know, and I can‘t have ’em comin’ after Ben or Morrick or me.”

“Name them.”

“I don’t know them all, milady! I don’t!”

“Name the ones you do know.”

Lady Catelyn had never raised her voice or threatened the woman, but she’d been relentless in her demand for names, and finally the woman had named four men including the dead Arryk Lonn.

The following morning before dawn, Brienne had led men into the town and arrested the other three named men. She had also brought Kella’s husband and son into the castle at Lady Catelyn’s direction in order to protect them from possible reprisals. The man had been troublesome at first, but seemed genuinely concerned about his wife, actually listening as Brienne explained the situation. She didn’t think he completely believed her, but he had finally agreed to come along without any need for violence.

Since that time, the castle had been on a veritable lockdown, tensions in the town had run ever higher, and Lady Catelyn had insisted on keeping armed men there at all times to help prevent violence. When attacks occurred against travelers or smallfolk still living outside the Winter Town, the people in the town began to blame them on soldiers from Winterfell almost as often as they blamed Ramsay Snow. Yesterday, a soldier’s horse had been spooked by some children shouting in the town, and a boy had gotten kicked. The soldier had immediately dismounted to see to the boy, who wasn’t seriously injured, and a mob of angry men had beaten him severely.

When Brienne had reported the incident to Lady Catelyn, she had been stunned to see her lady actually put her face in her hands and weep. She had seen her in the depths of grief any number of times, but never had she wept openly in front of her, and Brienne had just stood there silently and awkwardly until she raised her face once more to look up at her.

“I cannot do this, Brienne,” she had said simply. “I must keep my children safe. But I must hold the castle and take care of all of Ned’s people outside it as well. I cannot seem to do all these things together. If any of those men we hold prisoner know where Ramsay Snow hides, they will not say. Stannis Baratheon has made any number of suggestions to get them to talk, and while I shudder to think on them, I must admit I grow sorely tempted.”

Brienne did not like to talk or even think about Stannis Baratheon. As the man slowly recovered enough to be out of his bed, and even move a bit around the Great Keep, he had taken to ordering people about. Lady Catelyn had made it very clear she did not take orders from him, but that certainly didn’t stop him from attempting to advise her. Brienne made sure the man stayed out of the lord’s solar unless expressly invited by her lady. In truth, she would have him confined to his room if it were up to her, but in the matter of interrogating these prisoners, she too, was beginning to wonder if perhaps his methods might need to be tried.

“I shall go and speak to the people in the town on the morrow,” Lady Catelyn had pronounced then, no hint of tears remaining in her eyes.

“My lady! You cannot!”

“I can and I shall, Brienne. I will ride with whatever guards you deem necessary, but I will not hide behind these walls while my men are made out to be villains. The people in Winter Town are not our enemies. They are merely frightened, and frightened people seek protection. I would not have them seek it with Ramsay Snow. Ned would speak to them, Brienne, and as he is not here, it must needs fall to me.”

Brienne would have liked to argue, but she knew Lady Catelyn well enough to realize it would be to no avail, so instead she had spent the rest of the day planning the safest way to accomplish this task, and now found herself riding behind Lady Catelyn mid way between Winterfell and the town. As she scanned the road ahead and the areas to both sides of them, her thoughts also went ahead to their actual arrival in town and how she might best position the men there.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sound almost like a whistle followed by a metallic ping. Just as she realized she had heard an arrow hit someone’s armor, another arrow sang out, followed by a sharp cry from Lady Catelyn herself. Brienne kicked her horse, bringing herself immediately beside her lady’s, and pulling her head down sharply. “Keep down, my lady!” she cried. “On the left!” she shouted to the men, and immediately they turned their mounts toward the threat.

Looking more closely at Lady Catelyn, Brienne saw that her face was grimaced in pain, but she was able to speak. “It only struck my arm,” she said.

Brienne could see that. The shaft of the arrow still protruded from her lady’s upper left arm. “Can you ride, my lady?” she asked urgently, and Lady Catelyn nodded.

“Go then! Ride, my lady, as quickly as you can for Winterfell. Go now!”

Lady Catelyn did not hesitate, but kicked her horse and galloped hard back in the direction of the castle. “Go with her! Stick close behind and do not let her be hit!” Brienne shouted to the two armored men nearest her. Both turned their horses after Lady Catelyn’s immediately, and Brienne turned her own toward the trees on the left.

Immediately, she knew they were in trouble. These were not men from the town. These were fighting men, and she even saw some wearing the sigil of House Bolton. Her men were fighting furiously, but they were badly outnumbered. Ramsay Snow might not have the hundreds of men Kella had spoken of, but he certainly appeared to have enough to have planned an effective ambush. As she drew her sword against the nearest enemy man, Brienne wondered how, in the name of all the gods, Snow had known Lady Catelyn would be riding out of Winterfell today when it had only been decided yesterday.

She shook her head to force her mind to the task at hand. She saw two of her men fall and realized they had no chance to win as outnumbered as they were. She only hoped they could hold them until Lady Catelyn was beyond pursuit. _Thank the gods that arrow only struck her arm and that my lady is a good rider._

A mounted archer attempted to break through the line to her right and Brienne turned her horse away from the man she fought in order to strike him down. She would allow no pursuit. She successfully knocked the archer from his mount, but then fell from her own horse as the man she had turned her back on swung hard at her with his sword. Her armor had stopped the blade from cutting her, but it could not stop the force of the blow. She staggered to her feet and was dismayed to see yet an even larger number of men riding to join the fray. _Where the devil did the bastard get all these mounted knights?_

As she raised her sword up with some effort, she dizzily realized that the new men were fighting against their attackers rather than with them, and new hope filled her heart. She could barely keep her sword up, but these new fighters cut through the Bolton men like a knife through butter, and the battle was ended as suddenly at it had begun.

She stood there looking around at all the dead men among the trees when a man in indigo and silver walked up to her, carrying a helm adorned with eagle’s wings. “You must be Lady Brienne of Tarth,” the man declared. “I have heard of you, my lady. I am Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard. Lord Edmure Tully has sent me and my men to the service of Lord Stark of Winterfell.”

Brienne smiled. “Well met, Lord Mallister. We have looked forward to your arrival, and I am most glad you chose to arrive now.”

The man laughed and clapped her on the back right where the other man’s sword had hit her. She winced with the pain, and Lord Mallister looked at her in some alarm. “Are you well, my lady?” he asked.

“I am very well now, indeed, my lord,” she replied. “Let us see to the wounded and ride to Winterfell. My lady will be greatly pleased to see you.”


	48. Family Ties

His brother was in danger. He could feel his brother’s fear and rage, and he could hear the howls and snarls. He was not close by, but not so far that he could not be reached by a determined wolf, and so the wolf ran tirelessly, sprinting through the snow with boy’s mind and wolf’s mind united in one purpose. Before he could reach his brother, however, the sounds went silent.

The wolf turned his muzzle to the sky and howled into the wind, facing the direction from which he had last heard his brother. No howl came in reply. He could still feel him, but the fear and rage seemed muted somehow and not as easy to fix upon. He could feel grief and loneliness as well and that frightened him. _Jon_. The man-word came to the frightened boy’s mind, feeling strange and out of place in the wolf‘s.

He lifted his muzzle now to sniff the wind. There was no scent of his white brother or any other animal. There was a distant scent of the dead things that were not dead, though; the meat that did not seem to know it was meat. The wolf growled, instinctively backing away from that terrible scent. It didn’t like the dead things that moved. The boy, however, insisted upon moving toward that scent, terrified but determined to find his brother. _Jon._

The wolf crept forward cautiously, sniffing his way, and he caught a new scent. _Prey,_ he thought first. _Wounded._ As he turned slightly to trot in the direction of this new scent, it came stronger to him and he realized he knew it. _Man,_ thought the wolf, and the boy within thought, _I know this man._

The wolf came upon the dark shape lying in the snow amid a dense growth of trees. It did not move. He nuzzled it and it felt cold to his nose and tongue. He growled and snapped, but it made no sound. He had to make it move. He grabbed at its arm and tried to drag it, but it was weighted down in the snow, and when he tugged too hard, his teeth broke the fabric of the sleeve and the skin, causing the fresh scent of blood to rise to the wolf’s nose. Not the bad scent of the evil, dead things or even the scent of freshly dead meat. This was live blood, and the wolf’s stomach contracted with hunger.

 _No!_ The boy’s mind screamed and took control of the wolf’s in a way he seldom did. Bran normally enjoyed the feeling of Summer and himself as one, but now he stared through Summer’s eyes at the man lying so still and pale in the snow and wanted only to be Bran Stark and be able to shout the words in his mind. _Father! Wake up! Father, it’s me, Bran! You can’t die! You can’t!_

Desperately, he grabbed at his father’s arm once more with his wolf’s mouth, but succeeded only in tearing it more. _How do I_ _help him? He’s going to freeze if he isn’t dead already._ Bran was close to panic. He forced himself to think. Dead men do not bleed, and his father definitely bled from scratches Summer had made on his arm. Yet, he had to be very near death. He had to be moved from this place.

With a silent forceful command to Summer to guard his father against any harm, Bran intentionally pulled himself away from the wolf, although leaving his father there on the ground was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Seconds later, he was blinking in the dark in the shallow cave he, Meera, and Hodor shared for the night--really more of a hollowed out rock shelf than a true cave, with only partial shelter from wind and cold. For a moment, he considered waking Meera, but decided against it. There was no way he could do what was needed without her realizing it if she were with them, and Hodor could run faster if he didn’t have to carry a broken boy. He only hoped it wasn’t too far to run on two legs. Distances were deceptive when he ran as a wolf.

Bran looked at the big stable boy, asleep sitting up, close beside him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I have to.” Without any further hesitation, he slipped his skin for Hodor’s and felt the man retreat to the little corner of his mind where he hid whenever Bran did this. Bran almost felt ashamed that he had done this often enough that it didn’t take him more than a second to accustom himself to the large body, moving it with enough stealth not to wake Meera. When they’d first started out from the Bloodraven’s cavern, any sound or movement would have awakened her, but after so many days and nights of cold, hungry travel they were all beyond exhausted. Bran looked at her one last time, and then quickly at his own sleeping form before slipping out into the night.

Without Summer’s sharp senses to guide him, he felt blind, and so he cast his mind very quickly toward his wolf to get a sense of his direction. He could feel Summer easily, even while inhabiting Hodor’s form, and he turned his feet toward the wolf who gave a howl audible to Hodor’s ears as an added guide. As quickly as he dared in the dark, Bran began running toward Summer and toward his father.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“I am fine, Sansa,” Catelyn said between gritted teeth. “Find your brother and sister and bring them to my chamber now. I do not want them anywhere else in this castle at the moment. And have them bring their wolves.”

Her daughter’s blue eyes were wide with fright as she stared at the shaft of the arrow still protruding from Catelyn’s arm. Sansa had unfortunately been walking through the courtyard from the Guards’ Hall where she’d been discussing housing arrangements for the expected Riverlanders when Catelyn had galloped through the gate, and she had seen her mother nearly fall into the arms of one of the men. She’d run beside them as two men had nearly carried Catelyn into the Great Keep and up to her chamber in spite of her protestations she could walk perfectly well. Now Sansa simply stared speechlessly at her.

“Sansa,” Catelyn said, forcing her voice to be softer and reaching out with her uninjured arm to grasp her daughter‘s hand. “Truly, sweetling, my arm will be fine. We only wait to remove the arrow until it can be done properly. It is my mind that is unsettled child, with worry for Brienne and my men, and for my children. You can do nothing about Brienne, but you can bring your brother and sister to me. Please.”

Wordlessly, Sansa nodded, squeezing Catelyn’s hand tightly before turning to leave the chamber.

As soon as she had gone, Catelyn turned to the captain who stood at the foot of her bed. “What word from outside the gate?”

The man shook his head. “We only just sent men out, Lady Stark. But they should be back any time. Winter Town is so close to the castle.”

Catelyn nodded grimly. “Too close to the bloody castle for us to be attacked like that.” She looked at the arrow in her left arm. “Take that out, before my children come back here.”

The man looked pale. “Lady Stark, they’ve sent for the healer. You should lie back.”

 _Deryk,_ she thought. _His name is Deryk._ He looked so young, and she had a sudden longing for Rodrik Cassel that hurt her more than her arm did. “A healer. An herb woman with some skill at treating wounds. I’ll let her stitch it up, but any fool can pull the arrow out if you pull straight enough. I’d have it done before my younger children see it. I have no doubt you’d do it for a fellow soldier on a battlefield. You can do the same for your liege lady.” She put all the resolve she could muster into her words, but she was honestly frightened of the arrow coming out. She’d been unconscious and near death when the crossbow bolt had been removed from her back so she had no real concept of what this would feel like. She didn’t want to scream in front of her children.

The man nodded grimly. “With your permission, my lady, I’d have Caleb sit behind you and hold onto you. I will need you still.”

Catelyn nodded, and the second young man in her room moved from his place by the door to sit beside her with a mumbled apology. He didn’t seem able to meet her eyes. Deryk assisted her to rise and then seated her again between the young man’s legs leaning against her back against his chest. “I’m sorry, milady” Caleb mumbled again.

“Don’t be,” she said shortly. “Just hold me tightly, and don’t let me move.”

Reluctantly, the boy, _He truly is just a boy,_ reached around her and held her arms tightly against her sides. The arrow shaft stuck out of her left arm just above his encircling arm. Once he had her firmly gripped, Deryk very carefully ripped the fabric of her dress sleeve away.

“This will hurt, my lady,” Deryk told her then, “But I will be quick about it.”

Catelyn nodded and braced herself as the man gripped her upper arm tightly with his left hand, and placed his right firmly around the arrow’s shaft.

“Now take a deep breath and hold it, my lady.”

Catelyn did as the man bid her, and the next thing she was aware of was an unbearably sharp pain in her left arm. Whether she cried out or not, she honestly didn’t know, but she did not move. She felt a warm wetness on her arm and looked to see a rather gaping hole in her skin from which blood ran freely, soaking the sleeve of the man who held her. The sight made her feel oddly lightheaded, and she felt vaguely relieved when a cloth was pressed tightly up against the wound, at least hiding, if not stopping that red flow.

“Lay her back, Caleb,” she heard a man say. _Deryk_ , she reminded herself. _His name is Deryk._

She blinked hard, forcing herself to focus on anything other than her arm. “Yes,” she said finally, pleased to find her voice at all, even if it did sound rather weak. “I think I should lie back.”

As the men reclined her against pillows on her bed, she put her right hand over her gently swollen belly. She’d felt no pain there for which she was grateful, but neither did she feel any movement, and this babe was rarely still for long. Her thighs still burned from the full speed gallop back to the gate, and she recalled every bounce she had taken. _Kick,_ she thought. _Let me_ _know you are well, little one._ No movement answered her silent plea.

“Is my lady within?” She recognized that loud voice in the corridor well enough, and offered a silent prayer of thanksgiving for Brienne’s safe return. The battle must have gone well after she’d left or Brienne would not be here.

The door opened and the impossibly tall, armored woman entered the room. She was filthy, her clothing and armor stained with blood, but she looked whole enough, and her dark blue eyes were full of concern as she looked upon Catelyn in the bed.

“I am fine, Brienne,” Catelyn said quickly, willing her voice to be firm. “I fear I became woozy at the sight of my own blood, but I’ve taken no lasting hurt. How fared our men?”

“We lost four,” Brienne said succinctly. “One more is likely to succumb to his injuries, but no others took more than minor wounds. I fear we would have lost the battle if not for the arrival of Lord Mallister and his men, my lady.”

“Lord Mallister? Jason Mallister is here?” Catelyn pushed herself up to a sitting position, shrugging off young Caleb’s arm from her shoulder.

“He is just without, my lady,” Brienne replied.

“Well, send him in!” she exclaimed.

Jason Mallister must have literally been just without for he appeared in her doorway nearly as she spoke, clad in his characteristic indigo and silver. “Lord Jason! I am overjoyed to see you here at Winterfell. Your arrival is certainly a timely one,” she greeted him.

He dropped to one knee at the foot of her bed and bowed his head, but she had not missed the obvious concern that had appeared on his face when he first saw her. She still felt a little weak and likely looked quite pale. “My lady,” he said. “It is an honor to serve you and Lord Stark.” He looked up at her then. “Your brother, Lord Edmure, sends his regards. My men and I are at your disposal, my lady.”

“You and your men are our welcome guests, Lord Jason, and we are most happy to accept your service. As you no doubt have surmised, we can make good use of more men. Please, rise and find a seat.”

As Jason Mallister started to rise, he was nearly knocked back over by a large, black shape that barreled past him to bound onto Catelyn’s bed.

“Shaggy!” she cried, as the wolf sniffed around her arm wound, pushing at the cloth bandage with his muzzle. “Shaggy, down!” Her three children and Nymeria followed Shaggydog into her chambers at a slightly slower pace. “Rickon, get Shaggy down,” she said.

“Shaggydog, to me!” the little boy said, and the direwolf reluctantly gave up sniffing at Catelyn and jumped off the bed only to be replaced by Rickon himself a moment later. “Are you all right, Mother? Shaggydog smelled blood. Your blood.”

“I am fine, Rickon,” she assured him. “I was hit by a tiny little arrow, right here. I’ll likely need some stitches, but those don’t hurt much. I got a lot of them in my hands a long time ago, so I’m quite used to them.”

Her little boy snuggled against her, and Arya pushed her way to her mother’s side as well. “Who shot you, Mother?” she asked angrily. “Who dared shoot at the Lady of Winterfell?”

“I fear it was the bastard’s work, sweetling. The men who came after you and Jeyne were only the beginning, it would seem.”

Arya glowered, and Catelyn did not miss the way her hand went to the hilt of the little sword she forever wore at her side.

Sansa had stood back, but now she spoke in her quiet, but authoritative voice. “Mother the healer woman is without. That wound of yours must be seen to even if it was a ‘tiny arrow,’ but I fear not one more person will fit in this room."

Catelyn looked around. Her chambers were spacious, but with her two men at arms, Brienne, Lord Jason, her three children, two direwolves, and herself all in the main room, it did feel alarmingly crowded at the moment.

“Deryk,” she said, looking up her faithful young captain. You and Caleb may go and find something to eat. Get some rest. See that a guard is stationed at my door at all times.”

“Yes, my lady,” the young man said, and he and his fellow soldier took their leave.

“Arya, put the wolves over in the little sitting room, please. If you and Rickon want to watch the healer stitch my arm, you may, but stay back out of the way. Sansa, have her come in, please. Lord Jason, Lady Brienne, please tell me all of what you know about this attack while she works. I need to hear it, and it will keep my mind from the discomfort.”

“Lady Stark,” Mallister started to protest. “Surely, your health is paramount. Lady Brienne and I can return later after you’ve . . .”

“No, Lord Mallister,” Catelyn cut him off. She held up both hands with palms facing him. I am no stranger to wounds or their repair, my lord. I will not faint or scream. I promise you.”

The man nodded, and everyone in the room set about doing what Catelyn had bid them. The actual stitching was uncomfortable, but not unbearable, and certainly not as painful as having the arrow pulled out had been. Catelyn was extremely proud of Sansa who sat right there assisting the woman who did the stitching. As well as Sansa could sew, she would do well to know how to apply those talents to flesh as well as cloth in times such as these. Arya and Rickon did both watch with morbid fascination, but Catelyn caught Arya more often looking at her face searching for any sign of distress, and she was very careful to keep her expression blank as possible.

Brienne and Lord Mallister gave Catelyn a full report on the battle in the woods by the Winter Town, and she gave her blessing to their plan to station even more men in the town now that they had more men in their garrison. Several captives had been taken alive, and Catelyn put Lord Mallister in charge of questioning them. He promised her results, and she asked the forgiveness of the gods for not asking him how he intended to get those results.

When they’d concluded their discussions, she sent Lord Mallister to present himself to Stannis Baratheon, who was likely seething by now if he realized all that had taken place since she’d last had any significant conversation with him. The man little tolerated being left out of things. She gave Lord Jason permission to answer any of Lord Baratheon’s questions honestly, but reminded him that Winterfell did not, as of yet, acknowledge the man as king, but merely as a legitimate contender for the throne. Certainly more legitimate than the Lannister bastard on the Iron Throne or the collection of men under Mace Tyrell who seemed to be attempting to rule as the Lannisters’ power base crumbled around them. She would press Lord Jason for more information from the south later.

As he was leaving, she did think of one question she wanted answered right away. “Have you seen my brother and his wife, my lord?” she asked.

“Yes, my lady,” he said. “We rode out from Riverrun to come here. Both Lord and Lady Tully are well.”

“And their son, Lord Mallister? Did you see my nephew?”

Now, Lord Jason smiled broadly. “I certainly did, my lady. He’s a Tully, young Hoster is. Scarcely a hair on his head yet, but the few he has are the color of yours. He’s got the blue eyes as well. Healthy, little lad, growing well.”

She smiled, her heart warmed by the thought of a healthy Tully baby at Roslin’s breast. She hoped the girl had found happiness in her husband and child at Riverrun. Still, even as she rejoiced in the thought of her brother’s little family, she put a hand to her own belly, pushing gently and waiting for a push back that did not come.

“Are we sleeping here, Mother?” Rickon asked.

“It’s a long time til bedtime, Rickon, she answered, but you are all staying here for the time being. We shall see how things stand in the castle and town tonight, and then, perhaps, I’ll let you out of my sight.”

She leaned back onto her pillows feeling very tired, but still upset about the lack of movement in her womb. She wished that Jon Snow’s maester had arrived. She supposed the healer woman might have some knowledge on the subject, but she wouldn’t ask such worrisome questions in front of her other children.

“You need to sleep, Mother,” Sansa told her. “I promise we won’t go anywhere until you wake. Sleep, please.”

Catelyn smiled at her oldest daughter, her oldest child now, she thought with the usual sharp pain at the thought of Robb’s loss. “I am tired,” she said. Mayhaps, the babe is tired as well. _Mayhaps, he sleeps, and once I have slept we shall both feel_ _better._ She tried to comfort herself with that thought, and fell into an uneasy sleep with her hand on her stubbornly still belly.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Father!” Jon woke with a scream on his lips.

“Shh. Quiet, son. I don’t know if they’re all gone or not.”

Jon realized he was shaking and that he couldn’t see. Was he blind? He couldn’t feel his arms and legs. The voice, though, he knew the voice. “Lord Reed?” he asked in a whisper.

“That’s right, Jon. You know me.” The man’s voice sounded like it was right beside him, but Jon couldn’t see him.

“I can’t see,” he said, able to hear the rising panic in his voice.

“You can see,” the man assured him, “But your eyes are covered. Your face and everything about you is covered, Jon, and I’ve got you right here.”

“Wh . . .why?” Jon realized his teeth were chattering fiercely.

“Hypothermia, Jon. You were near dead when I found you. It was Others, wasn’t it?”

Jon remembered now. Those things. He was fighting them. One almost got him, but then his father killed it. He’d tried to get to Father, but then another one . . . “Father,” he said suddenly. “It took him.”

“An Other killed your father?”

Jon shook his head. At least he thought he shook his head. Movement felt funny. “No . . .it took him. It moved so fast and there was another. I couldn’t follow, and then . . .Ghost! Where’s Ghost?”

“He’s here,” Lord Reed’s voice said. “Ghost seems well enough, although he’s perfectly silent. He hasn’t howled at all, even when I heard another wolf earlier. It’s like he knows.”

“Knows what?” Jon asked, his teeth now clacking together painfully.

“We have to be silent, Jon,” Reed answered. “I’d like a fire, both to warm you up and to use if the wights come back, but the wights aren’t the greatest danger, I’m afraid. If Ned killed one of those things and was taken by another, how many did you kill?”

“Two, and Ghost drove one off, when I fell after the one stabbed me.” That memory startled him. “I was stabbed!” he said.

“I know,” Reed said quietly. “It wasn’t a deep wound. It barely bled. It’s the cold from that blade that’s nearly killed you.” Jon realized why the man’s voice sounded so close. The two of them were lying together, as close as he had once lain with Ygritte, and the realization startled him. He could feel Reed’s arms around him, although there were layers between them, he thought. He also thought he could feel his own arms now. At least the shaking sensation extended beyond his trunk.

“There were at least four of those cold creatures gathered around you when I found you, Jon. If you, Ghost, and your father killed or sent off another five . . .”

“Gods be good,” Jon breathed. “How did you get rid of the last four?”

“I didn’t,” the man said. “They left, but I don’t know why or where they’ve gone. I dragged you here and wrapped you up. I’ve only my own heat and the furs and the snow to keep you warm. I dare not light a fire. I did find a spot out of the wind. I didn’t find Ned.”

Jon’s heart cracked inside him. “Go,” he said. “Go and look for him.”

Reed shook his head. “I cannot leave you. He would never forgive me. I feared you were lost as well until you finally began to shiver. That’s when I knew your body was fighting back against the cold.”

“You can’t leave him out there,” Jon protested.

“Jon,” Lord Reed said softly. “He is likely already dead. You know now what the man has given for you, even if he did not give you life. I owe it to my liege lord, to my friend, to care for the son of his heart.”

Jon wanted to cry, but no tears would come. He simply lay there, shaking violently against Howland Reed. He wondered if it were possible that his tears truly did freeze before they could fall. He was a Stark after all, both through the blood of his mother and through the love of the only father he had ever known or wanted.

Jon became gradually aware of a heavy warmth against him on the side opposite Howland Reed and realized that when Reed had said Ghost was there, he meant right there, giving his warmth to Jon as well. Unable to cry and unable to sleep, swaddled from head to toe and cradled between a man and a direwolf, Jon gradually felt his shaking ease and sensation return painfully to his extremities. He was going to live, he realized. Because of Howland Reed and Ghost, he would live to see the morning. He only prayed that against all odds, somewhere, somehow his father had found warmth enough to see him to morning as well.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Rickon Stark was hungry. His mother had slept most of the day, and he knew he had to abide by the promise not to leave her chambers, but he didn’t like it. Sansa had sent a man to bring them some food just past midday, but it wasn’t like going to the Great Hall where there was so much more to eat.

He was bored, too. He wanted Dak to come up and play with him. He was tired of just his sisters. Sansa sat sewing, and even Arya sat mostly still, just running her fingers through Nymeria’s fur and staring at something that wasn’t there. Whatever it was, she looked mad at it. He’d tried to play with Shaggydog, but when he got Shaggy to jump over Mother’s chair, Sansa had fussed at him and told him they made too much noise. He told the man by the door to go get Dak, but the man just told him no. The soldiers only listened to Sansa and that made Rickon mad. He was the Lord of Winterfell while Father was gone. Not Sansa. Sansa was a girl. She thought sewing was fun.

Shaggydog whined loudly.

“Rickon, stop that,” Sansa said without looking up from her sewing.

“I didn’t do anything,” he whined.

She did look at him then. “Shaggydog is only whining because you want to. Please, Rickon, try to be patient just a little while longer.”

Arya stood up then and went to the window. “The courtyard is full of men on horses again,” she said. “And it looks like another group is going out the gates. I hate being cooped up in here. I want to know what’s going on.” Nymeria snarled quietly beside her.

“Gods be good, Arya, you’re as bad as Rickon,” Sansa said.

“Gods be good, Sansa,” said Arya in a surprisingly good imitation of Sansa’s voice. “You think you’re Mother, but you’re not.”

Rickon laughed at that, and Arya almost smiled at him. At least, she stopped scowling for a minute. “Mother would let Dak come here,” Rickon insisted.

Sansa sighed. “You’re probably right about that, Rickon. But it’s almost sunset now, and I’m going to wake her then anyway. She needs to eat. So, can’t you wait just a little longer?”

He didn’t want to wait, but this was Sansa, who’d made him his black wolf cloak and sung him his song, even if it was wrong a little, all those nights Mother was gone again. She was boring sometimes, but then Arya was mean sometimes. He decided he didn’t want to gang up on Sansa. “Okay,” he said.

Arya looked at him like he was a traitor, and Rickon shrugged. He looked at his older sister again. “Your hair’s almost all red again,” he said. “It’s not as shiny as Mother’s, but it’s not brown. I like it better red.”

She smiled at him. “So do I. The gods know I wash it enough. I want all the brown gone, Rickon, but I fear it won’t be quite like Mother’s again until all the hair that used to be brown has grown out and been cut off. That will take a long time.”

“Not if you get your hair cut like Arya’s!” Rickon said with a giggle. He’d finally had his own hair cut not long ago, allowing his mother to cut off a lot of the tangled curls, but his was still a lot longer than Arya’s.

Both his sisters laughed a little at that, and then his mother stirred in her bed. She said something, but he couldn’t understand her, and she didn’t open her eyes. “Mother!” he exclaimed excitedly, bouncing toward her. “Can Dak come in here?”

“Rickon, she’s still asleep!” Sansa admonished him in a bossy kind of whisper.

“She talked,” he protested. “I heard her.”

Sansa smiled again. “She’s dreaming.”

“Dreaming?” He looked at his mother, lying in the bed and couldn’t understand that. “But she doesn’t have a wolf. Where does she go when she dreams, Sansa?”

Sansa looked sad. “Nowhere, Rickon. Everyone dreams, but not everyone has wolf dreams. Ordinary dreams don’t take you anywhere.”

Rickon wrinked up his nose and mouth and thought about that. “Maybe they take you somewhere you don’t know. Maybe Mother has a wolf she doesn’t know about. Or even some other animal. Osha says wargs don’t have to share with wolves. Some do lots of animals. I think maybe Bran could do more than wolves.”

“Really?” Arya perked up at that. “What do you remember Bran doing?”

“Nothing, really,” he said quickly. “I just thought it, that’s all.” He hated when they asked him to remember things, because even the things he could remember, he couldn’t explain. Sometimes his memories didn’t even have words, and he didn’t know if that was because Shaggy remembered, or if it was because he was a baby then and didn’t know words yet. And he didn’t like explaining it.

He looked at his mother. She did still seem to be asleep. She wasn’t moving or talking anymore. “I hope she’s not scared now,” he said.

“Of course, she’s not scared. She’s asleep,” Arya said.

He looked at Arya. She knew better than that. She did have a wolf. “Lots of scary stuff can happen when you sleep,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her. “But she was really scared before she went to sleep.”

“Scared for us, maybe,” Arya said. “That’s why she locked us up. But she’s not scared for herself. She’s always brave, Rickon.”

“She was really scared about something. I could smell . . .” He stopped himself. “Shaggydog could smell it.”

“You said he smelled her blood,” Sansa said with a tiny shudder. “She had been shot by an arrow, Rickon.”

“No, not that,” Rickon insisted. “He smelled her scared. That’s different.” Helplessly, he looked at Arya.

Arya shrugged and looked toward Sansa. “Wolves can smell fear,” she said. “It’s very useful when hunting.”

Sansa looked worried now. “Did Nymeria . . .” she started, but Arya shook her head right away.

“Nymeria wasn’t really paying attention. She was too busy being annoyed at being cooped up in here. And don’t say it!” she said before Sansa could even smile. “I know I don’t want to be here, either, but Nymeria’s worse than I am about being inside. You know that.”

Sansa nodded. “So you don’t think Shaggydog actually . . .”

Before Rickon could protest, Arya said, “I didn’t say that. Shaggy spends a lot of time focused on Mother. I mean a lot.” Then she mouthed a word to Sansa that looked a lot like ‘baby’ and Rickon punched her. “Ow,” she said, pushing him away. “It’s possible he might notice something no one else would.”

Rickon decided not to punch her again since she was basically backing him up in spite of calling him a baby. Sansa was looking thoughtfully at their sleeping mother. “Well, she has lots of things to be scared about, I suppose.”

Rickon shook his head. “This was a new thing. I know it was.”

Sansa stared at him the way she did sometimes, but Rickon just looked back at her. He didn’t know what else he could say about it. He just knew it. He was spared the discomfort of being stared at any longer when Mother moved again. This time, her eyelids fluttered open, and he jumped onto the bed which caused her to cry out softly and cradle the bandage on her arm with her right hand.

“Rickon!” Sansa and Arya yelled together.

“It’s all right, little wolf pup,” Mother said softly, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. “Just mind my arm . . . and my belly.” There had been a smiley sound to her voice until she said her belly, and Rickon frowned at the lump there that was to someday be a new sister or brother, wondering what it had done to upset Mother.

“What time is it, Sansa? How long have I slept?”

Mother almost always asked questions to Sansa. Even when he knew the answers, too. “Forever!” he said promptly. “You’ve been asleep forever and ever. Can Dak come in here?”

She put an arm around him and pulled her close to him. Sometimes he acted like he didn’t like that, but mostly he did like it. “Actually, Rickon, if it’s been quiet in the castle all day, I thought I’d have the guard take you all outside for a bit. If the weather isn’t too bitterly cold, I’d like you outside for a little before sundown. And judging by the light from that window, that isn’t too long away.” Turning toward his sister again, she asked, “Why did you let me sleep so long, Sansa?”

“The healer said to,” Sansa replied without hesitation. “If you stayed asleep, I wasn’t to wake you til evening meal. Are you all right, Mother?”

“All right? My arm, you mean? It throbs a bit, but it isn’t too bad.” She tickled Rickon beneath his ribs then, and he squirmed away from her giggling, jumping off her bed to the floor. “When wild wolf pups aren’t jumping on it, that is,” she said with a smile.

Sansa still looked at her carefully. “Arya and Rickon can go outside with their wolves. I’d rather stay here with you.”

His mother shook her head. “I’d like you all to go out for a bit, Sansa, and have the healer come to me.”

“What aren’t you telling us?” Sansa demanded.

His mother looked quite taken aback at that outburst, and Rickon was rather shocked as well. Sansa never spoke to Mother like that. “What do you mean?” Mother asked.

Sansa looked like she was going to cry. “You want us all to leave, and you want the healing woman, and Rickon’s wolf knows you were really scared about something, and . . .there can’t be anything wrong with you, Mother. There just can’t be!” Sansa’s voice had gotten very loud and high pitched, but now it got very quiet. “Please tell me you’re okay. I can’t lose you, Mother.”

Tears were really coming out of his older sister’s eyes now. He and Arya just stared at her, but Mother sat up and reached for her. “Oh, sweetling, I am fine! Nothing will happen to me. Come here.” Sansa sat on the bed with her head buried on Mother’s shoulder, and Mother just held her and patted her back. Rickon had never seen Sansa act like that, and it scared him.

“I’m so sorry, sweetling,” Mother was saying. “I forget that in many ways you are still a babe yourself. You are such a lady, Sansa, and I depend on you so much. But I am not going anywhere, my darling girl. I’ll be right here to take care of you. I promise.”

Sansa sniffled a few more times, but seemed a little better, and Mother looked up at him and Arya. “Come here, children. All of you.” He and Arya climbed back up onto the bed with Mother and Sansa, and Rickon knew he remembered being in her bed with his sisters and brothers from the before time.

“I am quite well. There is nothing wrong with me. I admit I’m frightened of many things. These are frightening times. I worry for your father so far in the north. I worry for your brother Bran. I worry about your safety here. I worry about things like having enough food through a long winter. But I am supposed to worry about these things, children. It doesn’t mean that . . .”

Rickon started shaking his head so vigorously that his curls flew into his face.

“What is it, Rickon?” his mother sighed.

“That’s not it,” he said in a sing-song voice.

“What’s not it?”

“You’re always scared about that stuff. That’s not what Shaggy smelled.”

“Shaggy . . .smelled . . .” she said hesitantly.

“Yep. He smelled a new scared. You were really, really scared, but I don’t know why, only it was different and . . .” He looked at his mother’s face. She looked scared right now, sitting there in the middle of all of them with her hands on her belly. Quickly, he let his mind wander just a little to Shaggy, calling him silently to the side of the bed. He reached his muzzle up to Mother and . . “There it is!” he yelled. “That’s the scared!”

Mother looked alarmed, and then Sansa cried out, “The baby!” She was staring at Mother’s hands folded over her swollen middle. “Mother, do you think something’s wrong with the baby?”

Now, tears filled his mother’s eyes. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Since, the battle, and my ride back here . . .I haven’t felt it move. Normally, it moves so frequently now.”

Rickon knew all about the moving in the lump. Mother let him put his hand there and feel it. She said his baby brother or sister was kicking him. He let his mind wander with Shaggy’s again as the big black wolf put his head near Mother’s lumpy belly. “It’s just the same as it always is,” he said after a minute.

Mother looked at him. “Rickon,” she said, “Are you telling me your wolf can smell the baby?”

He shook his head. “If the baby has a smell, it gets covered up with yours. It’s still making its noise, though. Shaggy can hear its noise. He hears lots of things we can’t.”

“What noise?” Arya asked, and Rickon saw Nymeria stand up and walk to the bedside, her ears pointed forward.

“Like this one,” Rickon said, putting his hand over his chest. “You know. You can hear it if you put your ear on somebody’s chest.”

“Mother’s heartbeat?” Sansa asked.

“No, not Mother’s,” Rickon said. “Her noise is loudest up there.” He pointed to Mother’s chest. “The baby’s is in the lumpy part, and it’s a lot faster.”

Arya had closed her eyes. Now she opened them with a look of wonder on her face. “He’s right,” she said, looking at Mother. “The baby has a heartbeat. A very, very fast heartbeat. Nymeria can hear yours and the baby‘s.”

Mother smiled now, and then closed her eyes and moved her lips silently. She bent over and kissed both wolves right on their heads.

“Well, I can’t lay abed forever,” she said. “If you children will walk with me, and we go slowly, I believe I would like to go down to the Hall and see what food we can find. What do you say to that?”

“Yes!” Rickon shouted, and he jumped off Mother’s bed again as quick as a baby lump heart beat.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Cold. He was cold. Perhaps he had become the cold itself. He wasn’t sure he remembered anything else. He didn’t know where he was or how long he’d been there. His thoughts faded, and he knew nothing.

Awake. He needed to stay awake. He thought he hadn’t been for awhile, but he was awake now. Mayhaps. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t see anything, feel anything, or remember anything. Not even cold. Mayhaps, he was dead. Yet, his thoughts continued. Were these the thoughts of a living man? Were they dreams? Was there a difference? Why couldn’t he remember? He should stay awake. Unless he was already asleep. Or dead.

Pain. _Stop it!_ He shouted it. Or did he? He couldn’t hear his voice. A rough jerk to his arm, a sharp pain in that arm. He hadn’t felt the arm before that. He hadn’t felt it since . . .he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t move the arm, or even feel it before. Or after. He almost wanted the pain back. Just to feel something again. Then the pain did return to his arm, and he screamed. Or he didn’t. It was too much. Pain or nothing. No other choices. Then there was nothing, and the nothing stretched until it was all he knew once more.

Warmth. Or not warmth exactly, but at least something not cold. Something heavy and not cold on top of him. He remembered warmth now. Warmth was red. The red glow of a fire. The red curtain of a woman’s hair. He was not warm, but the heavy, not cold presence above him caused him to remember it, and he craved it. He remembered what it was to want something. He wanted warmth.

Cry. Long and mournful, he could hear the cries from above him. They rumbled once every great while from the throat of the heavy, warm beast which lay atop him. It was a beast. He knew that now. And it called to someone. It cried for someone. He knew the sound of the cry, but could not name it. He felt at once more aware than he had been, but more muddled and confused. The beast cried again. Howl. The word slipped into his mind like something new, unknown before, and it sparked a memory. The cry, the howl, reminded him of his children. He had children. He had the warm woman with the red hair. He remembered. He wanted.

“Unnhh.” He heard the sound, half an exhalation of breath and half a moan, and realized it came from his own lips. Something, no someone, was shaking him, and it hurt. He wanted it to stop. He tried to say so, but only made the moaning sound again, louder. The shaking did stop then, and he felt large arms reach around to embrace him. Where was the warm beast from before? Had he dreamed it?

The man who held him, it had to be a man for he was much larger than himself, was making noises as well. He was crying. Odd, low pitched, painful sounding sobs as he held him tightly in those large arms. Who was this man? He needed to see. He tried to remember how to open his eyes, and slowly, slowly lifted the eyelids which had been closed for all the time he knew. Very dim light hit his eyes, but it hurt as much as a lantern held directly in his face. He blinked several times and slowly a large, round bearded face came into focus before him.

 _I know him._ As he looked at the face of the man who held him, he realized he knew his own name as well. _I am Eddard Stark of_ _Winterfell. And this is Hodor._ He had a vague recollection that he’d been searching for Hodor for some reason. He’d been searching for something very important, and he almost could name it, but not quite. Something to do with Hodor, though.

He felt himself being lifted up then and realized the big man was saying something. _Hodor,_ he thought. That’s all he ever said. He wondered if he were dreaming. The more he became convinced that the simple minded stable boy from Winterfell was actually throwing him over his shoulder, the more he also became convinced this must be a dream. Why would Hodor even be in this place of cold and nothing?

 _Bran,_ he thought suddenly. Hodor was with Bran. He was searching for Bran. _Bran is my son._ Could Hodor be taking him to Bran? Was he actually alive and awake and experiencing this? He almost let his mind believe in the possibility until his ears clearly made out what the other man was saying. He knew then that this must be a dream. Hodor could only say “Hodor.” In this dream, the word he kept repeating was “Father.”

“Father, wake up. Father, Father! Please wake up!” Ned didn’t know how much time had passed since the strange Hodor dream, but he knew he was lying down now. Someone was shaking him again, but these were smaller hands, and the voice calling to him was a boy’s.

“Careful, Bran. He’s frostbitten there. Some of that skin is going to slough off.” A girl’s voice, he thought. Then his eyes flew open wide as he realized the girl had said _Bran._

Staring down into his own face, Ned Stark saw the familiar blue eyes, just slightly darker than his mother’s of his son, Bran. His face was older and much thinner, and his skin was too pale, but it was Bran. He was here. He was alive.

“Bran,” he croaked, and instantly tears started falling from those blue eyes.

“Oh, Father,” the boy cried, throwing himself down on top of him. “I was so afraid you would die.”

Ned tried to remember how he’d come to be here. “Hodor . . .” he said hesitantly.

“He’s here,” Bran said. “He’s all right, but he’s sleeping now. He’s exhausted.”

“Did . . .did Hodor bring me here?” Ned asked, trying to recall the particulars of his dream.

“I suppose you could say that,” the girl’s voice said. She sounded almost angry. “I suppose you could also say he didn’t.”

That made no sense. He turned his head which was painful to do until he saw the speaker, a slim brown-haired girl with her father’s green eyes. “You’re Howland Reed’s daughter,” he said.

“I am,” she told him. “I’m Meera. Do you have any word of my father?”

He thought hard. Howland had been with him. Howland and Jon. “We were looking for you.” It was hard to talk. The girl seemed to sense the difficulty and put some water to his lips. Ned noted it was warm. He sipped only a little, but it felt good going down. “Jon and your father and me,” he got out.

“We knew Jon was near. Summer felt Ghost. And then we heard him,” Bran put in.

Ned nodded, still trying to remember what had happened. “We were following Ghost. We camped by a frozen creek and then . . .” _Oh gods!_ Memories flooded his mind, and he didn’t want them. Battling the wights with Howland. Stabbing the Other before it could kill Jon. Feeling himself dragged away by that cold, inhuman thing. His breathing came faster as he remembered it all.

“Where is my father now, Lord Stark?”

Ned looked at the girl. “I do not know,” he said softly. “We were attacked. Wights and Others. I was dragged away and I . . .I think I killed that one. Howland and Jon were still alive when last I saw them. Still fighting.”

She nodded and said nothing.

“Summer can find them, Meera,” Bran said. “He found Father.”

“Your wolf?” Ned asked. “Your wolf found me? Were you with him? I mean, in him, or however it is you do what you do?”

Bran’s eyes went wide, and Ned realized that his son had no way of knowing how much his father had learned about wargs. “Your brothers do it, too, Bran. And your sister. It’s all right, son.”

“They are at Winterfell, then,” Bran said, more tears coming to his eyes. “And Mother.”

“Yes, Bran. They are all there. All . . .save Robb. I am afraid he is . . .”

“Dead. I know. But Jon was with you?”

Ned nodded again, his throat once more too dry for words. He motioned for the warm water, wondering where it had been warmed since he saw no fire. This time he lifted his hands to hold the cup himself and saw they were completely wrapped in cloths, each finger swaddled individually. “Frostbite?” he asked.

Meera answered. “Yes, my lord. Both hands and feet. And some on one arm and around your ankles as well. You will lose some skin, I fear, and it will scar. I don’t think you will lose any fingers, though.”

He nodded. “It would appear you have cared for me well. It is daylight?”

“Yes, Father,” Bran said.

“You should search for Jon and Howland now, then. By nightfall . . .”

“We know,” Meera said. “It’s not safe to travel at night,” she said pointedly to Bran.

Ned looked around him. “Is this a cave?”

“Not much of one,” Bran said. We’ve had better, but it’s the best shelter around here. And there’s another little rock shelf just outside where Meera built one of her little smokeless fires. We don’t normally risk them, but we had to get you warm."

“Smokeless fire?” Ned asked, and then remembered the journey from the Twins to Riverrun, and Lord Reed’s men’s almost invisible cooking fires. “You can find the moss here?”

She smiled slightly at his recognition of her technique. “No, my lord. But there was something very similar growing in parts of the Bloodraven’s cavern so I brought it with us.”

“Bloodraven?” he asked, but then immediately made a negative motion with his hands. “We can speak of things later. The two of you must search for your father and Jon while it is relatively safe outside.”

Bran looked down sadly, and Ned realized what he had forgotten. His son was a cripple. He had never seen a conscious Bran without the use of his legs. The last time he’d seen him awake, he’d been dashing across the courtyard at Winterfell. A large lump formed in his throat. “It is all right, Bran. Hodor can go with Meera.”

“No,” Meera said firmly. “Hodor must sleep. Summer can come. That way, Bran can see, too, if he likes. And help.”

Ned turned his head still further and saw the familiar stable boy, who long ago had grown past the age of boyhood, sound asleep almost directly behind him. “Very well, but if one of them is too injured to walk . . .”

“Then Hodor can come and carry them,” Bran said quickly. “Hodor can, Meera,” he added, putting an odd emphasis on the first word. “If you’re there, you can tell him what to do.”

Meera looked at Bran a long time before bundling a scarf and hood around her head, putting on an extra cloak, and grabbing a three pronged spear. “I’ll be back before nightfall, whatever I find,” she said before leaving.

“Where is your wolf, Bran?”

Bran stared off into space for a few moments before replying. “What? Oh, Summer was outside. He knows to go with Meera.”

Suddenly it occurred to Ned who else was missing, and his heart fell as he recalled Howland speaking of his dreams. “Where is Meera’s brother? Was he not with you?”

Bran nodded sadly. “Jojen died,” he said simply. “In the Bloodraven’s cave.”

Something about the way he said it made Ned feel he didn’t wish to speak any more of it. “I am sorry, Bran,” is all he said.

Bran nodded sadly. “Will we go home to Winterfell, Father?” he asked softly.

Ned thought about all the trouble in the North, about all the good men in harm’s way. He had many things he needed to do, but as he looked at his much too thin son with his wasted legs and haunted eyes, he knew that no other task was as important as getting this child back to Winterfell, back to his mother and his brother and sisters. “Yes, Bran,” he said. “When we have found Jon and Lord Reed, and everyone is strong enough to travel, we will go home to Winterfell.”

“Do you think we can get there?” his son asked even more quietly.

“It will not be easy, Bran. I will not lie to you. There are many frightening creatures about in this evil winter, but fear will not defeat us, son. We will keep going until we pass through Winterfell’s gates.”

Bran smiled. “I’ve been very frightened, Father. But I remembered.”

“You remembered what, son?”

“I remembered that that’s the only time a man can be truly brave.”

Ned almost cried out at that, seeing in his mind‘s eye a serious faced little boy asking a most adult question after a long ago execution. Instead, he swallowed hard and reached his arms out to his precious child, pulling him tightly against him. There was so much more to say. So much he had to ask Bran and to tell him. He hadn’t even asked if Bran knew how long he’d lain there in the snow. But he was weak and exhausted, and his thawing limbs caused him pain. So he simply lay there silently, holding his son against him and thanking the gods that his last missing child had been found. The joy that brought him outweighed all his discomforts, and finally, holding his boy closely to his heart, Ned Stark fell into a dreamless sleep.


	49. Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is long----even for me.

Catelyn Stark’s hands shook as she laid the letter back down onto the table. She stared ahead of her, unable to speak, unable to fully accept the words she had just read. “Oh gods,” she whispered. “No.”

“My lady?” Brienne’s voice was alarmed, and Catelyn turned slowly toward her to see that her dark blue eyes were wide with fear. Only then did she realize that tears fell freely from her own eyes. “It isn’t . . .it isn’t news of Lord Stark, is it?” Brienne asked almost breathlessly.

“No,” Catelyn whispered, shaking her head slowly. “It’s from Last Hearth. The White Walkers attacked north of there. Lady Mormont . . .” her voice broke, and she could not continue.

Brienne came to her side and put out her hand, hesitant as ever to actually touch her, but Catelyn grasped the offered hand and held it tightly. “Maege is gone, Brienne,” she said softly.

“I am sorry, my lady,” Brienne said solemnly. “I did not know Lady Mormont well, but I know she was a woman of great courage, and that she was devoted to you and Lord Stark.”

Catelyn nodded. “I fear I didn’t know her well myself, despite all my years as the Lady of Winterfell, until I rode with Robb’s army. After word came to us of Ned’s execution, she was . . .kind to me in the way that only someone who truly understands and cares can be. And after we heard my boys were killed . . .after I sent you away with the Kingslayer . . .she and her daughters were in some ways my only comfort.” She smiled at Brienne through her tears. “We are very different women, Maege and I, and yet . . .not so different as I once would have thought. I shall miss her.”

She took a deep breath and pulled her hand from Brienne’s grasp. “I must write to Alysane on Bear Island,” she said. “Whether or not she has heard of her mother’s death, I would like to write of Maege to her daughter, myself.” Catelyn reached for a sheet of parchment, thinking for a moment of Maege’s other daughter, Dacey, and the grief she and Lady Mormont had shared, both losing their firstborn child at that massacre at the Twins.

“Last Hearth is secure then, my lady?” Brienne asked.

“What? Oh, yes,” Catelyn replied, pulled back to the present by Brienne’s question. “It would seem that a line of sorts has been set up, from Castle Black to the east coast. The line has been attacked, but not breached, at least not when this letter was sent.”

“So we can turn back these creatures then? We can defend ourselves against them?” Brienne sounded hopeful.

Catelyn slowly shook her head again. “I do not know, Brienne. There is something about this that doesn’t make sense. . . . Lord Umber sounds less confident that I would expect if our forces were simply repelling the Others and wights and breaking their charge. I can’t truly put a finger on it, but the man is almost never without bluster and bravado, and I read none in this letter.” She sighed again. “ I simply do not know.”

Suddenly, it was all too much, and Catelyn put her head into her hands. “I don’t know anything,” she said angrily. “I do not know where my husband is or how he fares. I do not know why these Others have crossed the Wall now after thousands of years. I do not know if my son Bran even lives. I do not know where Ramsay Snow has hidden himself or when he might attack us next. I don’t know anything!” She slammed her hands down on the table in front of her as she said the last, knocking the blank piece of parchment she’d put there to the floor. Unable to sit still any longer, she stood and went to the window, staring out, but not actually looking at anything.

She was aware that Brienne had stooped to pick up the fallen parchment and replace it on the table before coming to stand beside her. “There is much we do not know, my lady,” she agreed quietly. “But I do know that Lord Stark could not have left Winterfell in better hands than yours. You are doing everything you can, Lady Stark.”

Catelyn turned to face her. “I fear it is not enough.”

“It will be,” Brienne said firmly. “I know it, my lady.”

Catelyn smiled at her and squared her shoulders. “I suppose it has to be.” Rubbing her lower back, she walked back toward her seat at the table. Her ever growing child caused her back to ache fiercely now, and she felt as if she waddled rather than walked. As she eased herself back down into Ned’s chair, she was grateful that at least the pain in her left arm had finally subsided to the point that she could move it almost however she pleased without much discomfort.

It had been almost a full moon’s turn since the attack outside the Winter Town, and during that time there had been not one glimpse of Ramsay Snow. The men captured in the attack had given up the location of their camp readily enough under Lord Mallister’s questioning, but when Catelyn’s men had gone there, it had been abandoned, and no amount of searching had turned up any evidence of the bastard or his men.

On the positive side, there had been no further attacks. The people in Winter Town had been shocked and dismayed by the attack on Catelyn. As dissatisfied and mistrustful as many of them were at present, she was still the Lady of Winterfell, and these people had knelt to the Starks of Winterfell for long generations. An attack on her was an affront to them, and in an odd way relations between the castle and town had eased in spite of the ever more stringent security in Winterfell and the town.

The gates of the castle were open only at specific hours, and no one passed through unchallenged or unidentified. With the addition of Lord Mallister’s men, Catelyn had ordered even more soldiers quartered in the town, but had demanded strict discipline against any ill treatment of the townspeople and encouraged the commanders to have their men assist the smallfolk in their daily labors in order to be seen as helpful rather than antagonistic.

She wasn’t a fool, and she knew quite well there were still some in the town who were likely in Ramsay Snow’s employ, but she had forbidden any sweeping searches or mass questioning of the people there. She feared it was far worse to terrorize and make enemies of the majority who were certainly innocent than to allow a small number of spies and villains to go undetected for the present. She simply admonished her men to gain people’s trust and keep careful watch, and surely the truth would be discovered eventually. She didn’t know if she were right in this, but she couldn’t bring herself to act otherwise.

This period of relative calm had encouraged some of the townspeople who had more or less been staying in the castle to return to their homes in Winter Town. Even Kella had come to Catelyn, thanking her for her hospitality, but saying that her husband felt it was time to return to the town and their extended family and friends. The woman and her husband had taken their son, Ben, and gone back to their little house in the town nearly a week ago.

Realizing that she’d been silently brooding for some time, Catelyn looked up at Brienne, who had come once more to stand beside the table. “Forgive me, Brienne,” she said. “I fear I get easily lost in my thoughts these days. But you had come to tell me something, had you not? Before I read Lord Umber’s letter?”

“Yes, my lady.” Patient as always, Brienne had simply waited to be acknowledged again. “We shall likely be called upon to open a gate shortly. There is a fairly large group of riders approaching, riding under the banners of House Manderly.”

“They are expected,” she replied. “Lord Wyman sent word that he had another supply caravan on the way. The man from the citadel, the not-quite maester that Jon Snow has sent to us, is also with them.”

Brienne frowned slightly. “Yes, my lady, but we should still ride out in force and meet them. I would not open the gates to welcome them in until we have made certain of their identities and purpose. Any man can raise any banner if he is deceitful enough.”

“Indeed,” Catelyn responded. “Do whatever you feel necessary, Brienne.” She had almost said ‘child.’ Brienne was young, and for all that she was sworn to fight and die for her and her children, Catelyn found herself often feeling as protective toward the maiden from Tarth as she did her own children. Yet, she could hardly call the captain of her guard a child. It was disrespectful, and the gods knew Brienne had earned far more than her respect. She smiled at the younger woman and said, “Surely, when they hear all that has occurred, Lord Manderly’s men will forgive us any discourtesy.”

Several hours later, Catelyn again sat at the table in Ned’s solar, her fingers moving over the new rolls of parchment arrived with Lord Manderly’s men. She had greeted the leaders of his party here. Brienne and her men-at-arms preferred that she not meet visitors to the castle in the open courtyard given the present threats. Catelyn didn’t like it, but she deferred to their judgment in this. Ned would never have hidden himself away in the keep while guests arrived, she thought. But then, Ned did not carry their child within him, and the thought that that arrow could have easily struck somewhere other than her arm or that she could have fallen from her horse during her flight led her to to caution. She was thankful that Ned didn’t know of the attack, for while he would never hide himself away, he would likely have ordered her confined to her chambers for her own safety if he’d heard she’d been shot.

She had contented herself with meeting the four men who led Lord Manderly’s party here, exchanging courtesies and news, accepting letters and inventories, and encouraging them to make themselves welcome by finding food in the Hall or resting in the rooms they’d been given until the the evening when she and her children would host them at dinner. The men had thanked her graciously and left the solar leaving her alone save the one man she’d asked to remain.

She looked up from Lord Manderly’s lengthy letter and regarded him now as he sat across the table from her looking for all the world as if he feared she might strike him. He was an extremely fat young man whose pale eyes kept looking down from her gaze as she regarded him.

“We are pleased to have you here, Maester Samwell,” she said to him with a smile. “But I fear Winterfell must seem cold and bleak after Oldtown.”

“I have been at the Wall, so the cold isn’t a much of a shock, but I . . .I am not a maester, my lady,” he stammered. “I’ve earned some of my links, it’s true, but not enough to make a maester’s chain. Not yet. I’ve only come to you because Jo . . .because the Lord Commander asked for me specifically.” He’d managed to look at her while speaking all that, but he dropped his eyes again as he said, “I don’t know why.”

“I do,” she said quickly, and his eyes came up to meet hers again. “Jon Snow trusts you, Samwell Tarly, and he doesn’t trust many people.” _Gods know he doesn’t trust me, but then he has been given very little reason._ “Winterfell lost its maester, our good Maester Luwin, when he was murdered by Ramsay Snow and his men as they sacked and burned this castle. He was a wonderful man, wise and caring, and ever loyal to the Starks of Winterfell. He cannot be replaced.”

She paused and the large young man in front of her looked down again, appearing despondent. “He cannot be replaced,” she repeated, “And yet Winterfell must have a new maester, someone to handle our correspondence, tend to our sick, and give counsel to my lord husband and myself while keeping our confidences.”

“I’m not a maester,” Samwell Tarly muttered again.

“No, but you have been trained, and Jon believes you are intelligent. Both of these things are important, but not as important as the fact that he trusts you.” She sighed. “You cannot be Maester Luwin. No one can. I do not expect it of you. But my lord husband and I, and Jon Snow as well I suppose, have had quite enough of betrayal. Is your Lord Commander right about you, Samwell? Can we trust you?”

“Yes, my lady,” he said firmly, and Catelyn was relieved to hear some resolve in his voice. “I am a man of the Night’s Watch. I said my vows. But I’m here by my Lord Commander’s order, and I will serve you loyally and faithfully.

“And if the Lord Commander ordered you to use your position here against us?”

“Jon . . .Jon wouldn’t . . .I mean, he would never, my lady. He wouldn’t do such a thing! Not to Lord Stark!” The poor young man was sputtering again.

“No,” Catelyn replied calmly. “He would not.” _He is not so angry at Ned as that_. “I merely posed the question to illustrate that loyalties can be easily divided, young Samwell. Trust and even honor are not as simple as men would have them be. It behooves all of us to remember that.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said, again looking her in the eyes.

She smiled at him once more. “Now, I would read this letter from Lord Manderly with you and have your thoughts on it. Also, I would be interested in any news you have of the south from your time in Oldtown and your journey here.”

Later that night, after the evening meal, which had been a much more celebratory affair than they had had in some time in honor of the guests from White Harbor, Catelyn sat brushing out her hair after sending her maids away and reflecting on Lord Manderly’s news filled letter and her conversation with Samwell Tarly. While he was very hesitant to give his thoughts and opinions at first, she had found that he was indeed very insightful if she took the time to draw him out. Once he started speaking on a topic, he would gain confidence as she encouraged him, and she had almost been able to see his mind working as they discussed the news of the realm.

Since Kevan Lannister’s death in King’s Landing, Mace Tyrell undoubtedly held the power there, although the High Septon had apparently risen to almost equal power and had nearly as many troops in the city with his Warrior’s Sons. Apparently, the Lord of Highgarden was clever enough not to offend the High Septon and give him cause to turn those troops against the nominal King Tommen.

“Although, some say it’s Lord Tyrell’s mother, the Lady Olenna who is the clever one,” Samwell had said. “She’s actually a Redwyne, you know.”

Yes, Catelyn did know. She knew quite a bit about the Queen of Thorns from Sansa and did not doubt for one minute that she exercised considerable influence over her son, the Hand of the boy king. For now the Tyrells seemed to be on good terms with the Faith. Margaery Tyrell (now Baratheon for the third time!) had been found innocent of all the charges laid against her, and Cersei Lannister had been painted rather unflatteringly during young Margaery’s trial as having viciously perpetrated false accusations against her.

Cersei, having taken her walk of punishment for her confessed adultery had been found not guilty of the charges of treason and murder after a trial by combat in which some enormous, mysterious new knight of the Kingsguard had defended her successfully. Catelyn thought of the queen’s twin, rotting away in a cell at Riverrun, and wondered if it wounded him not to have defended his sister himself. At any rate, while she had been saved from execution, by reports, the queen was little more than a prisoner herself in the Red Keep now. Tommen was cared for by his Queen Margaery and the Tyrells, and Cersei’s access to him was strictly limited and dependent upon her good behavior.

 _It is strange,_ Catelyn thought. _As often as I’ve prayed for the woman’s death, I take no joy in her suffering now._ She remembered how she had once thought of Cersei as she knelt before the Mother in that sept before the battle was to take place at Bitterbridge, thinking that even the hated Lannister queen must love her children. Now Joffrey was dead, Myrcella reported lost and possibly dead herself somewhere in Dorne, and Tommen was kept from her. _No, I take no joy in that. I do hate the woman and will not mourn her when she does die, but I can take no joy in a mother’s pain._

Thinking of mothers caused her to remember Maege Mormont and her now motherless daughters, and she pushed her thoughts away from that as she put down her brush and moved to extinguish her candles. Instead, she contemplated the Tarly boy’s words about the ironmen raiding throughout the Reach, not simply reaving, but taking castles and holding them; setting up strongholds from which to move further inland, threatening Oldtown. Mace Tyrell was understandably more interested in that than in moving against the Riverlands or hunting down Stannis Baratheon. Paxter Redwine’s fleet had been called back to the defense of areas south, and any military attention turned south of King’s Landing could only be good for Edmure and the river lords as well as for the North. _Except that we face another threat here,_ she thought with a shudder, imagining for the millionth time Ned engaged in battle with some sinister, otherworldly creature.

At least, Samwell had confirmed that that dragonglass weapons were effective, telling her haltingly how he himself had killed one of the Others, giving all credit to the obsidian blade and none to any skill of his. Lord Manderly had sent a number of obsidian weapons, daggers of various sizes and arrowheads--not a tremendous number, as obsidian was not easily found--but more than she had expected when she’d made the request. Already, plans had been made to send men with some of these weapons to reinforce the lines north of Last Hearth, while some would be kept for the defense of Winterfell should the need arise.

Returning her thoughts to the ironborn in the south, she considered Samwell’s words when he heard that she held Asha Greyjoy here in Winterfell. “You hold the last of Balon Greyjoy’s line, my lady. Perhaps she could be bargained for. Aren’t there still some of the reavers in your lands?” There were, Catelyn knew. While they had been eradicated from Moat Cailin, Torrhen’s Square, and Deepwood Motte, they still held parts of the Stoney Shore. Would Euron Greyjoy pull them all out in exchange for his niece’s life? How could she even approach the man while he plundered in the south? She should at least make it clear to all the iron islanders precisely who held their dead lord’s daughter. It might make them think twice against attacking in the north again.

As she lay in her cold, empty bed, feeling her child move within her and longing for the touch of her husband more painfully than she ever did during the day, her mind drifted to the last topic she and Samwell Tarly had discussed: Danaerys Targaryen and her dragons. Dragons. Young Samwell seemed quite convinced they were real. He told her of Aemon Targaryen’s sending him to seek out information about them. He told her of the renegade Maester Marwyn who had a candle made of dragonglass which Samwell had seen burning but not consumed. Catelyn wondered if dragonglass weapons could be made to do the same, and if that would make them deadly to Others and wights alike. She imagined that dragons themselves could burn the fell creatures certainly enough. But then what was to keep dragons from burning the entire north?

After tossing and turning for some time, Catelyn Stark finally fell into uneasy dreams haunted by images of dragons, White Walkers, and terrifying battles involving her husband, her son Robb, her other sons and her daughters, Maege and Dacey Mormont, Howland Reed, Greatjon and Smalljon Umber, Yohn Royce, Donnell Boden, Hallis Mollen, and Jon Snow. She woke shivering in the dark, panicked and uncertain of the boundaries between dream and reality or between the living and the dead. She cradled her swollen belly in her arms and did not sleep again that night.

 

 

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“We are no more than two days from Castle Black,” Jon said certainly. “Three at the most.” He smiled at the others. “Even I recognize the land now. I’m not relying entirely on Ghost.”

Bran, seated in front of his father and bound securely to him on his mount, grinned at him, and Jon’s smile widened in return. He and his brother, cousin-- _no, brother, damn it,_ had spoken of their wolves together late in the nights sometimes as they’d journeyed southward, while the others slept. He’d been overjoyed to learn that both Bran and his father lived when the Reed girl had found Lord Reed and himself, and since then he’d slowly become accustomed to the fact that his little brother now sometimes spoke as if he were years older than Jon. While it was odd at first, he’d found himself able to ask Bran questions and tell him things about Ghost and himself that he hadn’t been able to ask or tell anyone else. Arya had seemed to understand her connection to her wolf as little as he did, and Rickon was just a baby. He couldn’t begin to speak of it to anyone else at all, although he knew his father tried to understand, and oddly enough, Lady Stark had seemed to understand something about it as well.

Bran now turned to the big man who walked beside Lord Stark’s horse. “Not much further, Hodor. You’ve walked the whole north, mostly with me on your back, but soon you’ll get to sleep in a real bed!”

“Hodor,” the man replied, but he returned Bran’s smile.

Jon urged his horse onward at a slow walk. He led their group. Ned and Bran rode behind him with Hodor walking beside, and Lord Reed rode at the back of the procession with his daughter Meera mounted behind him. Jon felt bad for the big stableboy from Winterfell, but he was much too large to ride double, and while he had a good, gentle hand with the horses as far as leading them, grooming them, or otherwise caring for them, he didn’t actually ride, so they couldn’t even take turns. Bran and Meera had told them how he’d made the entire trip from Winterfell to the Bloodraven’s cavern with Bran on his back, so hopefully he found simply walking with only his own weight to support a welcome change.

 _Bloodraven._ The name made Jon shiver. Bran had told them a little about the ancient man whose life was now inextricably entwined with a great weirwood tree. Meera had told them a bit more. Bran had talked a little of the things the man had taught him, and Meera had told them that Bran was a greenseer just like Bloodraven. The idea that Bran was expected to somehow commune with the spirits of the gods and the weirwoods for the purpose of some great knowledge disturbed Jon, and it obviously distressed Ned Stark. Bran seemed to realize that quickly enough and said no more of greenseeing, limiting his remarks about his time in the cavern to what he’d learned about warging. It almost made Jon laugh to think that warging was the comfortable topic of conversation.

He’d been fascinated by Bran’s tales of flying with ravens, and he wondered what that felt like. He would like to fly, he thought. With Bran’s help, he was beginning to understand his connection with Ghost better, opening himself up to it more, but he couldn’t imagine having that connection with any other creature. He looked at the ravens that flew back and forth around Bran, but couldn’t feel them at all the way he felt Ghost. Mayhaps, sharing the skin of more than one animal was a specialized skill that Bran alone among his family had. _Ghost is enough for me,_ Jon thought. Still, he would like to fly. Just once.

They had been remarkably untroubled by Others or wights as they journeyed south. The first day had been miserable because his father’s frostbite had made it nearly impossible for him to ride. Jon’s injuries troubled him as well, but not nearly so badly. They’d come to a much better shelter that night, a good sized cave, and Jon wondered just how riddled with caves the area north of the Wall actually was, remembering with equal parts joy and pain the cave he had shared with Ygritte. Howland Reed had decreed that they stay in that cave until both Ned and Jon were much better healed, so they had remained there four nights, after which they had made for Castle Black.

As each night passed without attack, and each day brought them closer to their destination, the little group was largely cheerful. Howland and Meera Reed mourned the loss of their son and brother, of course, but they took comfort in each other. Jon remembered when the girl had found them. She hadn’t spoken a word of her brother to Lord Reed when he reached out to her and said simply, “I know, daughter.” She’d flung herself into his arms and they’d held onto each other tightly, both crying. Finally he’d held her back a little ways from him and said softly, “You did everything that could be done. Jojen did what he must. I am proud of both of you.” Then she’d put her head against her father’s chest and cried again.

Jon hadn’t understood at all at the time, but when he learned that Jojen Reed was dead, he remembered Lord Reed’s words about his dreams. _I cannot see my son._ He couldn’t help but wonder what else the man dreamed. He knew his father dreamed at night for sometimes he would speak. He’d murmur the name of his lady wife most frequently, but he also sometimes called out for Robb and Donnell. He never mentioned his dreams, and Jon never asked about them. Meera Reed slept silently except for occasional little sounds like sighs, and Hodor only snored. Bran was still and silent in his sleep, and Jon knew he ran with Summer. He wondered if he were still and silent like that when he ran with Ghost. He had other dreams, too, of course--the half-remembered kind that made no sense, but sometimes left him feeling uneasy when he woke, as if he’d forgotten something very important.

“Jon! Jon, that way!” Bran called out to him, interrupting his musings about dreams. “We want to go a little to the left here.”

Jon smiled at his little brother. “Castle Black is that way, Bran,” he said, pointing just to the right of straight ahead. “I know well where we are now.”

“Yes, Bran said, “but there is a clearing to the left. No cave. I think we’ve come south of all of those, but the clearing is sheltered, and we need to stop soon.”

Jon didn’t bother to ask if it had been the wolf or a raven that showed him the clearing. He knew it was there if Bran said it was. That didn’t mean they had to go that way, though. “Bran, why go out of our way? We can find somewhere to shelter along our path, I’m sure. There’s at least an hour of daylight left. We’ll look as we go.”

Bran shook his head.

“Listen to him,” Meera said. “An hour is nothing if it means the difference between decent shelter and none. The Three Eyed Crow guides him, you know. The directions aren’t his own.”

Jon shivered involuntarily at the mention of the Three Eyed Crow. The idea that this Bloodraven or Lord Brynden or whatever you wanted to call him watched them through the eyes of the animals and the trees made him uncomfortable, even if he did provide directions.

“Go where Bran says, Jon,” his father said flatly. “I would have us stop well before dark if possible, even if it costs us a slightly longer ride come morning.”

Jon nodded, and turned his horse in the direction Bran had indicated. Within a quarter hour they came upon a clearing, an almost perfect, small circular opening in the middle of forest growth so dense, they could barely guide the horses through. He had to admit they’d have likely looked long and hard before finding another campsite half so good.

It took them very little time to set up camp, eat their meager meal, and settle in for the night. Lord Reed was taking first watch. They always set watches in spite of Bran’s insistence that Summer and Ghost could watch quite well. Jon lay down between Hodor and Bran. They all lay quite close in the tent and pulled their cloaks and furs around them. Knowing that he had the second watch, Jon closed his eyes and hoped for sleep to come quickly.

Before long he found himself standing someplace very high, atop a hill perhaps, looking down across a great, large city. It was very windy. He could feel the wind buffeting him, almost pushing him back, and he realized he felt oddly light. He stared at the city around him and realized he didn’t recognize it. The wind pushed harder on him seeming to lift him, and the city, strangely, seemed to grow smaller. He looked directly down at his feet, but saw no feet. He saw beneath him a tall structure of black stone, but it was at least thirty feet below him and getting further below him by the moment. His breath caught and he flung out his arms, knowing he must fall. Yet he didn’t fall. He continued to rise, and he realized the wind truly was lifting him. He could feel it support his weight, and he leaned into it. He looked toward one of his outstretched arms, but saw no arm. Instead he saw a massive dark green wing, almost glowing in the light of a rising sun. He felt the movement as the great wing flapped once, hard, and he soared upward at an alarming rate of speed. _Flying,_ he thought. _This is flying._ He had left the city behind and now traveled over a broad grassy plain. He had never felt anything like this. He knew it was a dream, but it felt so . . .

“Jon, Jon. It’s your turn to watch.”

He sat up with a start, disoriented to find himself on the cold hard ground with Howland Reed looking down at him, shaking him gently. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’m coming.” Reed was already settling himself down to sleep by the time Jon’s mind was firmly back in the tent. He drew his cloak around him tightly and trudged out into the night to find Ghost sitting just at the tent’s entrance, regarding him silently with his red eyes. He reached out a hand to run it through the direwolf’s familiar, soft fur. “I was flying, Ghost,” he whispered. He closed his eyes and imagined himself with great green wings. A soft quork from a nearby tree caused him to open them again and look up. One of Bran’s ravens stared down at him. He looked at the bird with its sleek, black feathers and thought, _I dreamed of flying. But I did not dream of ravens._

 

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Samwell Tarly stood beside the bell tower and watched the workman laying stone for the new structure beside it. He’d been up to the makeshift rookery contained within the old bell tower and seen the evidence of the recent repairs and modifications there. It wasn’t ideal, but it would serve until the new tower was completed. _The maester’s turret,_ he thought. _An entire turret_ _for myself and the ravens_. He still couldn’t get used to the idea, just as he still couldn’t keep a lot of the people in the castle from addressing him as Maester. Of course, he had only been here for two nights. Apparently, the original maester’s turret had been completely destroyed in the sack of Winterfell, and until a new one was completed he had been given quarters in the Guest Hall and would tend the ravens in their temporary home in the bell tower. He’d approved the selection of the bell tower for the temporary rookery as it was the tower nearest the original rookery’s location and therefore required very little adaptation in the birds’ behavior.

He watched the men until he began to grow cold, and he started toward the Guest Hall. He had some time before the midday meal, and he wanted to read. His heart broke again over Lady Stark’s recounting of the fire in the library tower which had destroyed so many old and valuable books. Winterfell was thousands of years old and likely its library had contained volumes not to be found elsewhere. Still, he had brought a good number of books with him, and at present, he intended to read all he could on childbearing and childbirth. He felt uncomfortable thinking about the subject in general and positively terrified when thinking about it specifically in terms of Lady Stark.

He still wasn’t sure how he’d gotten through this morning. She had asked him if he’d earned his silver link and he’d answered truthfully that he had. He’d known that knowledge of healing was greatly to be desired at the Wall, and so had worked diligently in those studies and excelled at learning various potions and remedies for all manners of ills. The actual poulticing and suturing and dealing with blood and bile had been much more difficult for him. He had forced himself to do what was required, not infrequently ending up retching himself, and almost always with a fair degree of fear and trepidation. He’d learned secrets of the human body from corpses and discovered that once he got past the fact that they were indeed corpses, it was actually easier in some ways than working on the living because they neither bled nor cried out. And if he kept his mind simply on the learning, the body was a fascinating thing. He’d even attended several births, although he hadn’t actually delivered the infants himself. He’d observed and assisted only, and he’d found it to be a bloody, messy, altogether terrifying affair.

He sighed. _No more than two moons._ That had been his assessment after examining Lady Stark this morning. He had told her the babe would come in two moons at the latest, and she had smiled and told him she already knew that because she knew well enough when she’d last had her moonblood. She’d asked if he thought she and the babe seemed healthy enough and he’d nodded, unable to actually speak much until she was again completely dressed, and he was standing across the room from her.

“The babe is well grown, my lady, and I can feel that its head is down in the proper position. You had no difficulties with your previous children?” He had been proud of himself for getting the question out without stammering.

“No,” she’d said. “Rickon took a bit longer than the rest. Something about the way he was facing, I believe. But Maester Luwin said there was never any real problem even with him.”

Sam had nodded. He knew she’d already borne five children and he’d now seen the lines on her skin which bore evidence of that. The fact that she’d had no difficulties in the past did not guarantee freedom from problems this time, but it certainly was a mark in her favor. However, she was older now, and he had learned that difficulties in childbed increased as women aged.

“How . . .how old are you, my lady?” he’d asked, stammering terribly on that question.

“Six and thirty,” she’d replied without hesitation. “I’ll be seven and thirty in just over four moons. Does that concern you?”

“No, my lady,” Sam had said earnestly. “I mean . . .childbirth is easiest on women neither too young nor too old.” He’d paused then and she’d raised an eyebrow, looking amused. “But you are not!,” he’d said hastily. “Not too old, I mean! No, not at all.”

“Well, we’re all right then,” she’d said, “for I hardly suppose I’m too young, either.” She’d laughed out loud then just as she had done when she’d beheld his expression after she’d first called him into her chamber and suggested he might want to examine her. “Samwell,” she had said sternly when he had actually backed away from her as she’d started to undo her laces. “You are going to have to touch me and most certainly see me in some state of undress if you are to deliver this babe. You might as well get used to the notion.” Her words had been severe, but those blue eyes of hers had been filled with amusement.

He’d also looked at the wound on her arm which was doing quite well and an old arrow wound in her back, which she said pained her more as she grew larger with child. It quite shocked him to think of this proper highborn lady being shot by arrows not once, but twice. Of course, he could also see the scars on her face and neck, but she did not mention those, and he did not ask about them. He’d simply promised to make her an ointment which might help with the pain in her back and begged leave to go.

“Of course, Samwell,” she’d said, in that ever proper voice of hers. “But first, have you discovered anything that might make your duties here easier or your tenure here more comfortable? I would have it done for you, if I can.”

“Well,” he’d said, hesitant to ask. “If I could beg a favor, my lady . . .would mind terribly calling me just Sam? It’s only that Samwell . . .”

At his hesitation, she had laughed again, but there was no mockery in it. “Samwell makes you feel as if I am scolding you?” she’d asked. “My son Bran feels the same way about his proper name, I fear. He was ever only Brandon when he was in trouble. Sam you shall be.”

Then a shadow had passed over her face, and Sam knew she thought about her missing son. He wished he could tell her that her Bran lived, but it seemed that Jon and Lord Stark had already reached the conclusion that the boy had survived to go north of the Wall, and he honestly didn’t know what had happened to Bran Stark and his companions after they went with Coldhands. As he had no real information for Lady Stark, he decided to keep his word and remain silent on what had transpired beneath the Nightfort.

Now, as he walked through the gently blowing snow of Winterfell’s courtyard, Sam reflected on Lady Catelyn Stark. From the little that Jon had ever said about her, he’d imagined a stern and cold woman, wielding her title and demanding the respect due her. She certainly demanded respect, and there was no doubt that she was the authority here in Winterfell in her lord husband’s absence. She could undoubtedly be very stern as well, but Sam found her in no way cold. She held herself apart, perhaps, and he could sense a grief within her that she refused to give voice, but she was not cold. Perhaps the most puzzling thing was her seeming willingness to accept him on Jon’s recommendation when everything Jon had said led him to believe that . . .

“You don’t remember me.”

The voice came from behind him, and he turned to see one of the Stark girls. The little one with the short hair. The one that looked like Jon. Her grey eyes regarded him carefully.

“You’re Lady Arya,” he said. “I met you at dinner the night I arrived. What can I do for you, my lady?”

She laughed. “You don’t remember me, but I remember you. I wasn’t sure at first, but now I am.” She looked him up and down. “I think you’re even fatter, though. They must feed men well at the Citadel.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady?” Sam had no idea what the girl was on about.

“I don’t care if you’re fat as long as you don’t get as fat as Lord Manderly. He can’t even ride a horse. And what good is a maester who can’t ride to the people who need him? Answer me that.”

“I . . .I can ride, my lady,” Sam stammered, grabbing on to the one thing in her pronouncement that he could answer easily.

“Yes, but not well. I saw you ride in. No matter, as long as can stay on your mount, I suppose. Are you really as smart as my brother thinks you are? Because you didn’t know very much when I met you before. To be fair, I don’t suppose you’d had reason to learn much about Braavos.”

 _Braavos? Met you before?_ Sam’s head began to hurt, and he was very cold. “Lady Arya,” he said. “If you need to speak to me, would you mind coming inside? It is quite cold out here.”

She laughed then. “How did you stand the Wall?” But she walked briskly toward the Guest Hall and allowed Sam to lead her toward his room. He used the brief respite from conversation to try and make sense of the girl’s words. _Braavos,_ she had said. _How does she know I was ever in Braavos?_

Once in his room, he turned to face her. He may be a craven, but she was just a little girl. He had no reason to be frightened of her. “What do you know of my time in Braavos, my lady?” he asked her. “Did your mother speak of it?”

“My mother knows nothing of it. And you won’t tell her,” the girl said, suddenly fierce. More quietly, she added, “I will not have my mother hurt. Not any more.”

Sam regarded her closely. She looked almost exactly like a smaller, feminine version of Jon Snow, but her expression as she spoke those words was remarkably reminiscent of that worn by Lady Catelyn Stark when she spoke of threats to her family. “I would never hurt her,” he said.

“But are you intelligent enough to help her? Do you really know what you are doing? Women die in childbirth, you know, and I will not have my mother die.”

So that was it. This fierce, accusing girl was a child frightened for her mother. “I do know what I am doing,” he reassured her, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.

He must have, because she seemed to relax marginally. “Perhaps you are smarter than I thought. I thought you were craven, that night with Terro and Orbelo, but then I heard how you went after that deserter, Dareon. Perhaps you can take care of my lady mother.”

 _Terro, Orbelo, Dareon._ The names stirred his memory and he stared at Lady Arya Stark as if seeing her for the first time. But it was another girl he saw, a fishmonger girl who gave him clams and kindness on a long ago Braavosi night. A street rat with a sharp knife and a sharper tongue. _I used to be someone, but now I’m not. You can call me . ._ “Cat” he whispered, almost to himself. “But how?”

“It doesn’t matter how,” she said. “And I’m not Cat. Not here. That’s my lady mother. But you can’t call her that, either. Only my father does.”

“But . . .” Sam shook his head. “How old are you?” he asked after a moment.

“Two and ten,” she said without hesitation and grinned at him. “At Winterfell, people actually know when it’s my name day so I can answer that question.” Immediately, she grew serious again. “You will take very good care of my lady mother, and you will not tell her about a girl called Cat that you met once in Braavos.”

“Yes, my lady,” Sam said, “And no, I won’t tell Lady Stark. I can’t imagine why she would need to know about a clam seller who helped me once in Braavos.”

“Good.” She looked him up and down. “You still dress all in black.”

“I am a man of the Night’s Watch,” he told her. “I am here by order of the Lord Commander, but I am sworn to the Night’s Watch for life.”

She nodded, appearing pleased by his answer. “That’s good. Deserters from the Watch deserve death. The Starks of Winterfell know that well.”

With that, she turned and went out, leaving Sam far more puzzled and uneasy than her mother had.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Bran was cold, even colder than usual, and he leaned into his father’s warmth as they rode. The weather had turned foul, and he feared they would not make their intended destination by nightfall--a shallow depression at the foot of a wooded hill which had been often used by rangers as a campsite when they rode north from the Wall. The cold wind blew large flakes of snow horizontally into his face, and he shivered as he looked at the sun, sitting just above the horizon. “We need to hurry,” he muttered to himself.

His father heard him, though. “We cannot go any faster in this snow, Bran,” he said, “And poor Hodor is sinking to his knees with every step. We will reach the campsite before much longer.”

Bran hoped so. Ghost and Summer had wandered off earlier, scenting some large prey animal to the south. They hadn’t returned yet, but Bran sensed no fear or distress from his direwolf, wherever he was off hunting.

“Not much further,” Jon called from up ahead, shouting to be heard above the wind. “It’s only just . . .”

His words were cut off by the sudden rearing of his horse, and Bran saw that the snow in front of him had suddenly thrust itself upward, startling the beast.

“Jon!” his father cried and spurred their mount forward as best he could, but Bran could now see what had caused the movement of the snow. A dead man had risen to stand in front of Jon’s horse as the sun sank beneath the horizon.

“No,” he thought. “Not again. Please.”

“Yet, even as the thought formed, he saw more of them. Dead things, rising from beneath the snow, all around them, just as they had done at the entrance of Lord Brynden’s cavern during that terrible steep climb.

“Ride!” Bran shouted. “We have to get away from them. We have no fire!”

All three horses were now screaming in terror, jumping and shying and doing their best to run in the deep snow, and for a moment Bran’s heart leapt because it seemed that, even in the snow, the horses were faster than the wights. They could outrun them. But then cold dread filled him as he heard the cry.

“Hodor!”

“No!” Bran screamed, as his father continued to ride away from the wights, away from Hodor. “We can’t leave him.”

“I cannot fight with you bound to me, and I will not take you into danger,” his father insisted.

Through his tears, Bran saw his brother Jon turn his horse and ride back past them, his sword drawn, but he knew that even Valyrian steel couldn’t kill things already dead. He tried desperately to twist around and see behind his father, but he couldn’t manuever to do so.

“Fire!” he heard Meera’s voice behind him shouting. “We need fire!”

“Hodor!” he heard again, but it sounded more distant. His father could do nothing while tied to a broken boy, and Bran considered slipping his skin for Hodor’s. He had promised Meera, but surely she would understand this time. But then, another anguished scream emanated from the gentle giant of Winterfell and Bran realized he couldn’t accomplish anything by it. He couldn’t make Hodor any faster or stronger than he already was, and the man knew well enough he had to fight and attempt to flee without Bran there telling him to do it. _Summer,_ he thought, and silently called to his wolf. Then just before he slipped his skin, he saw Howland Reed jumping off his horse, grabbing at some twigs at the foot of the hill. Meera must have taken the reins.

Then he was running, all four legs stretching as far as they could go, bounding over the top of the snow. His white brother ran behind him, silent as a shadow. He was far away, too far. The elk had led them on a long chase in the wrong direction. But he and and his brother had brought it down and fed, and now he ran, filled with the power and strength of the elk’s warm blood and meat.

He could smell them, the dead meat that walked, the big man’s fear, all of the men and the girl. He thought he smelled fire, and while the wolf feared fire, the boy within knew fire to be a good thing. Finally, he saw them. At least five of the dead things were grabbing at the big man and two of them had long claws. _Knives,_ came the boy’s thought. The brother, _Jon,_ hacked at the dead things and the smaller man waved fire. Two of the dead things began to burn. The girl, _Meera,_ stood at a distance with her three pronged spear as if she were guarding something. Then he saw that the other man, _Father,_ had gently laid the broken boy behind her and now ran to join the other two in their fight.

He joined as well, leaping and snarling at the dead things, tearing off limbs that continued to wriggle in the snow until the fire touched them. How long it went on, he didn’t know. He was teeth and claws and fury. Then someone was shaking him.

“Bran, Bran, come back son. Come back now.”

 _Father._ The broken boy opened his eyes with as start. His father stood over him, looking frightened. He could hear Summer growling and snarling and turned to see him tearing at a charred arm bone about thirty paces away. “Stop,” he said, hesitantly. “Summer, stop. It’s over.” His voice sounded very young to his ears. He sounded like Rickon. He felt like Rickon. He wanted to cry.

He looked up and saw that Meera was there, her face pale. Jon stood not far away. He didn’t see Hodor or Lord Reed. He looked at his father. “Hodor?” he asked.

His father didn’t say anything. He simply picked him up in his arms and carried him to a more sheltered place where Lord Reed was bent over the supine form of a large man. His father gently set him down beside the man who’d been his legs since he’d awakened without his own legs so long ago in Winterfell. Hodor’s eyes were closed.

“Hodor?” Bran said fearfully.

The eyes opened and looked up at Bran. A little smile of recognition appeared on the big, bearded face. “Hodor,” he said softly, and then he winced. Bran looked at the rest of him and was dismayed to see numerous knife wounds, several in the belly. He looked up at Lord Reed who only looked back sadly and shook his head.

“No,” Bran said. “No.” Then he looked back down to Hodor and took his hand. “Hodor, I’m . . .I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything I did and I’m sorry you had to carry me and I’m sorry I couldn’t save you and . . .” His voice broke and he started to cry, putting his face in his hands. He felt a hand on his arm and looked up to tell his father to go away, only to see that the hand was Hodor’s.

“Shhhh,” the big man said. “Hodor.” Then he smiled one of his really big smiles and closed his eyes for the last time.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Bran had scarcely spoken since Hodor’s death. In truth, the suddenness of the wight attack and the stable boy’s death had deeply affected them all. _We were complacent,_ Ned thought angrily. _We were careless. I should know better._ He sat, staring up into the night sky, taking his last watch before they would reach Castle Black on the morrow. He had hoped to be there today, but they had been unable to reach it before sundown, and Ned had called a halt with plenty of daylight left to set up camp and arrange what defenses they could.

It had taken Hodor the entirety of the previous night and several hours of this morning to die. He had never regained consciousness and seemed, thankfully, not to have been in any pain. They had to wait for him to die in order to burn him. That had been traumatic enough for Bran. He couldn’t have taken anyone speeding Hodor’s death as Jon had done for Donnell. In any event, Hodor could not ask for it, and that is not a thing Ned would consider doing for a man who had not specifically requested it.

The end result was that their travel time was dramatically shortened today, and Castle Black had been taken out of their reach. Bran slept now, thank the gods. He didn’t know if he stayed in his furs beside Jon or if he wandered the woods with his wolf. Ned knew it had been Bran who’d attacked those wights yesterday and who’d kept attacking and tearing at them long after the need had passed. It was terrifying what these wolves of his children could do. What his children could do. He recalled Shaggydog feeding from the Frey man whose throat he’d ripped out after Catelyn’s abduction. _Please gods,_ he prayed. _Help_ _them to contain this. Help them to control it._ He suspected Bran could do much more than see throught the eyes of wolves and ravens, but as craven as it made him feel, he did not want to think about it until he had his son safely behind the walls of Winterfell.

 _Are the walls of Winterfell still safe?_ He tried to keep such thoughts from his mind, but at night, alone during his watches, he could not keep them at bay. There were White Walkers south of the Wall. _How far south have they gone? Are Cat and the_ _children safe and well? Are they besieged?_ He thought about the babe Catelyn carried. _Two moons,_ he thought. _No more than_ _two moons. Possibly less if the babe comes early at all._ He wondered if he could get Bran home in time. If weather were good and no trouble came to them, certainly he could. But he had learned long ago not to count on trouble leaving him alone.

He heard a low snarling whine and looked up to see Summer at the edge of the clearing looking toward something in the distance. He hadn’t heard the wolf return from wherever it had been. It growled again, and Ned tried to look in the direction of the gaze, but saw nothing in the dark. “What is it, Summer?” he asked in a low voice. The wolf did not respond, but growled again. “Bran?” he said to it sharply. This time the wolf turned its gaze on him momentarily, and then looked back where it had been, growling again.

“Jon, Howland,” he said loudly. “Get up.”

He took a brand from the fire and began to walk slowly in the direction of the wolf’s gaze. He heard a low whistle behind him, and turned to see Jon emerging from the tent. Ghost had appeared at the sound of his whistle, and the white wolf now began looking in the same direction as its brother, although it did not growl. Jon drew Longclaw. “Stay,” he told the wolf. “Guard.”

Howland had also emerged from the tent, followed by his daughter, Meera. “Stay here with Bran and Ghost, he admonished her, as he took a brand from the fire.

“You know perfectly well Bran isn’t really staying here,” she said flatly, and Ned’s heart lurched as the big grey direwolf moved to walk beside him. He wondered what would happen to his son if the wolf were killed while he was with him. Would Bran die too? He wanted to send his son back to his own skin just as he might send him to his chambers at Wintefell, but he doubted he could do it.

Jon and Howland were beside him now as well, and the three of them slowly advanced, more or less following the lead of Bran’s direwolf. Suddenly Ned felt the cold. He knew it well enough to recognize it instantly and bitterly regretted the loss of his obsidian dagger. Hodor hadn’t brought it back to Bran and Meera when he’d carried Ned to them.

“White Walkers,” he said tersely.

Then Summer lunged at something, and the tall white creature emerged from the shadows, knocking the direwolf back with a cold arm. In its other arm, it held aloft a blade.

Jon immediately advanced on it with Longclaw and Ned waved the fiery brand at it on Jon’s weak side. Fire couldn’t kill the things, but they didn’t seem to like it much. As it flinched away just slightly from Ned’s brand, Jon’s blade pierced it clean through and it began to melt.

“Two more,” said Howland grimly, and Ned looked up to see that he was right. He and Jon quickly engaged the closest one, and as they fought it, Ned heard Howland screaming. “This way! Over here! Come and get me!”

The words made no sense to him until he saw a blur of grey fur tear past him toward the tent. The second Other had bypassed the men entirely, shrugging off Howland and his flaming brand as if they mattered not at all, and was walking directly toward Meera Reed who stood in front of the tent fixed in place.

“Go! I’ve got this one!” Jon yelled, and Ned left him there with the Walker he battled.

Summer reached the other one before he or Howland could and leapt into it, knocking it sideways with the force of its big wolf body. The Other made an angry swipe with its blade, but the wolf was too quick, ducking under the blow and out of the way. Howland was there then, jabbing at the cold specter with the flaming wood, and finally it turned to face him, bringing that cold sword down and slicing into his shoulder and chest as the man jumped back.

 _A glancing blow,_ Ned thought. _It was only a glancing blow._ He drove at the thing with his own brand now, wanting to push it away from the tent, away from Meera and his unconscious, dreaming son. Howland saw what he was about, and came to stand beside him, weak and off balance, but nevertheless waving his brand at the White Walker. Summer, too, made another leap and the creature staggered one step away from the staring girl in front of the tent.

 _Where is Jon?_ Ned thought desperately. He had the only Valyrian steel among them. Their only hope was for him to dispatch the Other he fought and come to their aid. He didn’t know how long he and Howland could hold this one off. The two men worked in unison waving and jabbing their flaming brands at the creature and dodging its swordstrokes. Since Ned’s leg injury, Howland was normally the surer footed of the two, but Ned realized his friend was stumbling badly and seeming to tire. Mayhaps, the creature’s blade had struck deeper than he thought.

Suddenly, Howland stumbled badly, falling to one knee, and the White Walker raised its sword above him. Before Ned could do anything, Meera Reed screamed and threw herself bodily at the frozen enemy. She screamed louder as her body came into contact with that unbearable cold, and the Walker shook her off easily. She fell to the ground, and the Walker turned away from Howland and raised its blade over the supine form of his daughter.

The next several things seemed to Ned to happen all at once. Howland screamed his daughter’s name and hurled himself forward from his knees to land upon her body. The white walker’s blade came down. His own burning staff smashed into the creature’s head with all the force he could put behind it, and Jon plunged Longclaw into the Walker’s back.

The next thing Ned became aware of was Summer’s howling. Then Ghost joined in. Silent Ghost, whose howls were seldom heard and never without purpose, raised his muzzle to the sky and joined his grey brother in a mournful chorus. Ned realized he still held the burning wood and dropped it to the ground beside him. Looking down in front of him, he saw that the Other was gone along with its icy blade. Longclaw lay on top of the still form of Howland Reed whose back was covered in dark blood from a large wound made by a sword which no longer existed. Trapped beneath him was Meera, her eyes wide with shock as she stared into the now sightless eyes of her father, only inches from her own.

Wordlessly, Ned fell to his knees, rolled the Lord of Greywater Watch onto his back and pulled his lifeless form into his arms. The desolation he felt was as cold as any White Walkers blade as he looked into the face of the man he’d trusted above all others for almost twenty years now. “Goodbye, my friend,” he whispered hoarsely. “May you dream with the gods and your son.” Then he took his hand and closed Howland Reed’s green eyes and laid him gently on the snow, moving away as Meera came to lay her head on her father’s chest and weep softly.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“A massacre,” Lady Catelyn said softly, her face several shades paler than usual, the red scars standing out more vividly in sharp relief. “How? Tell me, Brienne, tell me everything.”

Brienne swallowed hard. This was ill news to deliver at any time to any one, but to wake her lady from her slumber to hear such tidings seemed especially cruel. “I do not know how many are dead, my lady,” she said softly. “Only that women and children are among the victims. It was done in the night with great stealth, and this morning the men in the town were tearing each other apart, each accusing their neighbors, until our men stepped in.”

“But where were our men last night?” Lady Catelyn demanded, rising from her bed laboriously and pulling a robe over her swollen form. “How, for the love of all the gods, could this have happened?”

“I do not know, my lady,” she was forced to admit. “Certainly, it was done with the complicity of some in the town, but how other men came into Winter Town without our knowledge, I do not know. All of the victims’ throats were cut.” She bit her lip as her lady’s hand went to the scar on her own neck. “I imagine they were killed in their sleep so that no one screamed.”

“I would know how many,” Lady Catelyn demanded. “I would know their names.”

“Yes, my lady. Is there anything . . .”

“Go, Brienne. Get me what I want to know.”

“Yes, my lady.” Brienne had left Lady Catelyn’s chambers in a black fury, for she was of a mind with her lady. _How had this_ _happened?_ They had soldiers ringing Winter Town at all times. Winterfell men, Riverlands men. _Who had betrayed them?_ Her thoughts raced as she left the Great Keep.

The rider who had brought her the tidings had been one of the Seagard men, and she’d known something dreadful had occurred the moment she’d seen his face. She’d wanted to ride immediately to the Winter Town herself, but she knew Lady Catelyn would want to hear of it immediately, and so she had gone to her lady’s chambers.

“Deryk!” she called out as she saw a man riding through the courtyard from the gate. She recognized him as a man she trusted well.

“My lady,” he said, as he reined up beside her. “The town is subdued for now, but the panic there is great. Men are lining up to tell of crimes by their neighbors, and I fear that now we have a surfeit of spurious accusations where before we had no accusations at all. It was grievous work last night.”

“Do we know how many were killed, Deryk?”

“Fourteen, last night,” he answered promptly. “Three men, four women, six children, and,” he swallowed hard, “one babe in arms.”

“Gods be good,” Brienne said softly.

“They weren’t good last night,” Deryk said darkly. “Then four more men were killed in the fighting this morning, before we got the situation under control.”

“But is it under control now, Deryk?”

“Yes, my lady. That town is locked up tight, and the only men on duty now are men that Lord Mallister or myself personally vouch for on our lives. Someone either fell asleep on the job or is an outright traitor, my lady. There’s no other explanation, so all those men on duty last night are confined to quarters. Lord Mallister’s orders.”

Brienne nodded. Lord Mallister was a smart man. “Good,” she said. “I will be riding into town shortly. Have the patrols I’ve asked for been sent out?”

“Yes, my lady. Our men are combing the Wolfswood now.”

“And watching the way to the Dreadfort?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Very good. I’ll need a list of the victims. Lady Catelyn wants to know every name.”

Deryk nodded. “I suppose she would. I’ll get it, my lady.”

By the time Brienne returned to Lady Catelyn’s chambers to report what she had learned, Lady Catelyn was up and dressed in a warm, woolen dress designed for traveling, and her hair was pulled back into a long braid. She looked up as Brienne entered. “Well?” she said without preamble.

“Fourteen were killed in the night, my lady, and four more in the fighting this morning. And, no.”

“What do you mean, ‘And no?’ And who are the dead?”

“I don’t have the names yet, but it would seem to be four families--three men, four women, and seven children, including one infant. And I see how you are dressed. And no, you are not going to Winter Town, my lady.”

Lady Catelyn stood up. She was much shorter than Brienne, but she walked up to her as if she were a full head taller. “I believe I am the Lady of Winterfell, Brienne. I do not take orders from you,” she said imperiously.

“I mean no disrespect, my lady, but Lord Stark . . .”

“You do not serve Eddard Stark!” Lady Catelyn flung at her. “You have told him that often enough. Are you sworn to my service or are you not?”

“I am, my lady. Of course, I am, but . . .”

“Then be my sworn shield and not my nursemaid or jailer.” Lady Catelyn took several deep breaths and then continued in a less heated voice. “Brienne, these are our people. I have promised them protection, and yet they have been murdered in their beds while I hide my children and myself behind Winterfell’s walls. They deserve to see me. They deserve to hear from my lips that we will not rest until we bring these villains, all of them, to justice. Would you tell my lord husband not to go?”

Brienne shook her head. “Lord Stark is not over seven moons gone with child, my lady. You cannot possibly ride a horse at this point. Ask Maester Samwell if you won’t listen to me.”

“Sam is not a maester,” Lady Catelyn reminded her. “And while he is certainly making himself useful, he’s only been here just over a fortnight. If I won’t take orders from you, I certainly won’t take orders from him.”

“But, my lady, the babe . . .”

“I have no intention of riding a horse, Brienne.”

“My lady?”

Lady Catelyn smiled at her. “I shall go by sleigh,” she said.

“Sleigh?” Brienne asked, blinking.

“Yes, you sweet summer child. Winter does have a few advantages. The roads are well covered with snow now and will likely remain so until spring, whenever that may be. Surely, you noticed that Lord Wyman’s last emissaries had sleighs.”

“Yes . . .but, I didn’t realize there were any at Winterfell,” Brienne said.

“There weren’t,” she said simply. “Just like the wagons and everything else stored near the stables, they were burned by Bolton’s bastard. But I persuaded Lord Manderly’s men to leave me one. A sleigh is a very smooth form of travel, Brienne, when the ground is flat and evenly covered with snow. That describes the short distance from here to Winter Town perfectly, does it not?”

“But your protection, my lady. These men . . .we don’t . . .”

“We don’t know anything about them or their whereabouts. I’ll grant you that. But this is simply a risk I must take, Brienne. Surround me with five hundred men if you feel you must, but I am going. A Tully and a woman, I may be, but for the present, I am the Stark in Winterfell.” Lady Catelyn finished this speech and simply stood staring at Brienne, her blue eyes entertaining no possibility of argument.

Brienne sighed. “I would like to make adequate preparations, my lady. It will take several hours. We could possibly escort you to town just after midday.”

“That will be fine,” Lady Catelyn said with a smile.

Several hours later as the horses pulled Lady Catelyn’s sleigh into Winter Town unmolested, Brienne heaved a sigh of relief. The townspeople, having been informed of her coming, had filled the square to hear what she had to say. At Brienne’s request she did not leave her sleigh, but merely stood up within it to address the crowd. There were more than a few gasps from the onlookers as they saw her swollen belly, obvious even beneath her cloak, and realized just how far along with child she was.

She looked impossibly vulnerable standing before them and yet with an undeniable strength about her. Brienne watched the faces of the smallfolk as she spoke and realized that Lady Catelyn had not overstated how much her coming in person could mean to these people. They were far more frightened and subdued than they had been at her previous visit, and when she asked for questions there were very few, and all were basically asking her to promise once more that the might of Winterfell would be sent out against whoever had done this. She answered each person patiently and then exhorted them to be brave and to take care of one another. Brienne signaled the sleigh driver to start back toward Winterfell, beginning to breathe just a bit easier.

As the crowd dispersed and the sleigh slowly moved toward the edge of the town (Lady Catelyn could say it was a smooth ride all she wanted, but Brienne had kept it a very slow one as well for the sake of the babe), a boy’s voice called after them. “My lady! Lady Stark!”

Brienne, who rode her horse beside the sleigh was dismayed to see Lady Catelyn turn and call out the child’s name. “Ben? Ben, that is you!” Turning to the driver, she ordered, “Stop the sleigh.”

“My lady,” Brienne started, but Lady Catelyn silenced her with a glance and invited the boy into the sleigh with her.

“What can I do for you, young man?” she asked the boy, and Brienne noticed that the child looked terrified.

Lady Catelyn saw it, too, and asked, “Ben, what is it? What is wrong?”

The boy looked down. “It’s my mother, my lady. She’s . . .”

“What, Ben? What is wrong with your mother?”

“I . . .I don’t know. The man came and he . . .and now she won’t talk. I can’t get her to talk!” The boy looked at Lady Catelyn with wild and desperate eyes.

“What man? Where is your father, Ben?”

“My father’s at Winterfell, my lady. Working on the maester’s turret. He stays there most nights now because he says they’re working all the time to get it done.”

That was true enough, Brienne thought. Work on that turret had doubled since Maester Samwell’s arrival.

“What man?” Lady Catelyn repeated. “What did he do?”

“I don’t know,” Ben whispered. “He made me go outside, but I could hear her crying and now . . .I can’t make her talk!”

“Take me to her, Ben,” Lady Catelyn insisted, standing up in the sleigh.

“My lady!” Brienne objected. “It isn’t safe!” Turning to the boy, she said, “Tell us where she is, boy, and I’ll send soldiers to check on her.”

“No, Brienne,” Lady Catelyn said quietly. “You do realize what the child is describing, don’t you? If Kella has been violated so, the last thing she wants or needs is a visitation of armed men.” She looked down at Ben again. “Your house is near the center of the town, is it not?”

The boy looked panicked. “No, my lady! I mean, yes, it was, but we . . .took another one because of my father getting extra pay for the new turret at the castle. It’s on the edge, by the Kingsroad.”

“Well, there you have it, Brienne,” Lady Catelyn said. “We can take the sleigh, and you can come in with me. Once we know where the house is, send some men for the healer woman. She’s back in the town now that Sam is at Winterfell, and we may have need of her. The men can accompany us up to a point, but I don’t want them terrifying Kella by coming into her house.”

“My lady,” Brienne started again. “I don’t like it. I understand you are concerned about the woman’s health, but I must be concerned first about your safety.”

“I said you could come with me, Brienne,” Lady Catelyn smiled. “I do not doubt my safety when you are with me.”

When they pulled up at the little cottage just off the Kingsroad, Brienne could hear the muffled sound of a woman weeping. Lady Catelyn could hear it, too, and was out of the sleigh more quickly than she would have thought possible for a woman in her stage of pregnancy. Brienne paused only long enough to order some men to fetch the healer and others to surround the little house and search its environs. While she was obviously anxious to get to the woman, Lady Catelyn at least had the sense to wait for Brienne at the door. When Brienne reached her side and nodded to her, she knocked softly.

“Kella?” she called. “It’s Lady Stark. Ben’s brought me. May I come in?”

Something like a wail emanated from inside the house, but no other response was made.

“Please, my lady,” the little boy said, tugging on Lady Catelyn’s hand with tears in his eyes. “Please come inside to her.”

Lady Catelyn looked at her, and Brienne nodded. “Open the door,” she told the boy. He did so, quickly running inside to a straw bed in the middle of the room. On it, a woman lay on her side, facing away from the door, but Brienne could see blood on the blanket which covered her.

“Kella!” Lady Catelyn exclaimed, rushing into the room before Brienne could stop her. She walked rapidly toward the bed, and Brienne entered behind her, turning to look to the side as she entered. She started to shout for she saw two men hidden just beside the door against the wall, but before she could make a sound, something hit her head and she blacked out.

Her head hurt. For a moment,she wasn’t sure where she was, but then she heard someone laughing. “Looky there, milord. That big wench is waking up.”

“Indeed, she is,” came another voice, softer spoken than the first, but full of menace. As her vision cleared, Brienne followed the sound of that voice to the speaker and saw a large, somewhat fleshy man with blotchy skin, dark hair and the palest eyes she had ever seen. More alarmingly, she saw Lady Catelyn sitting beside him on the bed with her hands bound behind her and a rope around her neck. The man was holding the end of the rope.

He saw her eyes resting on the rope and laughed quietly. “It’s a snare, of sorts,” he said. “I’m a hunter, you see, and this particular little bitch has been rather harder to catch than I’d hoped, but I’ve got her now, don’t I?”

“You can’t hope to get out of here,” Brienne rasped at him, trying to sit up. “My men are all around this house.”

“Oh, I know that,” said the man, “But if they come in the house, I’ll kill her, and I’ve told them that.” He smiled. “I’d rather play with her, truth be told, but I’ll do what I have to do.”

Brienne looked around. “There were more than two men. Where is the other?”

He laughed again. “Well, I had to send someone out with her ladyship’s fingers, didn’t I? Just so they’d know I meant business.”

Brienne felt sick. She looked at Lady Catelyn and saw her shake her head almost imperceptibly. She couldn’t see her lady’s hands, but she didn’t look like a woman who had just been mutilated. Brienne remembered the blood on the bed when they’d entered.

“Let her go,” Brienne demanded, putting her hand to her sword hilt. Oathkeeper wasn’t there, of course.

“Brienne, don’t,” Lady Catelyn started to say, but the man pulled on the rope on her neck and she went silent after making a small choking sound.

“Now, I’ve told you, Lady Stark. Your job is to be very quiet. Every time you speak, I tighten this. Now, if it gets too tight . . .”

There were tears of pain in Lady Catelyn’s eyes, but Brienne saw her looking repeatedly to a spot just to the left of the man who held her whenever he looked away from her. Brienne followed her gaze and saw the top Oathkeeper’s ornate pommel just barely sticking out from underneath a cloak tossed on a table there. Brienne closed her own eyes and attempted to clear her mind and recover her strength.

While she knew her men were outside, they were eerily silent. Likely they had no idea what to do. Certainly none of them wished to be responsible for getting the Lady of Winterfell murdered. She wondered what options she had. She looked around the room. The man who had spoken first sat in a corner holding onto the boy, Ben, who cried almost silently. If she moved, that man would have to toss the boy off him before he could get to her. The woman lying on the bed behind Lady Catelyn and her captor, who most certainly had to be the Bastard of Bolton, no longer made any noise. Nor did she move.

Brienne thought very hard. _Remember girl, they’ll always underestimate you. Use that._ Ser Goodwin’s words came back to her. _With a good leap, I can reach my sword,_ she thought. _The pommel is pointed toward me. That man will not expect me to go for it, and I can run him through before he knows what’s happened. He is not wearing armor._ Of course, the other man was armed, and her back would be to him. It would take him only a moment to rid himself of the little boy, a moment she could use to kill the bastard, but not to turn and defend herself. _I can shout,_ she thought. _If I shout, the men will come in immediately._ _The second man will be forced to kill me first for I’ll be between him and Lady Catelyn. By the time he does that, our men will_ _be here to kill him._

She could not allow the situation to continue as it was. The rope was cutting into the skin on Lady Catelyn’s throat, she swayed slightly where she sat, and her face was an unhealthy color. Her lady was out of time, and Brienne was out of options. She fixed her eyes on Oathkeeper’s pommel, and in one move sprang forward as she screamed, “Attack!” at the top of her lungs.

Her fingers closed over her sword and she brought it up in one smooth motion, tossing the cloak into the air. She plunged it into the bastard’s heart with her second motion, watching those odd, colorless eyes go wide first in shock, and then in death. He hadn’t made a sound. She was somewhat aware of sounds behind her, men shouting, loud bangings and knocking, but she only knew she had to get to Lady Catelyn. She had to get that rope off her.

As she tried to move toward her, she felt oddly slow and heavy, but she saw the little boy rush toward her lady and claw at the rope with his fingers. He was still crying, and he was saying something. “I’m sorry, my lady. I’m sorry! He said he would kill her! He was going to kill her! I’m sorry, my lady!”

Brienne realized Lady Catelyn was crying as well. As soon as the rope at her throat was loosened, she gasped, “Oh, Brienne! Oh, my child!” and stood up unsteadily to come to her. _Why am I not going to her?_ Brienne wondered. That’s what she intended to do. “Someone get that healer woman!” Lady Catelyn shouted, although her voice sounded rough and wrong.

Suddenly, Brienne realized she was in Lady Catelyn’s arms. Lady Catelyn was sitting on the floor and she was holding Brienne’s head in her lap. She was crying freely now. “My lady?” Brienne asked, puzzled. It came out in an odd whisper.

“Shhh,” said Lady Catelyn. “Hush, child. Don’t try to talk.”

Looking to the side, Brienne saw the other man. Not the pale eyed man she’d killed. The one who’d held the boy in the corner. He was lying dead on the floor, but his hand still gripped a bloody sword. _Oh_ , she thought. _He did get to me. I thought he_ _would._ She hadn’t felt it. She hadn’t felt anything but her hand on Oathkeeper and the pressure of Oathkeeper sinking into the bastard’s chest. _Oathkeeper. Jaime_.

She couldn’t see Lady Catelyn very well any more, but she had to tell her. “I’m sorry, my lady,” she said with effort.

“No, Brienne, I am sorry. You have fulfilled every oath you’ve ever made me. You are the truest knight in all the land, maiden though you be.” It was hard to understand all of Lady Catelyn’s words because she was crying. Brienne didn’t want her to cry. _fulfilled every oath. Oathkeeper._

“Sword,” she said, and it was little more than a rasping breath. “Lord Eddard.”

“I’ll give it to him, Brienne. He will know what you did with it this day.”

 _Oathkeeper._ She couldn’t see at all now, and she could barely hear anything other than Lady Catelyn’s voice. There was one more thing, though. “Jaime.” It was so hard to make the word, she wasn’t sure she had, but Lady Catelyn heard her.

“He will know, Brienne. You have my word. He will know you kept your oath.”

Brienne smiled. At least she thought she did. She couldn’t really feel her face anymore. But that was all right. Her lady had heard her. And she had understood her. She always had.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you lovely people who are sticking with me through this story. There's still a bit to go, but the end is in sight. Please continue to let me know what you think. You have made writing this a really wonderful experience for me, even when it's painful.


	50. Remembrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another REALLY long one. Next one won't be quite this lengthy. I promise. :)

“You have to eat something, Mother.”

Sansa looked at her mother, sitting so silently by the bed, holding the bandaged hand of the woman who slept there. She didn’t look up.

“Mother, did you hear me?” she asked a little more loudly.

“I heard you perfectly well, Sansa. Lower your voice, child. She’s only just fallen asleep.”

Her mother’s voice still sounded hoarse, and the vivid purplish line of bruised, abraded skin still stood out on the pale flesh of her neck five days after the sleigh had been pulled back into Winterfell carrying Lady Catelyn, the battered townswoman, and the body of Lady Brienne of Tarth. Sansa would never forget how her mother had looked. She’d run to the gate to meet the returning sleigh, having heard that Lady Brienne and her lady mother had been taken hostage in Winter Town.

Lady Catelyn had stood up as soon the sleigh had come to a stop. Her face was pale with little red spots around her eyes. She swayed as she stood and braced herself by putting a hand on the edge of the sleigh. “Take this woman to my chambers and call Samwell to her,” she had ordered the men who gathered around, indicating the unconscious woman. She’d been barely able to speak above a harsh whisper, and her voice faltered more as she said, “And take my Lady Brienne where she can be properly treated. I must write her father . . .to see what he would have us do.” She’d sunk back down into the seat of the sleigh at that point, making no move to get out.

That’s when Sansa had taken a close enough look at Brienne’s form to realize that her mother’s lady knight was dead. “No,” she had whispered. “Oh gods, no.”

Her mother had heard her and turned slowly to face her. “The fault was mine,” she’d said in that whisper of a voice, sounding almost dead, “and she paid the price. She gave me my life and the life of my babe.”

Just then loud shouts had accompanied the arrival of several more horses one of which dragged something through the snow. Looking more closely, Sansa nearly retched. It was a man’s body, obviously dead and very much battered after having been dragged here from Winter Town.

“The bastard, my lady,” said the man on the horse which pulled the grisly corpse. “What shall be done with him?”

Her mother had stood again, looking down at the dead man with hatred colder than all the snow around them in her blue eyes. “Mount his head by the gate. Let it rot there.”

“Mother,” Sansa had started to say.

“It shall rot there,” her mother had repeated, her rasping voice growing louder, “For the Lady Brienne, for Jeyne Poole, for the nameless boys he helped Theon put there in your brothers’ place, for everyone he’s killed and maimed.” She had started to step out of the sleigh then and swayed badly, causing her to stumble. A man caught her, and held her up. Sansa saw that it was Deryk, and she was glad. She trusted Deryk. Her mother had looked up at him and said, “I would go to my chambers now, if you could assist me.” Turning to Sansa she’d said. “Bring me parchment and ink, Sansa. I have letters to write.”

Sansa had run to do as her mother asked, still in shock over Brienne and full of questions about what had happened. She’d met Arya, Dak, and Rickon coming from the godswood and stopped long enough to give them the dreadful news. Arya had gone very still, biting her lip. Rickon had sprinted away for Mother’s chambers before she could stop him, and Dak had simply asked quietly, “What can I do for you, my lady?”

“Go after Rickon, please Dak,” she’d sighed. “I think Mother is all right, but she is in shock and grieving, and I don’t know that she needs him hanging on her right now. Let him see her, but then take him out.”

Dak had nodded and gone after Rickon.

“The bastard is dead? Who killed him?” Arya had asked as Dak walked away.

“I don’t know,” Sansa had said. “I really don’t know anything, Arya, except that Lady Brienne is dead, and Mother is . . .Mother is like I’ve never seen her.” She’d found herself speaking more freely once she was alone with her sister.

Arya’s eyes had darkened at that. “Mother wants Brienne back,” she’d said. “She can’t have that, so she wants them to pay. The bastard and all of his men. I wonder if she killed him, too.”

“What are you talking about, Arya?”

“Gods, Sansa! How can you be so blind to things?” Arya had exploded. “Even Rickon knows Mother killed Roose Bolton! I wonder if she killed his bastard, too. It does something to you to kill a man, even a bad one. It’s . . .not like anything else.”

Arya’s face had been twisted with grief or fear or anger, or some combination of all of them. Sansa had been unable to read her clearly, and her sister’s words had cut her like a blade. She’d been afraid that Arya had killed men. That she’d had to do terrible things to survive. But Mother? Her gentle lady mother was not a killer. She couldn’t comprehend that at all. Then she’d recalled the woman who’d stood up in the sleigh to look at Ramsay Snow’s brutalized corpse. _That woman could kill a man,_ she’d thought.

She’d realized Arya was pushing past her in the corridor. “Where are you going?”

“To see my mother. And don’t worry. I won’t hang on her.” With that, Arya had gone, and Sansa, not knowing what else to do had gone to her father’s solar to retrieve parchment, ink, and quill as her lady mother had asked of her.

When she’d arrived in her mother’s chambers, she’d found only her mother, Samwell Tarly, and the unconscious woman in her mother’s bed. “I have your parchment, Mother.”

“Thank you, Sansa. Put it on the table here.” Her mother was seated in a chair by the little table, and while she still didn’t look like herself, she at least didn’t look like she was about to fall over now. Samwell Tarly was bent over the woman in mother’s bed, doing something to one of her hands, and Sansa had realized she recognized her.

“That’s Kella, isn’t it?” she’d said. “The woman who stayed here at the castle for awhile with her little boy.”

“Yes,” her mother had said with no further explanation. She had a piece of parchment stretched out on the table before her and was already dipping the quill into the ink. “I have several letters to write, Sansa,” she’d said without looking up.

“Rickon and Arya . . .”

“They were here. I told them I am well and sent them on their way. Sam needed to examine Kella, and that is rather difficult without some manner of privacy.”

She’d sounded so cold and hard. Only later did Sansa realize she’d been desperately trying to keep from falling apart. “Should I go, Mother?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll send up food for you. What room would you like me to prepare for Kella?”

“Kella stays here.”

“But, Mother. You must go to bed yourself! You’ve been hurt. Your neck!”

“I will manage, Sansa. It is a large room. I can have a cot brought in.” She’d looked up from her parchment for the first time then, and her blue eyes had softened just a bit. “Kella was abused, Sansa. The Bastard of Bolton beat her and raped her, and it would seem he allowed his men to do the same. He flayed the skin from three of her fingers and then cut those fingers from her hands. He did all of this for my benefit. He knew I would come to her aid. All that he did to her, he intended to do to me. And would have, had it not been for Brienne.”

Sansa had stood, horrified, unable to speak for the longest time.

“Perhaps you should sit down, Lady Sansa.” She’d heard Samwell’s voice and realized he had come to stand beside her. She’d allowed him to lead her to a chair next to Mother’s.

“Nothing that evil man did was your fault, Mother,” she’d whispered, realizing she was echoing her mother’s own words to her back in the Eyrie.

“He murdered fourteen people because I denied him Jeyne Poole and refused to be killed by the men he sent out.” Her mother had spoken matter of factly. “I will care for Kella here until she is better.” Her mother had then returned to her letter writing.

After a moment, Sansa had risen to go, but her mother’s voice stopped her just as she reached the door.

“I have named Deryk Captain of the Guard.” Her mother had sounded desolate as she spoke those words, and Sansa’s heart had broken.

“Lady Brienne would approve,” she’d said softly just before leaving the room.

In the five days that came after, Lord Mallister had led his men on raids into the Wolfswood and the areas surrounding Winter Town daily. Without the bastard to lead them, his men seemed defeated and confused. Some were captured and others simply turned themselves in. No mercy was given to any of them. At her mother’s order, all captured Bolton men were beheaded in the square of the town, that the people there might see justice done for their dead. All the executions were presided over by Deryk or Lord Mallister. Her mother attended none of them, for she would not leave her chamber. After her letters had been written and taken to the ravens by Samwell, and she had made clear her orders for the punishment of the guilty men, she had seemed to sink within herself, and Sansa thought her mother’s world had shrunk to only the woman who remained in her bed.

Kella had awakened the day after her arrival, screaming and begging to be allowed to die. Mother had to force milk of the poppy on her to get her to calm down and sleep again. She gradually reached a point where she tolerated Mother’s presence, but screamed if anyone else came into the room when she was awake. She’d become particularly hysterical when her husband and son were brought into the room, sobbing that she was no longer fit for either of them. Sansa feared the woman would never be right again, and she feared more that if Kella didn’t recover, her mother would never be right either.

Her mother slept little if at all on the cot that had been placed in her room. She only ate when Sansa forced her. Her eyes were sunken in and she looked to Sansa to be thinner than she had been even with her swollen middle.

“You must eat something, Mother,” she repeated. “If not for you, for the baby.”

Her mother sighed and pulled her hand from the sleeping woman’s. “You are right,” she said wearily. She walked to the tray on the table and absently pushed the food around the plate with a fork, finally taking a single bite. Kella made a sound in her sleep, and she instantly looked to the woman.

“She’s still sleeping, Mother. Keep eating.”

Her mother sat down then and took another bite. It appeared to cost her great effort to do so.

“Have Arya and Rickon been in to see you yet today?”

“Yes. They seem subdued.”

Now Sansa sighed. “They miss you, Mother. We all miss you. I know you want to take care of Kella, but surely you can . . .”

“She’s terrified,” her mother interrupted. “No one else can get her to eat. No one else can talk to her. I must stay here, Sansa.”

Sansa remained silent as her mother took a third bite, and then tried a new approach. “Stannis Baratheon is sitting in Father’s solar. In Father’s chair.”

She waited for her mother to react. Six days ago, her lady mother would have already been out the door at such words and woe to Lord Stannis if she arrived in that solar to find him in Father’s chair. “He doesn’t belong there,” she said now softly, but she made no move to go. After a moment, she pushed the tray away from her. “I cannot eat any more, Sansa. Leave it, if you will, and perhaps I shall eat a bit more later.” With those words, her mother moved back toward the bed and the sleeping Kella.

Sansa looked after her for only a moment before getting up to leave. _How can you leave us, Mother? You’re right there, but_ _you’ve left us. And you said you wouldn’t._ Tears stung at her eyes, and she didn’t say anything to her mother as she left the room. She supposed she should go and say something to Lord Stannis herself, but the thought terrified her. She wished she had Brienne with her. Brienne would run Stannis Baratheon out of her father’s solar in an instant. Sansa missed her terribly. They’d all grown so dependent upon the young woman from Tarth, and her absence left an enormous hole in their world.

No one missed Brienne as much as her mother did. _That’s what’s really wrong with her,_ Sansa thought. _Something broke in_ _Mother when that man killed Brienne._ She knew that her mother had seen Robb killed as well and wondered if she broke then, too. And if she had, what had fixed her. _Father, maybe?_ She wished her father were there now and prayed he would come home to Winterfell soon.

As she walked toward her father’s solar, she was terrified about facing Lord Stannis. She couldn’t imagine he would listen to a mere girl. _You are four and ten,_ she told herself. _At four and ten, your brother Robb led an army to war. You can talk to Stannis Baratheon._

She entered the solar without knocking and saw the bald top of Lord Stannis’s head bent over something on the table before him. He didn’t hear her enter.

“Lord Stannis,” she said. “I did not expect to see you here. I came to look over some of my lady mother’s ledgers.” She hoped her voice did not give her lie away. It sounded steady enough to her. Her time in King’s Landing and the Eyrie had taught her some things.

“I have been going over the ledgers myself, Lady Sansa. Your mother appears to keep quite a strict accounting of things.”

“And by whose permission do you do that, my lord?”

“Your Grace,” the man said pointedly. “You address the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, my lady. Kindly give me the respect of my proper title.”

The man’s voice was courteous enough, but entirely without warmth. _This is my home,_ thought Sansa angrily. She walked up to the table, drawing herself up to her full height to look down at the man where he sat. “I address you as my lord father does and my lady mother. If you take issue with that, _my lord,_ you may take it up with either of my parents as I am an obedient daughter. Surely, you can respect that. You have a daughter of your own, do you not?”

He actually chuckled at that, although Sansa thought perhaps she’d never heard more joyless laughter. “You’re a Stark, all right, for all you have your mother’s face. Prickly and convinced you have the right of things.”

She met his eyes. “I have heard similar things said of you, my lord.”

“No doubt you have.” He looked down at the various ledgers scattered on the table for a moment and then back up at her. “Your mother will not leave her chambers, and I have not been allowed in to speak with her. Lord Mallister spends most of his time keeping order in that collection of huts you call a town, and the Maid of Tarth is dead. There are wights and Others south of the Wall, and they could advance on Winterfell at any time. South of the Neck, the Lannister bastard remains on my throne and the Greyjoy fleet reaves along the western coast. It is not a time for Winterfell to be left without a leader.”

“My lady mother rules in Winterfell. My lord father made that very clear before he went north.”

Lord Stannis looked around the room, widening his eyes slightly. “Is your lady mother here? I do not see Lady Catelyn doing much in the way of ruling at present.”

Sansa wanted to slap him. Because he was being disrespectful. And because he spoke truly and that hurt. “My lady mother has suffered. And she is caring for a grievously wounded woman from town. If you would care to assist her while she is so burdened, Lord Stannis, I accept your offer on her behalf. But you will not set yourself up as lord here. You are the Lord of Dragonstone, and we are in Winterfell. That is my lord father’s chair.”

Lord Stannis actually smiled at her then, although it didn’t reach his eyes. “You are indeed a Stark and a Tully, my lady. All your father’s stubborn pride and your mother’s insistent loyalty to family.” He stood up, towering over her, as he was not a small man. “Very well, Lady Sansa of Winterfell. I have been looking at correspondence from Lord Umber and from Perwyn Frey at the Wall as well as the inventory of weaponry we have here including the dragonglass sent by Lord Manderly. I also have a recent letter from my own lady wife. I would like to discuss the defenses here at the castle and what changes we might make in the deployment of men now that we seem to have eradicated most of the threat from House Bolton. Where would you have me sit?”

 _He expects me to back down. He doesn’t think I know enough about war and defense to speak with him. And by myself, I don’t._ She smiled sweetly at him. “Choose any seat you like, my lord. Other than that one.”

As Lord Stannis Baratheon removed himself from in front of her father’s chair and pulled another toward the table, she told him, “If you would allow me to call for our Captain of the Guard, he and I will be happy to listen to your thoughts and entertain any suggestions you might have to bring to my lady mother.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The fire in the hearth had been kindled up to roaring proportions, and steam rose from the drink in his hands. Still, the bitter cold remained deeply embedded in Ned Stark’s bones, and he wondered if he would ever truly be warm again. The Wall and the gate to Castle Black had been a welcome enough sight when they’d reached it the previous day, but the four travelers had been too weighted down by grief to experience any true joy at their arrival here. Warmth and safety had come too late for two of their number, and Ned felt hollow as he thought of them.

Absently, he sipped from his cup as he sat by the fire in Jon’s quarters. Bran lay sleeping in Jon’s bed, and Ned wondered, as he always did, if Bran truly rested or merely fled to be wakeful in another form. His son had seemed barely present even when awake since the loss of Hodor, and Ned wanted desperately to get him back to Winterfell in hopes that the presence of his mother and siblings could help lift him from the despairing guilt that his father recognized all too well.

Meera Reed slept, too, although it had taken dreamwine to accomplish it. Now she lay silent and still with her eyes closed on a cot even nearer the hearth than Ned’s chair. Before the dreamwine, she had sat silent and still with eyes opened and staring at nothing. Ned had not heard her utter a word since Howland’s death. Nor had she shed a tear since she had sobbed disconsolately as she’d watched her father’s body burned.

 _Howland._ Ned could scarcely allow his thoughts to go there if he wished to continue breathing and thinking and moving himself. It was too much. Donnell’s loss had wounded him badly, but Howland’s crippled him. During all the worst days of his life, Howland Reed had been a constant--keeping his confidences, lending him aid, offering him counsel. The quiet, unassuming Lord of Greywater Watch had never asked for anything in return. Not one damn thing! Ned had relied upon the man as surely as a shipwreck victim holds to a lifeboat, first at Lyanna’s death and again at Catelyn’s imprisonment at the Twins, and Howland had not let him drown either time. Yet, in all the intervening years of peace and contentment, not once did he feast his friend at Winterfell or proclaim the man’s valour and loyalty for all to hear. No. He had allowed the uncomplaining Howland to remain in relative anonymity in his swamp without reward or acclaim, Ned’s own great secret taking precedence over any recognition due the crannogman. He’d thought to correct that. He’d thought he had time. He shook his head slowly as he swallowed the warm liquid from his cup. _I should know better by now. Time is never promised, and I have wasted so much of it._

He set the cup down and rubbed at his temples, wondering when Jon would return. He should have gone with him. Jon was meeting with Perwyn Frey, some others of the Night’s Watch, some of Selyse Baratheon’s men, and Davos Seaworth, who had ridden into Castle Black just that morning with news from the lines set up south of the Wall. He knew should have gone with them. He needed to hear all the discussions, but Lord Seaworth’s words had felled him as surely as an axe. _Lady Mormont was_ _killed in the fighting._ He had been unable to respond, unable to form words at all. He vaguely remembered Jon bringing him to this chair and requesting that Satin bring him a drink.

“You will stay here with Bran and Meera, Father. They need you,” Jon had said, before leaving with Seaworth and Perwyn to meet the others. Ned didn’t know that the sleeping children needed him at all, but he knew he was quite unable to attend any strategy session at the moment so he’d remained here without argument. _Jon called me Father._ He recalled that clearly enough.

 _Maege._ How could that vibrant, strong she-bear of a woman be gone from the world? She was more alive than most people he’d ever met, brave as any soldier and deadly with that spiked mace of hers, and yet as caring and understanding of people as his own wife was. At the thought of his wife, his chest tightened and her words came back to him, those she had spoken before they’d left the Twins for Riverrun. _I wish I were like Maege Mormont. I wish I could ride at your side and wield and axe_ _or a sword at anyone who threatened._ Those hadn’t been idle words. Catelyn and Maege were more alike than he sometimes cared to think about, and he thanked the gods that Cat had been raised as a lady in Riverrun rather than as a warrior on Bear Island or it could well be her loss that he mourned now.

He was terrified for Catelyn and the children at Winterfell. Apparently, the Others repeatedly staged attacks on the men between them and the castles to the south and were held back largely because they did not come in mass or simply retreated on their own after a time. No one knew where they went or why. Both Valyrian steel and dragonglass had proved effective, but they had not enough of either. Perwyn had received a letter from Catelyn telling of more obsidian weapons procured from White Harbor which she was sending north, and he hoped she had kept some back for Winterfell’s own defenses. Surely, she had. No word had been received of the men Tormund had led out for Hardhome. At Castle Black, small numbers of Others were seen occasionally north of the Wall, but none seemed interested in approaching. It seemed as if all the north were waiting for something, and Ned could not begin to know what it was.

He tried to keep his mind focused on the problem of these Others or on the logistics of getting Bran to Winterfell, but he found his mind refusing to let go of the people he’d lost and those he still feared to lose. The expressions on their faces came to him as clearly as if they sat beside him in the room: Howland’s when he’d first clasped his hand after arriving to Greywater Watch from White Harbor. Donnell’s when Ned had asked him to spar with the Lady Brienne. Maege’s when she spoke to him of Catelyn’s courage. Hal Mollen’s when he’d first seen him and Cat alive again. Sansa’s when she’d first seen her mother in the Eyrie. Rickon’s when he’d begged to be allowed to come north with Ned. Arya’s when she’d told him she understood justice. Robb’s . . .Robb’s when he’d bid his father farewell at Winterfell and promised gravely to hold it safely until Ned’s return. Robb’s as his mother unwrapped his tiny form and showed his perfect face with its blue eyes to Ned for the first time. Catelyn’s as she held Robb up to him that day with her own blue eyes full of pride and love for her child. Catelyn’s as she trembled in a dark wood and told him of Robb’s death.

He thought that surely there must be a point where the losses became too much, and he wondered how close to that point he had already come. _Please gods,_ he prayed silently as he stared into the flames, _Please keep Catelyn and all our remaining_ _children safe. I cannot lose them._ Then he simply awaited Jon’s return, kept company by sleeping children, his thoughts, and his ghosts.

He had no idea how much time had passed before he heard the door open, but he rose from the chair, bad leg protesting painfully, to greet Jon and noted that the young man’s grey eyes looked over him with concern.

“I am quite well, Jon,” he said. “Come and tell me of your discussions with the men.” He looked at the two sleeping children. “Perhaps, we should go into the other room, though.”

Jon nodded, and the two men walked into Jon’s small sitting room and both took seats. “Basically, we are at a bit of standstill,” Jon said. “We dare not withdraw from any of our defense points lest the Others then simply continue on to Last Hearth or the Karhold or other points south. Yet, we cannot mount any type of offensive to drive them back to the Wall.” He sighed. “We do not know what their plans are or if they even make plans. Their attacks seem random and completely without purpose at times, but how do we discern the motives of creatures not even human? What do they want? Why are they here?”

Jon’s voice sounded more angry and desperate as he spoke, and Ned recalled how truly young he still was. “We may never know their purpose, Jon,” he said quietly. “I would certainly like to discover it if it could help us defeat them, but I do not know if they have any goal beyond simple destruction. Of course, if destruction is their goal, why have they not fallen on us in any type of large scale attack like they mounted at Eastwatch? That attack certainly showed some purpose.” Ned shook his head. “You are correct, I fear. At present, we cannot push forward and can only hope to keep from being pushed back. And men will quickly tire of being asked to simply remain at a spot in the snow, waiting to be attacked.”

“The men are already tired,” Jon said. “Lord Seaworth reports that almost all the companies are having trouble with desertion. Including companies of the Night’s Watch.”

“Mayhaps, if you have the numbers, you can rotate men, giving the Night’s Watch men respite at castles on the Wall and perhaps the other men some respite at Last Hearth and the Karhold if Lord Umber and Alys Karstark are agreeable.

Jon chuckled. “Well, the Karhold is currently under the rule of Sigorn, Lord of House Thenn, until we know for certain whether Alys’s brother lives or not, but I suspect Alys exercises a good bit of influence over her husband. And your point is well taken. Some time away from the frozen lines may prevent men from simply leaving. I will discuss it with Lord Seaworth before he heads back to his command. He is writing letters, by the way, for you to take to Stannis Baratheon at Winterfell. Ravens have become less reliable with the onset of winter.”

“I shall take them,” Ned replied. He looked at Jon carefully. “You shall not be coming to Winterfell with us?”

Jon met his eyes. “I am Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. My place is at the Wall.”

Ned nodded, pride in this young man that he loved so dearly swelling in his heart. “You will do well by the Watch, Jon. Your brothers chose wisely when they elected you.”

Jon smiled at him. “My brothers were swayed by Sam. He is too clever by half when he chooses to be. He is at Winterfell, by the way, Samwell Tarly, the one I told you I had sent to Citadel.”

“The maester? That is good to hear. I would like a maester there when Catelyn is to be delivered of this new babe.”

“Well, I doubt he is a maester, as he hasn’t been in Oldtown long enough, but if I know Sam, he’s read virtually every book in the Citadel and knows as much as many maesters already. Lady Stark wrote of his arrival when she sent word of the dragonglass weapons.” Jon smiled at him again. “It would appear that Lady Stark writes often. Any news of the realm that arrives in Winterfell is sent onward by raven to Castle Black. Of course, some of the ravens undoubtedly are lost. Perwyn tells me that sometimes in her writing she references letters he has not received.”

Ned frowned at that. “I hope it is only the weather that sends them astray. I do not like the idea of them being intercepted. The Bastard of Bolton has still not been caught?”

Jon shook his head. “Not as far as I know. Lord Mallister has arrived with men from the Riverlands, and they are patrolling the area around the castle and town. She hasn’t said much more than that about Ramsay Snow, although she has reported that construction on various buildings at Winterfell, including the glass gardens, proceeds well in spite of the snow and cold."

Ned smiled in spite of his worries at the thought of his wife overseeing the rebuilding of their home. He thought it very unlikely she’d allow a small complication like winter to prevent her from making progress in those endeavors.

“She writes of things far from Winterfell, as well. News and rumors.” Jon spoke quietly, but something in his voice pulled Ned from his thoughts of Catelyn at Winterfell.

“What news and rumors?”

“Danaerys Targaryen, for one,” Jon said. “You know we had heard she’d done any number of things in Slaver’s Bay and had been set up as a queen in Meereen. Subsequently many different rumors have been heard. That she was killed, that she was not killed but had returned to the Dothraki riding on a great dragon, that she had left Meereen only to return to it flying on her dragon and leading a Dothraki horde.”

“Catelyn wrote you of these things?”

“Apparently she has heard such things from both Lord Manderly and Lord Tully at Riverrun. What the truth may be, no one knows, but . . .” Jon hesitated.

“What is it, Jon?” Ned asked him.

“There is one thing I did not discuss with Perwyn or anyone else, but I would like to discuss it with you.”

Ned simply nodded and waited for Jon to continue.

“You are certain it was Rhaegar Targaryen who fathered me on your sister?”

Whatever Ned had expected the boy to say, it was not that. He clenched his jaw against the hard tone of Jon’s voice and said simply, “Yes.”

“Then I am a dragon as well as a wolf, am I not?”

 _You are the blood of House Stark,_ Ned thought. He had spent the boy’s lifetime willing himself to think only that, fearful of allowing the truth even into his thoughts. “Yes,” he said again.

Now, Jon nodded thoughtfully. “I believe that Danaerys Targaryen does have dragons,” he said. “I have dreamed of them.”

Ned looked at him. Carefully, he said, “A dream can be anything, Jon. Or nothing.”

Jon shook his head. “You know the kind of dream I mean. You know I dream with Ghost just as Bran does with Summer. And Arya and Rickon with their wolves. And you know that Bran does the same with ravens and the gods know what else.”

Ned nodded briefly, his jaw clenching more tightly. He still did not like to think long on precisely what all Bran was able to do.

“I didn’t just dream of dragons,” Jon said quietly. “I was a dragon. I didn’t know the first time. I dreamt the first dream north of the Wall, before Hodor and Howland were . . .” He shook his head. “I was flying. I was flying over a city I had never seen with great pyramids within it. When I looked at my arms, I saw great, green wings instead.”

Ned said nothing. _Meereen has pyramids,_ he thought. He’d never seen Meereen, but he knew that much about it.

“Then last night, I dreamed again,” Jon said. “This time, I flew out of the city, over a river and above a broad endless expanse of green. I heard the call of another creature and I knew I belonged with it, just as Ghost knows he belongs with Summer and the rest of his pack. I flew toward the call, and in the sky ahead of me, were two enormous, terrifying and beautiful creatures--one cream and gold and the other, even larger, black as night. I’ve seen enough pictures. They were dragons. I looked at my own green wings and I knew then. I was a dragon.” Jon had been looking away as he spoke, but now he turned his grey eyes, so like Ned’s own, back toward Ned. “I am a dragon . . .just as I am a wolf.”

Ned was quiet a bit longer before saying, “So you believe Danaerys Targaryen’s dragons are real.”

“I know they are. These dreams were as real as those I have with Ghost. And dragons could be precisely what we need to defeat these Others.” A low current of excitement now ran through Jon’s voice.

“Dragons can defeat many things, Jon. They conquered this whole continent and have been known to burn friend and foe alike. Dragons are as powerful and dangerous as anything the world has ever known. And Targaryens have ridden them both to victory and to their own ruin. As for Danaerys Targaryen, I helped lead the rebellion that destroyed her family and left her orphaned and exiled in Essos. The girl has little reason to befriend House Stark.”

“Mayhaps,” Jon responded, “But if one of her dragons is mine the same way that Ghost is mine . . .”

“Go carefully, Jon,” Ned cautioned, filled with fear for this son who was not his son. “I would ask that you go very carefully here.”

Jon nodded. “And I would ask that you go very carefully when you leave for Winterfell on the morrow,” he said, effectively turning the conversation away from dragons and Danaerys Targaryen. “I have assigned a small escort to ride with you and Bran and Meera. Oh, don’t bother protesting,” he said, as Ned started to interrupt. “The Kingsroad is beyond anyplace the Others have reached so far, but there is always the possibility of bandits, and we do not know where Ramsay Snow and his men are. You cannot possibly fight effectively with Bran bound to you on your horse, so you will take fighting men with you.”

Ned smiled just a little. “As you wish, Lord Commander.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

He didn’t knock. He simply opened the door and went inside very quickly because wherever the guard had gone, he would be back soon. Mother sat by her bed looking at that woman. Rickon wished the woman would just wake up and get out of Mother’s bed already. Sansa had explained to him that the woman had been hurt and Mother had to take care of her and that she really was getting better each day, but he was tired of waiting for her to be well. There were other sick people and hurt people in the castle and they didn’t have to stay in Mother’s bed until they were well.

Mother’s hair was messy. He didn’t like that. Her hair was never messy except the times he came into her room early in the morning before she’d gotten out of bed. Since Father had left, it wasn’t even messy then, he realized, because she normally slept with it pulled back in a braid now.

“You need to fix your hair,” he said sullenly, and she looked up at him.

“Rickon! What are you doing here?” Her face looked all wrong. It didn’t look angry exactly, but it didn’t look all happy like it usually did when she looked at him. Maybe she was upset by what he said about her hair.

“It’s time for the evening meal. I came to get you. I want you to come with me.”

“Milady?” the woman on the bed stirred and opened her eyes, and Mother turned back to her.

“Hush, Kella. It’s all right. It’s only my little son, Rickon. He’s not even as big as your Ben yet. See?”

The woman turned to look at him for a brief moment. _Good,_ he thought. She’s awake. _She can get out of Mother’s bed._ “Oh,” the woman said. “Did he say something about evening meal?”

“Yes, he did. I’m sure the girl will be bringing our food shortly. Do you think you can eat a little more tonight?”

The woman smiled weakly. “I’ll try, milady. Is it Anna? I like Anna.”

“Yes,” his mother said. “Anna will be serving us. I know you’ve gotten used to her. I think I shall make her your personal maidservant.”

“My own maidservant . . .” the woman said as if that were an odd thing to think about. Then she turned her head and stared off at the wall, ignoring Mother and Rickon.

Still, Mother sat by the bed, not moving to get up, and Rickon swallowed hard, remembering the way she’d sat by Bran’s bed, never getting up for him no matter how much he begged or cried. Well, he wasn’t a baby now, and he wasn’t going to cry.

“I told you I wanted you to come to the Great Hall for your meal, Mother,” he said more loudly. “I want you to come with me.”

“I can’t, Rickon. Not this evening.” She was staring at the woman in the bed, looking worried about her. Rickon didn’t know why. She wasn’t screaming or crying or anything. She just lay there staring at the wall which was weird, but not likely to hurt her. Suddenly Rickon was very tired of his mother ignoring him for this strange woman who didn’t even seem to want her attention.

“You have to come to the Hall,” he yelled at her. “I order you as the Lord of Winterfell!”

At that, she turned around to face him, and Rickon took a step back when he saw her face. She looked very sad and scared, but very angry all at once. She did get up then and walked over to him, going down on her knees to get to his level. “Don’t you say that!” she hissed at him, grabbing his arms, not really tightly enough to hurt, but hard enough to be uncomfortable. “Your father is the Lord of Winterfell. Your father is alive, do you hear me? Don’t ever say that!” There were tears coming out of her eyes now, and Rickon felt tears stinging his own eyes in spite of not wanting to be a crybaby.

“I . . I . . .didn’t meant that. I mean, I’m the Stark in Winterfell while Father is gone, aren’t I? Of course, Father is alive, and he’s coming back. He has to come back, Mother.”

Her hands were still on his arms, but her grip had relaxed slightly. She still looked at him, but somehow she didn’t seem to see him. Rickon thought she looked far away and that scared him. Her going away scared him far more than her yelling at him had. He pulled his arms free and grabbed at her arms with his hands.

“Please, don’t go away, Mother! Please. You can’t go away again. I won’t let you.” He realized he was shaking her arms. “I will not let you go! I won’t!”

Suddenly, Mother sobbed and grabbed him, pulling him as tightly against her as she could over the big baby lump. “Oh, Rickon! I am sorry. I am so, so sorry, my baby.” She was crying again, but she was holding him tightly and she was right there with him, so that was better.

After a moment, she pushed him away just enough to look at his face. He tried very hard not to cry as he looked back at her. “Rickon,” she said very seriously. “I am not going away. I will never go away again, if I can help it.” Then she smiled at him, a real smile, Mother’s smile. “Thank you, my precious, precious boy for not letting me go. I won’t let you go, either. All right?”

He nodded at her, and she kissed his cheek before going back to the bed and walking around to the side the woman still faced. “Kella,” she said softly. “I know you are still frightened, but you have to start getting better. For Ben. For your husband. Anna will be here soon, and when she gets here, I’m going to the Great Hall to eat my meal with my son while Anna helps you with yours. I will be back after that.”

Rickon grinned. Mother was coming with him. The woman on the bed didn’t speak, but she did seem to look at Mother and maybe even nod. At least she moved her head just a little.

Mother looked back at him. “As soon as the girl brings Kella’s food, we’ll go down, Rickon. Will you wait with me?”

Rickon’s grin grew wider. “Yes, my lady,” he said the way he thought Father might say it, and he was rewarded with another of Mother’s smiles. “But, Mother, you really do need to fix your hair first. If you go to the Hall with it like that, Sansa might die.”

Rickon thought the sound of his mother’s laughter as she walked to her dressing table was the most wonderful thing he’d ever heard.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Do you think I will have a new brother or sister when we reach Winterfell?” Bran asked. They had been riding longer than usual that day, and he’d given up all pretense of trying to look like a man grown and now had his head resting back on his father’s chest in exhaustion.

“I do not know, Bran,” his father sighed. “If our new wolf pup is as impatient to see the world as you were, then likely yes. If this one is as loath to leave the comfort of your mother’s womb as your sister Sansa was, then probably not. I rather hope he takes after her as I promised your mother I would do all in my power to return and see him born.”

“Or her,” Bran said quickly.

“Or her,” his father agreed.

Bran thought carefully about his father’s words. “You didn’t promise Mother you would be there, though, did you? I mean, you didn’t make a promise that you might not be able to keep.”

“No, Bran. I try not to make promises I cannot keep. And I would not lie to your mother.”

Father’s voice had the sound to it Bran knew was accompanied by a tightening of his jaw and a stern expression. He didn’t have to see his face to know how he looked.

“I didn’t mean to make promises I couldn’t keep,” Bran whispered. “I didn’t mean to lie when I told Rickon that Robb would come back or Meera that Jojen would be all right. I didn’t mean to lie, Father.” _I never told anyone what I did with Hodor,_ _though, and I knew I shouldn’t do it. That was the same as a lie._ Meera knows I’m a liar. He felt the sting of the tears that always threatened when he thought about Hodor.

“Bran, you were trying to comfort your brother and your friend. And you told them only what you wished to have happen. That isn’t the same as a lie.”

“But you won’t do it. Did you promise Mother you would find me? That you would bring me safe to Winterfell?”

“No.” His father’s voice sounded hard as ice. “I promised only that I would try all I could. I have lived too long to offer false comforts however sweet they may be. But when I had seen but nine years, I would probably have promised anything to ease the heart of one I loved.” His voice softened considerably as he spoke the last sentence, and Bran felt the arm that Father had around him tighten slightly over his chest.

“Ten,” he said. “I’ve seen ten years now. I asked the date yesterday.” He couldn’t quite put into words what had made him do that. He hadn’t known or cared what day it was for so long, but when he’d awakened in his brother Jon’s warm bed, he’d known the number of days that had passed since Hodor’s death, and Meera’s father’s. It had suddenly seemed important to know precisely when they’d died and so he’d asked Satin for the date when he’d brought him his breakfast. It bothered him that he didn’t know the date of Jojen’s death. Too many uncounted days had passed since then. Only later had it occurred to him that he had been ten years old for over half a year now. That didn’t seem as important as knowing when Hodor and Lord Reed died. Bran thought Hodor should have a stone in the lichyard at Winterfell even if they had to burn him north of the Wall, and he wanted the date to be right. He owed him that.

"Ten," his father repeated softly, shaking his head. "It is hard to imagine so much time has passed, but you are quite right. Your tenth nameday is long past by now, isn't it?" His voice sounded impossibly sad now, and Bran closed his eyes wishing that to be home already, wishing that the more than two years he'd been away had never happened. 

“Lord Stark,” a man hailed his father as he pulled his horse up beside theirs. “We must stop soon, my lord. The horses are beyond weary, and the men too, I fear.”

“Yes,” his father said. “I have pushed us hard, I know. But I believe we might just make Winterfell tomorrow now. Let’s stop and make camp.”

“Truly, Father?” Bran asked. “You think tomorrow? I didn’t know we were so close.”

His father laughed, patiently waiting for the man who always helped him get Bran down from the horse. “Why do you think I’ve had us ride so far today? We are close enough that I grow impatient to be there. But yes, it is possible we will see Winterfell by sundown tomorrow if the weather holds. The next day at the latest.”

Bran felt an odd flutter in his heart at the thought of actually being in Winterfell. It’s all he’d wanted ever since he’d seen his mother in front of the heart tree there, but his excitement was tinged with apprehension. So much had happened since then. Terrible things had happened since then. He suspected that even more terrible things had happened to his family since he’d seen them last, and he wondered if they could ever truly be all right again, even in Winterfell.

Still, anticipation was foremost in his mind when Meera entered the tent the two of them shared with his father a bit later. “Meera, Father says we may be home tomorrow!”

She looked down at him as he reclined on his cot and her face darkened. “You may be home. I will not be.”

Instantly, Bran regretted his words. Meera had finally started talking again, over the long days of this journey, but she was still sad and prone to going off by herself. She had now lost half her family. Of course, she didn’t want to hear about Bran’s impending reunion with his own family.

“I’m sorry, Meera,” he said. “But you will stay with us in Winterfell, won’t you?”

She stared at him. “No, Bran. I will not. I will spend the night there because your father insists that these men accompany me all the way to Moat Cailin, and they deserve a good meal and a decent night’s rest. The journey from the Wall has been easy enough compared to some winter travels, but it is winter. I won’t begrudge the men a night by an actual hearth however badly I wish to move on.”

“Moat Cailin?” Bran asked. “Why do you want to go there?”

“My father’s . . .my men are there,” she said. “Your father told me the force left to hold Moat Cailin is largely made up of men from Greywater Watch. I must tell them what has happened with Father and Jojen, and then have some of them ride home with me. I must tell my mother, Bran. Being who she is, she likely knows already, but she won’t really accept it until she hears it from me.” Meera sat down then on her own cot looking even sadder and more alone than Bran had yet seen her.

My men, she had said, and it struck Bran suddenly that it was true. Jojen was dead and Meera had no other siblings. At her father’s death, she had become the Lady of Greywater Watch. He swallowed. “So you will be staying in Greywater Watch?” he said, trying to imagine not having Meera around.

She nodded. “It is my place,” she said simply.

 _And where is my place?_ Bran wondered. He wanted it to be Winterfell, but Jojen had been certain it was with Lord Brynden beyond the Wall. He lay awake a long time that night, and fell asleep still wondering.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The baby twisted in her arms as she walked toward her husband’s solar, and she kissed the auburn fuzz that was growing a bit thicker on his head almost daily. When she entered the brightly lit room, she saw her lord husband seated at his desk frowning deeply at the parchment in his hands, and she smiled at the similarity his expression bore to that of their child when he was fretful.

Hoster squealed when he saw his father, and Edmure looked up, a wide smile quickly replacing the frown. He rose to his feet and came around the desk to greet them. “My lady,” he said warmly, “and my little man,” he said, planting a kiss on Hoster’s red fuzz almost precisely where Roslin had kissed him moments ago. He was a devoted father, thoroughly enchanted by their little boy, and Roslin found herself more enchanted by her husband every time she watched him with their babe.

He rested his hand familiarly on her waist as he bent over the babe in her arms, making faces which caused the little boy’s mouth to spread into an open, toothless smile, and she allowed herself to simply enjoy the moment, almost forgetting why she’d come until Edmure looked up from Hoster to her.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, my lady?” he asked her, smiling.

She returned his smile. “I heard you had a letter with a direwolf seal this morning, my lord. News from Winterfell? From Catelyn?” While Roslin had found more contentment than she’d hoped possible in her husband and son here in Riverrun, she still missed the woman who had become something of a sister and mother both to her during those dark days at the Twins and afterward. She looked forward to Catelyn’s letters at least as much as Edmure did, and they spent many pleasurable moments in this solar reading them together.

Now, though he frowned at her words. “Yes,” he said. “My sister writes that her Lady Brienne has been killed. I told you about her. The big swordswoman she brought back with her after Renly Baratheon was killed.” His expression grew even darker. “The one she sent off with the Kingslayer when she set him free.”

Roslin bit her lip. She had heard something of her goodsister loosing the Kingslayer from his cell at Riverrun long ago, but neither Lady Catelyn nor Edmure had ever really spoken to her of it. Catelyn had written of Brienne of Tarth, however. “I am sure she is distraught,” she said to Edmure. “The woman has been with her since they traveled on the High Road and has protected your sister and her family well. Catelyn thought very highly of her.”

Edmure had gone back to his seat behind the desk. Now he snorted and picked up the letter he’d held when she first entered. “Distraught,” he said irritably. “Unhinged, more like it. Apparently the woman died saving my sister’s life and now Cat thinks I should . . .” He blew air through his lips in a sound of frustration and thrust the letter at her. “Here, read it for yourself.”

Roslin sat down in a chair beside her husband’s and traded him the baby for the letter, hoping that holding their son might improve his mood. As she read the words written there, though, she realized that nothing would likely do that at this moment. “Poor Catelyn,” she murmured.

“Poor Catelyn?” Edmure asked, rather petulantly. “Poor Catelyn? Roslin, she once set the man free, committed treason against her own son, and now that I have him locked up again, she expects me to just . . .”

“She isn’t asking you to free him, Edmure,” she said quietly. “Only treat him humanely. For Lady Brienne’s sake. It isn’t as if we don’t have other highborn captives kept securely in rooms of the castle other than the dungeon.”

“We did that once before! The bloody man tried to escape!!” Edmure exploded.

“Yes, when he had two hands and a powerful army backing him. He hasn’t got either now, my lord. You know the Lannisters are all but finished.” She sighed. “He has been in that cell a long time. I’ve seen him, you know, from the window, when the gaoler’s brought him out on those rare occasions when they wash him down. He looks more a dead man than a knight of the kingsguard.”

“He should be a dead man,” Edmure said flatly, looking down at Hoster as he spoke and holding the babe more tightly.

“Then kill him.” He looked up at her in surprise. “You are the Lord Paramount of the Trident, Edmure. If you think he deserves death, kill him. He’d likely prefer it to the existence he has now. Or if you think you can still use him as leverage against whoever is pulling the strings in King’s Landing, keep him. But consider your sister’s request to keep him as a captive befitting his station.”

“My sister,” he said darkly. “Apparently, you spent too much time with her, my lady. You sounded rather like her just then.”

Roslin smiled. “Thank you, my lord. That is one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.” She laughed at her husband’s scowl. “Seriously, Edmure, you know your sister hates the Kingslayer at least as much as you do. She certainly has no reason to wish any kindness upon him, so all the talk of honor and debts in this letter has to be something important between her and Lady Brienne. What of the other letter? The one she asks you to give to Lannister?”

Her lord husband cast his gaze back toward the desk and she saw a much smaller parchment lying there, rolled tightly and sealed with grey sealing wax. She raised her brows. “You haven’t read it?”

“Cat told me not to.”

She bit her lip to keep from laughing. She had read her goodsister’s instructions about the message for Jaime Lannister, but given Edmure’s displeasure with the whole situation, hadn’t thought he’d abide by them. She supposed that listening to Catelyn was a habit of his that he didn’t break easily. “Are you going to give it to him?”

He sighed deeply and kissed their son again before replying. “I suppose I’m going to do everything she asked,” he said rather resignedly. He handed Hoster back to her. “So, my lady, I will have to ask you to excuse me. Apparently, I have new arrangements to make for Ser Jaime’s imprisonment here.”

He kissed her hand, and Roslin left the solar. She smiled to herself when she heard Edmure’s muttered “Damn you, Cat” thinking that her lord husband would likely not remain upset at removing Jaime Lannister from the dungeon. He had been there nearly a year, and Edmure knew enough about dungeons from his own time at the Twins to realize how truly terrible that must have been. He was not a cruel man. Lannister could remain imprisoned in one of the towers just as well. As she walked back to her own chambers to nurse her increasingly insistent son, however, Roslin did wonder what on earth her goodsister had written to Jaime Lannister.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The cough racked his entire body, making him shake violently. He blinked as he sat up from his cot, eyes still not accustomed to light. Another spasm of coughing hit him as he swung his feet over the side of the cot to reach the stone floor, and he sat still waiting for it to pass. It was a novel experience to sit or lie upon the cot, having had nothing but dirt floor and straw in his cell for more days and nights than he could count. He wondered if the cough would abate if he were kept long out of the dank dungeon cell or if whatever damage had been done to his lungs while there was permanent.

He stood on his weak legs and went to relieve himself in a chamber pot in the corner. On a small rough table bolted to the wall stood a pitcher with water and a hard loaf of bread. No one had explained why he’d been moved here. He’d been removed from his cell the day before, painfully scrubbed down with soap and water and brought to this room which appeared to be high up in one of the towers. It had two very narrow windows, both barred. It had been dark when they’d brought him here so he hadn’t yet looked at the view.

He was going to be executed or exchanged. Nothing else made sense. He’d been given three letters since his imprisonment, two from Addam Marbrand and one from his sister. He didn’t know if there had been others which were kept from him. He had been allowed to respond to each, a boy sent down to put his meaningless words on parchment as he could not write well himself with his left hand. The last letter had been at least three or four moons ago, and none of them had mentioned specific plans for his release. His jailers were all closed mouth about any topic including the weather, so he had no real idea of what took place currently in the realm. _Although Riverrun is obviously secure for the Tullys,_ he thought sourly.

He grabbed the bread and the water and sat back upon his cot to eat. After a moment, he heard a key turning in the lock. The first face to appear was an armed guard. Behind him, came the auburn haired Lord of Riverrun.

“Lord Tully,” Jaime said with exaggerated courtesy. “Forgive me for not rising. Your extended hospitality seems to have robbed me of my strength.”

“I am not interested in your thoughts on our dungeon, Kingslayer.”

“Truly? I thought perhaps we could compare our experiences. You know, see how the rats at the Twins compare to those here at Riverrun.” Jaime smiled at the man’s scowl. He would have liked to continue to bait Edmure Tully, but curiosity got the best of him. “So, are you going to tell me why I have been removed here, or will I have to guess?”

“You have my sister to thank for your new accommodations, Kingslayer,” the man snarled at him.

That made no sense at all. “Lady Catelyn, you mean? I thought she was happily back in the arms of her frozen lord. I’d be happy to entertain her here, if she wishes it though.” He smiled at Tully. “I’ve lost a hand, to be sure, but my cock still works.”

That earned him a fist to the gut, and Jaime had to take a couple deep breaths before replying, “You don’t hit as hard as Lord Stark. Perhaps, you should take boxing lessons.” The man glared silently at him, and he continued, “Come to think on it, I don’t even believe you hit as hard as your sister.” He raised his left hand to rub at his cheek. “I swear she left a permanent handprint.”

“You will remain on that cot and be silent,” Lord Tully said then, his teeth clenched together. “You will speak not another word about Lady Stark, myself, or anyone else, or I will simply have you flung back into your filthy pit and never let you see the light of day again.”

The man seemed to mean what he said, and Jaime definitely did not want to return to the dungeon, so he held his tongue, simply nodding at Tully and sitting silently on the cot.

“Lady Catelyn Stark sent a letter asking that you be imprisoned in the castle rather than beneath it, and if you behave yourself, I shall accede to my sister’s wishes,” Tully said flatly.

Jaime’s eyes flew wide open in spite of the bright light at that. “Why?” he gasped. Lady Stark hated his guts. Gods knew he’d given her plenty of reason. “Why?” he gasped again, but the second query was lost in another spasm of coughing.

After Jaime’s coughs subsided, Tully spoke again. “For her swordswoman. The Lady Brienne of Tarth. Surely you remember her. The great hulking girl that my sister entrusted to take you to King’s Landing.”

 _Brienne._ He had rarely thought about the wench. His thoughts in his cell had tended more toward his sister, his brother, fantasies about murdering his guards, or wondering if any of his family still lived. Yet, sometimes, she had crossed his mind, and he’d always imagined her still out there, still stubbornly seeking Sansa Stark. For while he could imagine all kinds of terrible deeds being committed by Cersei or Tyrion, of Brienne he could only imagine her continuing with her quest for honor, for Lady Catelyn, even for himself.

“Did she return to Lady Catelyn then?” he asked softly. “Did she learn her lady was alive and go to her?”

Tully looked at him with a puzzled expression on his face. “Yes,” he said. “She did. She’s been in my sister’s service for some time, and served her well from what Catelyn has written. But the girl’s dead now.”

“Dead?” _Brienne dead?_ He couldn’t quite make sense of that. He remembered how stupidly brave she was, and how stubbornly insistent on honor and justice and all the ideals that he’d basically shat upon. He’d always thought her likely to get herself killed, and yet . . .he couldn’t imagine her dead. “How?”

“Apparently, she killed Ramsay Snow and was killed herself in the process. Anyway, my sister says the woman would have preferred you not be caged like an animal and asked that I hold you in the castle instead of the dungeon as repayment to Lady Brienne for her service to House Stark.”

Jaime found himself unable to speak then. “Lady Catelyn,” he murmured after a few moments. “She served the Lady Catelyn.”

When he said nothing else, Lord Tully held out something that Jaime hadn’t even noticed he carried. As he took it, he realized it was a small parchment, rolled and sealed with the direwolf of House Stark. “It isn’t opened,” he said stupidly. All his letters had been given to him opened. All three of them.

“It’s yours. I care not what it says.” With those words, the Lord of Riverrun turned and left the room, the guard exiting behind him, and Jaime heard the turn of the key once more, locking him in.

He stared at the parchment for a long time before opening it. _Brienne. Dead. Brienne. Dead._ He wondered if the words on this parchment would somehow make that real.

Finally, he broke the seal, and almost laughed out loud at the first word. _Kingslayer_ was the salutation written largely across the top of the page. _Well, you certainly are consistent, Lady Stark,_ he thought.

Then he noticed that the woman had actually put a line through that word, and that she had a second salutation below it. His hands trembled just a bit as he read.

Ser Jaime,

_I have no more wish to write to you than to speak to you or look upon your face. Yet, I have given my word to one who deserves more respect and honor than any person I have ever met. I speak of Brienne of Tarth._

_I do not know all that passed between you and Lady Brienne after you left Riverrun with her, and I do not ask to know. From your own lips and hers, I know of your time at Harrenhall, and I am grateful that you saved her life there, for the world would have been poorer had you not, and I would likely not be alive now._

_She also spoke of her sword, Oathkeeper. I know it was forged from my lord husband’s blade and that you gave it to her and bid her keep her oath to me. I do not know why you did this, but it mattered greatly to her that you know that she did keep that oath._

_Both of my daughters are safely with me now, and Lady Brienne has guarded them well, saving my Sansa’s life on one occasion. My own life she has saved more than once, the last time at the cost of her own. No oath was ever more honorably kept, and no loss was ever more keenly felt._

_Lady Brienne kept every vow she made to me, Ser Jaime, and yet she refused to speak ill of you ever. She acknowledged your crimes and our right to justice upon you, but she believed you have some honor yet. I confess I do not see it. Yet, for her sake, I would hope it to be true. For her sake, I would hope you have the decency and honor to truly mourn this woman who kept her word to you and held to her belief in you as surely as she kept every oath to me. Oathkeeper, indeed. Her sword was well named._

_Catelyn Stark, Lady of Winterfell_

The trembling of his hands had progressed to a violent shaking of his entire body by the time he finished reading, although he was not coughing. He took a great gasping breath and realized he was crying. He closed his eyes and saw two large, dark blue eyes looking at him. _Your eyes were beautiful,_ he thought. _I never saw any others quite like them._

Jaime Lannister did not attempt to stop his tears. He sat with his eyes closed in a tower in Riverrun and thought that Catelyn Stark had the right of it. Without Brienne of Tarth in it, the world was a poorer place.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn Stark slowly raised her eyes from the parchment in front of her and looked up at the man who stood in the doorway of her husband’s solar, fixing him with a gaze that was by no means welcoming.

“No, my lord,” she said, attempting to keep her voice courteous. “There have been no ravens today. Have I not told you I would send for you when any communication arrives from the north?”

The tall man looked back at her with both mistrust and disdain in his blue eyes, and Catelyn sighed. One more small thing in the list of a million things to miss about Brienne. While Deryk was a good man and a good soldier, he did not appear able to keep the Lord of Dragonstone away from Ned’s solar the way that Brienne had. She pushed thoughts of Brienne away. She could not afford to fall into that particular pit of grief again. Not now. Stannis Baratheon still stood in the doorway.

“Come in if you like, my lord,” she said in resignation. “I am reviewing some of our supply and accounting ledgers. It is a tedious task, but you are welcome to look at it if you choose. It appears my daughter kept the accounting in good order while I was occupied with the care of the victims of Winter Town.” Stannis Baratheon still said nothing, but came forward and took a seat across the table from her. _While I was being an hysterical and useless woman. That’s what you’re thinking, my lord, isn’t it,_ she thought bitterly. That thought was followed immediately by a small and somewhat ashamed voice whispering in her head. _And you are not entirely wrong._

She physically shifted herself in her seat in order to clear such thoughts away as Lord Stannis picked up the page she had been looking at and glanced at it only briefly. “Yes,” he said. “I have seen these. Lady Sansa does seem to have a head for details, rather like her mother. I was pleased to assist her in your . . .absence . . , my lady.”

“Yes,” Catelyn said coolly. “She has told me a great deal about your . . .assistance . . , my lord.”

At that, Stannis Baratheon almost smiled, and his next question was asked in a far less condescending tone. “Have you given consideration to sending more of the Riverland troops north?”

“I have,” she said simply, making it clear that the decision on where to send her brother’s men was hers and hers alone until Ned returned. “The arrest and execution of the remnants of the Bastard of Bolton’s men proceeds well, and I have called back to Winterfell most of the extra troops I had sent to Barrowton.”

Stannis’s raised eyebrows made it clear he hadn’t known about troops sent to Barrowton, and that made her smile. “Lady Walda Bolton and her infant son are there under the protection of Lady Dustin. While Ramsay Snow lived, the child’s life was certainly in danger as the bastard had reason to rid himself of the legitimate heir to the Dreadfort. He needed protection.”

Stannis tilted his head slightly to one side. “Lord Stark trusts Lady Dustin with the heir to the Dreadfort?”

Catelyn smiled as charmingly as she could. “I sent the men to Barrow Hall to protect the babe and to remind Lady Dustin of how well Winterfell protects those loyal to us.”

This time Lord Baratheon did smile, although there was no warmth in it. “I see. And what shall you do with these troops and your Lord Mallister’s men now?”

“Eventually, they shall be used to bolster our defenses to the north. At the moment, it is difficult to ascertain precisely where they can be best used. I await word from my lord husband on events north of the Wall and along the defensive line set up north of Last Hearth."

Lord Stannis looked down briefly, and then raised his eyes to meet her own. “My lady,” he said softly. “We have had fairly regular reports from Castle Black and Last Hearth. Even a few letters from that savage your husband’s bastard gave the Karhold to. None have mentioned Lord Stark and the party he took north of the Wall. Perhaps, it is time to consider that . . .”

“No.”

“My lady, not one raven.”

Catelyn looked at the man coldly. “You forget yourself, my lord. How many ravens were sent out from the Twins telling of my survival? How long did all Westeros think my lord husband dead after the Lannisters arrested him in King’s Landing? Yet, you would pronounce him dead now for a paltry few moons with no letter? You know where he has gone. There is hardly a surfeit of rookeries north of the Wall! He will return soon and when he does, I will be certain to tell him of your . . .assistance. Now, my lord, I ask that you leave me to my work.”

She then grabbed up the nearest piece of parchment and studied it intently, refusing to look up again until the man before her finally rose from his chair with a formal, “As you wish, my lady,” and left the solar.

When the door closed behind him, she sagged forward and put her face in her hands. She was trying. She wanted so desperately to hold everything together, but even holding herself together was proving a challenge that she was not certain she could meet. She had to be strong, but she was so tired, and she ached to have someone hold her and comfort her. She missed Ned more with each passing day, more than she thought she could bear. In some ways, her longing for him surpassed the pain she’d felt when she’d been told of his death because this longing was infused with the hope of his return. _He will return._ And she had learned that hope could be the cruelest of all emotions. _He will return,_ she thought fiercely, and the babe within her gave a painful kick as if echoing the sentiment.

She stood then, using her arms to push upright as her swollen belly made such simple tasks as rising from a chair difficult these days. It wouldn’t be long now. She frequently felt her womb tighten in those contractions that preceded true labor, and while she knew that could continue for some time (she’d suffered it for weeks before Rickon’s birth), she also knew that this babe had moved lower and moved less frequently than before. All of these things pointed to the onset of labor coming soon. _Hurry home, Ned,_ she thought desperately as she walked back and forth in the solar to ease the pain in her lower back.

She spent hours each day in this solar, meeting with people and reading correspondence and ledgers. She still spent several hours with Kella as well. Although the woman had tolerated being moved into a set of rooms near Catelyn’s and allowed her husband and son to share those chambers without distress, she still became upset if she didn’t see Catelyn each day, and Catelyn had gained a new appreciation for what Sansa had been doing for Jeyne Poole. The serving girl, Anna, with her friendly, round face and cheery disposition had been a godsend, and Catelyn had removed her from any duties other than caring for Kella. Catelyn also made certain to visit the kitchen, the armory, and various other buildings of Winterfell each day just to check in on the people working there as well as checking on the various construction projects. It was exhausting.

And she still had to find time to spend with her own children. She had neglected them. It hurt to say it or even think it, but she knew it to be true. _You can’t go away again!_ Rickon had cried, piercing her heart and bringing her back to him, to herself, to all of them. She had gone away, and it frightened her to think how easily she’d deserted all she held dear, falling back into a place she’d thought she’d left behind. _You cannot let me go._ She had made Ned promise not to let her go back in that dark cave after meeting with Beric Dondarrion, and he had held tight to that promise. Yet, when he was gone, she had faded away once more, anchored to what matters only by the plea of a six year old boy. Rickon was too young to have that responsibility. All of her children deserved better, and she’d made certain to spend time with each of them every day since that first evening she’d come back down the Great Hall for dinner.

Time was not something she had in abundance, though. She rose early and went to bed late and still felt much was left undone every day. While the constant tasks helped keep her mind from her grief and her worry, they also made her feel that she never truly accomplished anything, and that made her doubt her abilities to do the job Ned had left her.

She could tell by the changing color of the sky outside the window that the evening meal would be served soon, and that is one thing she did not miss now. That was one time she could see all of her children in the same place each day. _All my children within Winterfell anyway,_ she thought, and her heart reached out for Bran, whose fate was unknown and Robb, whose sweet face she would never see again. She steeled herself against the sorrows once more and went to reach for her cloak when a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in.”

“My lady!” It was one of the household guard, a very young man whose name Catelyn could not recall. “My lady, there are riders approaching from the north!”

“From the north?” her heart leapt into her throat. “What banners?”

“None, my lady. There are about thirty. Still too far out to recognize, but they appear to ride for the north gate.”

“The north gate?” The east gate opened to the Kingsgate which led to the Kingsroad. Most visitors remained on the road and entered the castle by that gate whether approaching from north or south. If approaching from the north, it was possible to cut a small distance from the journey by leaving the road and making directly for the north gate, but not many knew to do that. Catelyn’s heart rate sped up. “Come along,” she said, grabbing her cloak and hurrying out of the solar, the messenger trailing behind her.

It was not snowing now, but at over a foot of snow blanketed the courtyard, beaten down in some places by the footfalls of numerous people. Catelyn hurried to the north gate turrets as quickly as her girth and the snow allowed, going past the Guards’ Hall and fallen First Keep and through the lichyard. There was still light enough to see as the sun remained just above the horizon. Climbing the stairs of the turret left her panting, and the men at the top were surprised by her appearance.

“Lady Stark!” one of them exclaimed, and they all turned to bow to her.

She nodded to them briefly and turned her eyes northward to see a group of horses making their way laboriously through the deep snow. “Has any of you a lens?” she asked, her breath still coming a bit short.

“Aye, my lady,” said one man, handing her the tubular structure. “They’ve no banners, though.”

She wasn’t looking for banners. She put the instrument to her eye and looked for the little group of riders. They were too far away to see faces clearly, even through the lens, but she knew the man on the lead horse. She would know him anywhere at any distance, and the smaller figure held tightly in front of him could only be . . . “Oh gods,” she said, and it came out almost as a sob.

“Lady Stark!” the man cried again, this time in some alarm. “Are you well, my lady?”

She nodded, biting her lip tightly and staring at the horse which carried her husband and son. After a moment, she said. “Someone fetch my children, all three of them, and bring them here.”

“What, my lady?” the man asked, in obvious confusion. Security measures at Winterfell had long kept the Stark children away from any of the castle gates.

“Fetch my children,” she repeated. Then she called out in a much louder, stronger voice. “Open the gates! The Lord of Winterfell returns!”

They stared at her for a moment, but then slowly began to move in response to her commands. She stood there watching the riders slowly, too slowly, draw nearer, and after a bit, she pulled the hood down from her head.

“My lady, you’ll catch your death,” the man beside her said.

“No I won’t,” she whispered. The sun was just touching the horizon now, and she knew well enough what the last light of day did to the color of her hair. She was rewarded for removing her hood by the man on that lead horse kicking the poor beast and urging it on as quickly as possible through the snow. She laughed out loud, and then heard a shout from behind and below.

“Mother! What is it?” came Arya’s voice. She sounded wary and Catelyn noticed her hand was on her Needle’s hilt. Sansa, Rickon, and Dak all stood with her.

She smiled down at them. “Your father is home,” she called to them. “And your brother, Bran.”

That pronouncement led to shouts and squeals and a veritable footrace up the turret stairs, so that the top was quite crowded by the time the Lord of Winterfell and his heir came close enough on their horse to recognize the people above them. Ned’s deep voice rang out, and the sound of it made her feel as if she were floating. “I bring you your son, my lady!”

She bit her lip hard to keep from crying. “Winterfell is yours, my lord!” she called back and then turned to her elder daughter. “Sansa, help me down the stairs. I am afraid your newest sibling has quite upset my balance.”

Without hesitation, Sansa took her arm and walked with her down the winding staircase, the other children impatiently following behind. They emerged at the bottom just as Ned and Bran rode up. She looked at Bran, his beautiful blue eyes open and looking at her, a wide smile on his sweet face, and she thought she couldn’t breathe. Ned stopped the horse in front of her, and for a moment, she wondered why he didn’t dismount. Then she saw the cloths binding Bran to him and remembered. Her heart knew a momentary searing pain at the thought that her baby’s legs were useless to him, that he could not jump from the horse into her arms, but that pain was quickly swallowed by the tidal wave of joy at his simply being alive and being here.

She ran to the horse, reaching up for him and holding him as closely as his position on the horse and her child-swollen middle would allow.

“Oh, Bran, my Bran,” she said. “My sweet, sweet boy!”

“Mother,” he said simply, reaching out for her face. “Mother.”

They were both crying, and Catelyn didn’t care. Her son was home. All of her living children were within the walls of Winterfell, and she couldn’t imagine wanting anything more. She looked up at Ned whose grey eyes were watching her and Bran without speaking and she murmured, “Thank you. Oh, thank you.” She pulled one hand away from Bran and reached to grasp Ned’s, trying to say everything with that touch that she could not possibly say here in front of all these people.

A man had come up to the horse and was undoing the bindings securing Bran in place. Catelyn moved away slightly as Ned dismounted and then slid Bran down into his arms. Catelyn looked around then at the other horses coming into the courtyard, and realized she recognized no one else. A slim, dark haired girl who looked very much like Howland Reed dismounted from a horse not far away, and she thought that must be his daughter. She didn’t see Howland, though.

As Ned carried Bran to his sisters and brother, she realized she didn’t see Hodor either, and he was not an easy person to overlook. She wondered if he had not been with Bran after all. The children were all practically climbing over one another now to get at Bran and their father, and Catelyn was strangely reminded of the direwolf pups climbing over each other in the kitchen on that long ago day when Ned had allowed the older boys to bring them home. Now she had all her pups with her save one, and in spite of the joy in her heart, she felt Robb’s absence like a wound from a dagger. She felt Brienne’s absence, too.

Looking at Ned’s grey eyes, she could see the same thing there--the indescribable joy of being here with his children mixed with the indelible pain of loss, and she wondered if pure joy was beyond them now. He looked tired, and his arms shook slightly as he held Bran. He leaned heavily on his good leg, and she knew the bad one must pain him after hours in the saddle.

“Deryk!” she called. “Surely, food is prepared in the Hall. Have a good strong man take my son, Bran, from Lord Stark and carry him there. Make sure a comfortable seat is given to him at the High Table beside mine.” Ned had been with him already, so she decided to claim him for herself at dinner. “Have the children and all these riders go now, and my lord husband and I will come shortly.” She couldn’t feast Bran’s return without telling Ned about Brienne, and she couldn’t tell him about Brienne in front of all of these people.

“Yes, my lady,” Deryk said without hesitation.

“Welcome to Winterfell!” she then called out in a ringing voice to the men still climbing off their horses. “Our people will see to your horses. Please make yourselves at home in our Great Hall where you’ll find food and ale to ease you after your journey.”

She turned back to see Ned handing Bran to a burly young soldier before turning back to smile at her approvingly. Bran called out, “Meera!” to the girl Catelyn had noticed, and after a moment’s hesitation, the girl joined Bran and the children, smiling faintly as she said something to Rickon. She stood beside Ned watching the young Starks make their way toward the Great Hall.

“My lord . .” she started.

“My lady . . .” he said at precisely the same time. He chuckled softly and turned her to face him, taking both her hands in his. He looked down at her belly. “I see I have come in time.”

“Just barely, my lord. I believe your child grows impatient to join the rest of us.”

“He certainly has grown bigger, however else he has grown,” Ned said, laying their joined hands softly on the curve of her belly.

“I know that very well,” she said. Then she bit at her lower lip. “My lord, I must tell you something. It cannot wait.”

He obviously saw by her face that it was nothing good because he sighed and said, “Come with me then inside the turret where we can speak away from the wind, for I have tidings I must share with you also.”

She allowed him to lead her through the door into the little round room beside the gate. One man was inside, but he left quickly enough after the entrance of his lord and lady. Catelyn could only imagine what tale he would tell of their desperation to be alone, but she found she didn’t truly care at the moment. Once the man was gone, Ned did pull her tightly against him, or as tightly as her enormous belly allowed, and kissed her deeply.

“I have missed you,” he said gruffly, and in that simple sentence she heard all the loneliness, fear, and longing she had felt for so long.

“I have missed you, too, my love,” she answered him. “I cannot tell you what I felt when I saw you from the top of this turret. But why did you not send a raven from the Wall?”

“I did. Did you not get it?”

She shook her head. “It is no matter,” she said. “More and more are blown off course, I fear. But you are here now, and that is all that is important.”

He had not taken his arms from around her, and she could feel his fingers in her hair, but he looked at her seriously now and asked, “What is this grave news you have for me, Cat?”

“The Bastard of Bolton is dead,” she said flatly. Ned raises a brow at that, but said nothing, waiting for her to continue. “He murdered more than a dozen people in Winter Town and set a trap to capture me.” At those words, his arms tightened around her. “I am fine,” she said. “Brienne came to my aid and killed the bastard, but . . .was killed herself.” She felt the tears forming in her eyes.

“Oh gods, Cat! I am so sorry, my love. Brienne . . .Brienne is . . .was the bravest woman I’ve ever known, save you. I shall miss her.” Then he just held her while she cried, allowing her to give into her grief and holding back his own, as he always did. She knew he had come to care about Brienne almost as much as she had. She would find a way to comfort him as well, but for now she simply let herself be held and thanked the gods her Ned had come back to her.

After a bit, she said softly. “It was my fault.”

“No, Cat.”

“Yes. I led her to her death. It was by my word that we were in Winter Town, and by my word that we went to that house, and then . . .”

“Cat . . .” he interrupted her. “I left you in charge of Winterfell. To rule is to sometimes lead men . . .and women . . .into danger.” He swallowed. “I led men north of the Wall. They did not all return.” He pulled her away from him enough to look into her eyes then, and the pain in his own eyes stabbed at her heart. He had lost someone, too. Someone he loved.

“Who?” she whispered.

“Donnell,” he said. “Howland.” His voice caught on the name. “Even Hodor, Cat. Poor, simple Hodor.”

“Oh, my love!” She grabbed him to her then, and new tears fell as she held him tightly, pressing kisses to his cheeks and neck, wishing she could kiss away the pain like she had from the scrapes and bruises of their children in more innocent days. He simply stood there for a time, holding her as she held him and allowing her to kiss him and stroke his hair. Then he sighed deeply and kissed the top of her head.

“We should go into dinner, my lady. The children will wonder what has become of us.”

She nodded, and pulled away from him to put her hand on his arm. “Oh,” she said suddenly. “Do you . . .do you know about Maege?”

He nodded sadly. “I heard at the Wall.”

“Are there any others, Ned?” she asked, still reeling from the loss of Brienne and the fresher losses his words had just brought her.

He looked at her a moment, his grey eyes hardening somewhat, but not at her, she knew. “Not yet,” he said, in a voice like winter itself.

She shivered as they stepped outside and didn’t know if it were the bite of the wind or her husband’s ominous words that caused it. Yet, in spite of the terrible losses they’d suffered, she could not help but feel a deep gratitude and even an increasing joy as they walked toward the Great Hall, for her son Bran sat inside at the High Table--alive, awake, and here with her. Her husband stood strong and solid and whole at her side. Her other children were well, and her new babe would be born soon. Perhaps she could no longer have joy without pain, but she thought she just might be able to accept that as long as she didn’t have to endure pain without joy.

She leaned into Ned a little more than what was strictly proper as they walked and caught the amusement in his expression. She noticed his limp was more pronounced than usual and vowed to rub it with linament tonight, however late they got to bed. They entered the Hall to a cheer, and she looked at the High Table. Sansa, Arya, Rickon . . .and Bran all sat there looking down at them with smiles on their faces.

As Ned helped her up to her place, Rickon asked loudly enough to be heard by the first several tables, “What took you so long?”

That caused an outburst of laughter and a few bawdy comments that caused Catelyn’s cheeks to flush. As she sat in her seat and felt Ned’s hand on her thigh beneath the table and listened to Bran laugh loudly on her other side at something Arya had said, she closed her eyes briefly and thanked the gods. She would cherish those that she still had with her. And those she had lost, she would remember.

 

 


	51. The Pack Survives

Thank you, Ian,” Catelyn said softly. “You may leave us now.”

The big soldier who had settled Bran onto his bed smiled at her. “Yes, my lady. Would you like me to return for the little lord in the morning?”

“The little lord can speak for himself,” Bran said in some irritation, and Catelyn bit her lips to hide her smile. “I want to go down to the Hall and break my fast early on the morrow,” Bran continued. “Lady Reed intends to depart for Moat Cailin as soon as possible and I mean to see her off. If you could assist me then, I would be grateful.”

Her son’s voice was a boyish version of his father’s, and Catelyn felt her breath catch from both pride in the way Bran handled himself and regret for just how much older her child seemed to have gotten in their long time apart.

“I will be here early,” Ian replied. Then bowing to them both, he turned and left the room. He wasn’t nearly the size of Hodor, but with the exception of the Umbers, Catelyn had never met anyone who was. The young man was certainly big enough, though, and well-muscled. He had carried Bran without any visible strain and seemed willing enough to be the boy’s legs for the present.

Ned had wanted to carry Bran to his room, but he had been limping badly and was quite exhausted, so Catelyn had adamantly insisted that he allow Ian to do it and go on to her chambers to wait for her there. He’d already carried Rickon to bed earlier when the little boy had actually fallen asleep with his head on the table as the evening meal had become a celebration which lasted well into the night. Then he’d returned to the Hall with a worsened limp and rueful grin to inform her that Rickon had awakened when deposited in his bed and now demanded her presence before he would sleep again. Sighing, she’d pushed herself up from her seat and made her way to the Keep herself, not moving much more easily than Ned had owing to the late hour and the advanced state of her pregnancy. By the time she’d reached Rickon’s room, sung him his song, kissed him good night, and made her way back out to to the Hall, people were finally beginning to retire for the night.

Smiling now, she looked at the sleeping face of her littlest son in his bed and then turned back to Bran who was looking up at her. “I hope you don’t mind sharing with your brother, sweetling,” she said softly, although there was little danger of waking Rickon once the child was truly asleep. “The girls are sharing, too. With so much of the castle still under repair and all the people we’re housing . . .”

“No, Mother. I mean . . .I like it. I like having Rickon with me again.” The miniature imitation of Ned who had given Ian his instructions had disappeared. Bran was simply a little boy glad to be with his family once more, and Catelyn sat down on the edge of his bed and took his hands in hers.

“I have missed you more than I can say, Bran,” she said simply. “I cannot stop looking at you. For so long, I believed I’d never see you again.”

“I never thought I’d see you again, either. But then I did. And I knew I had to come home.” The room was dark, but Catelyn could see well enough to recognize the serious expression on her son’s face.

“You saw me? What do you mean?”

Bran sighed a little. “Jon says you know about the wolves. What we do with the wolves, I mean. Is that right?” He sounded apprehensive, and Catelyn held his hands more tightly.

“Yes, Bran,” she said firmly. “I know that my children and Jon as well are wargs.” She made certain to pronounce the word clearly and without any hesitation. Smiling, she added, “Rickon tells us you are the best at it.”

Bran returned her smile, but still he asked in a small voice, “And you . . .you don’t mind?”

“Why would I mind, Bran? You are my son, my own sweet babe, no different than you’ve always been. You have a special . . .skill. That is all. I am glad of it because your wolf helps keep you safe. The gods know I have reason to know that.” She leaned down, having to turn sideways because of her belly, and kissed his forehead. “There is no evil in it, sweetling.”

“There can be,” he whispered, and he looked so sad for just a moment that Catelyn’s heart broke for him. She felt he wanted to say something else, but he stopped himself. Pulling one of his hands free of hers, he reached up and touched her face, drawing a finger along one of her scars. “I saw these,” he said softly. “That’s how I knew it wasn’t from before.”

She didn’t understand, but she didn’t ask him anything. She merely waited for him to continue.

“I’m not just a warg. I’m a . . .a greenseer. Do you know what that is?”

“I’m not sure,” she said softly, feeling her heart speed up slightly with fear of what he might say next.

“I can see things others can’t. I can see through Summer’s eyes, just like the others can with their wolves, of course, and . . .other animals, too. But with the greensight, I can see with the trees. I can remember with the trees. I can know things that happened a long time ago and things that are happening now. I don’t really understand it all. Not yet. I’m still learning. But I saw you in the godswood. You were praying, and at first I thought I was looking at the past because I’d seen Father in the past once, I think before I was even born. Only, I never knew you to pray in the godswood, and then I saw the marks on your face and I knew they were never there before.” Tears filled his eyes. “Let him be safe, you prayed, and I heard you. And when I knew you were really here, really in Winterfell, then I had to come home. Even if I’m still learning, even if there isn’t time, even if it’s wrong . . .” Bran’s words came more quickly. “I just had to come home, Mother. Do you understand?”

“Oh, my sweetling. More than you know.” Catelyn let her own tears fall then and gathered her little boy to her in her arms. “More than you know.” There was much in what her son had said that she didn’t understand, but she could save those questions for another time. For now, it was enough that he had somehow been reaching out for her as desperately as she’d been reaching out for him, and that they were both home. That they were all home. _All save Robb._ The grief that never completely left her brought her lost firstborn son to her mind even as she held her newly restored second son in her arms.

“I am sorry about Robb,” Bran said then, as if he had heard her thoughts. “Summer felt it when Grey Wind died and I . . .I knew Robb was gone, too. I was afraid you might be, as well.”

“I nearly did die, Bran. Many were killed that day with your brother, and I thought I would be one of them. I wanted to be, believing then that you were all dead or lost. All my children and my husband.” She felt herself just briefly pulled back to that day at the Twins, but then she looked at Bran’s face. “I got these marks that day, Bran. Lost in despair and grief. But even though I shall miss your brother every day for the rest of my life, I am not lost any more. And I am glad I did not die, for I have the rest of you back, and it is more than I ever thought possible.”

Bran wiggled then, pulling himself out of her arms in order to grab her hands again. This time he held both her hands up to his face, peering at them in the dim light. “Did this happen when you saved me from the man with a knife?” he asked her.

“Your direwolf saved us both,” she said. “Where is your wolf?” In all the excitement of Ned’s and Bran’s return, it only now occurred to her she had not seen Bran’s wolf.

“He was hunting when we came in the gate. He’s used to staying out all night. I’ll call him in when the gates are open tomorrow.” He still looked at her hands. “I know Summer saved us. But Robb told me you saved me first. He told me you grabbed the man’s knife with your hands and that it nearly cut your fingers off.” He swallowed hard, as he regarded her scarred palms.

“Robb shouldn’t have told you such a ghastly tale. I am only glad that I was there, and gladder still that your Summer came to our aid.” Catelyn didn’t want Bran to think on that terrible time.

“Robb had to tell me. I was angry that day. I was angry because you were gone. When I woke up, Father was gone without me, and you were gone, too, and my legs were gone, and then you stayed gone for so long, and I . . .I told Robb you must not love us very much to just leave and stay gone . . .and he told me how you stayed by me and fought the assassin for me and . . .I’m sorry, Mother! I’m so sorry!” He dropped her hands and threw his thin arms around her, and she held him tightly as he let himself cry.

She simply held and patted him until his sobs had slowed, and then she put a hand under his chin and turned his face toward hers. “You have done nothing wrong, Bran. I did leave you, and you and Rickon had every right to be angry at me.” She put a finger to his lips as he started to protest. “I don’t know what other choices I could have made or should have made, but that doesn’t change the fact that I left. Never apologize for wanting me here. You are mine to care for. All of you are. I couldn’t be with all of you . . .and no one was ever angrier about that than myself. I do love you, Bran, and I know you love me. I am so proud of you.” She smiled at him. “I always have been.”

“I do love you, Mother,” he said. “And I’m so glad I’m home.” Bran looked toward his little brother, who had slept through their entire conversation. “Father told me Rickon still makes you sing Silver Ribbons.”

She smiled. “He does. Would you like me to sing it to you?”

Bran bit his lip hard, and Catelyn’s smile widened as she watched her little boy try to decide if he was too old for such things. “Arya had me sing it her first night back in Winterfell,” she told him. “And she’s older than you are.”

Bran grinned. “Yes, please. Sing to me, Mother.”

 

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“Oh gods, Ned!”

Ned Stark looked up to see his wife standing still just inside the door of her chambers, hand on her mouth, and tears in her eyes as she looked at him reclined on her bed with his bad leg stretched out. “What is wrong, my lady?” he asked her in some alarm.

She shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s only that . . .to walk into my chambers and see you there . . .in my bed.” She bit her lip and stopped talking.

“You did tell me to come to your chambers,” he teased her, but when she still stood there looking like she might cry, he rose and went to her. “I have missed you, too, my love,” he said softly, bending to kiss both of those glistening eyes. “I have seen you every time I’ve closed my eyes, and yet you are even more beautiful than I remembered.”

She snorted slightly. “I look like a mammoth.”

His lips twitched in amusement as he recalled her making such disparaging comments about her appearance as she had drawn near to her time with each of their babes. She never seemed to believe how truly beautiful he found her all the time she carried his children. “Well, I have never seen a mammoth, my lady, but judging by Jon’s descriptions, I think you are quite mistaken.”

She was looking down at his legs then with a slight frown on her face. “Take off your breeches and get back in bed,” she said.

“My lady?” he said, raising a brow, and she rolled her eyes at him.

“Your leg, my lord. I want to massage it with linament. I have no illusions that you’ve even attempted to take care of it properly since you left.” She pulled away from him then and went to find her jar of foul smelling goo.

Sighing, Ned pulled off his breeches and went back to her bed. She came to him and asked for help with the laces of her dress, letting it fall to the ground with a relieved sigh. The swell of her abdomen was even more obvious in her shift, as was the gentle sway of her full breasts when she sat on the bed and leaned down over his leg with her jar.

“I’m afraid it gets harder and harder to breathe when I’m laced into dresses every day,” she said with a laugh as her hands worked the stuff into the skin of his leg, above and below his knee.

“How much longer, do you think, Cat?” he asked, absently reaching out to toy with her hair as she worked.

“Sam says it could be any time, really. I confess I’m more than ready. Now that you’re here.” She looked up and smiled at him, and then frowned again looking back at his legs. “Are you going to tell me about these?” she asked pointing at the marred flesh around his ankles and on his feet. “I’m assuming it’s frostbite, like your hands . . .but the pattern around your ankles . . .”

He sighed. She’d seen the areas of sloughed skin on his hands when he’d removed his gloves in the Great Hall, and he’d assured her he was fine and put off further explanation. Now she’d demand more. “The Others attacked us on more than one occasion. Their touch is . . .unbearable. It is cold such as I’ve never felt. One grabbed me by the ankles and pulled me some distance at one time. That made the places on my ankles. I have a place on one arm as well, as you’ll see when my shirt is off.” She looked horrified. “I killed it, Cat,” he assured her hurriedly, "but then I was left alone in the snow the remainder of the night. That’s how my hands and feet came to suffer, I’d imagine. I’d likely be dead if Bran’s wolf hadn’t found me.”

“Bran’s wolf?”

He nodded. “Once it found me, it lay on top of me until Hodor could carry me back to Bran and Meera. Kept me warm enough to live.”

“I owe more to that wolf than I can ever repay,” she said softly, reaching out a hand to touch his face. “I nearly lost you, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t lose me.” His eyes held hers and he could barely breathe. “You have suffered more losses than anyone should, my lady, but you have not lost me.”

“You have suffered as well, my lord,” she said, still touching his face, now stroking his beard with her fingers.

“I suffer no hurts at all when I’m touching you,” he said. “Come here.”

She laid the jar carefully aside and moved closer to him. He pulled her down and kissed her lips, softly at first. The taste of her truly did make him forget his aches and his exhaustion, though, and he deepened the kiss, hungry for more of her. She was turned slightly to one side in order to lean closely into him, and her hands dug into the fabric of his shirt as she returned his kiss with equal fervor. “Ned,” she gasped against his mouth, and he felt his cock begin to stiffen.

“Cat,” he said, breaking off the kiss and panting. “Is it . .can we . .is it all right?”

She was panting as well, but she nodded. “Can you stand, my love?” she asked him, somewhat breathlessly. “You remember . . .with Rickon?” Her face had already been flushed with desire, and now her cheeks reddened more.

He grinned at her. “I remember well. I assure you I can stand, my lady.”

Her smile went right to his heart, and then she was grabbing his shirt over his head and reaching to free his cock from his smallclothes. As her fingers brushed his erection, Ned gave a small cry and actually jumped away from her, afraid that he couldn’t hold himself back if she touched him any more.

“Your shift,” he said hoarsely. “Please, Cat, I want to see you.”

“I . . .”

“Please, my love.”

She stood up then, and looked down at him uncertainly, but when he sat up and reached down to pick up the hem of her shift, she didn’t stop him. His hands grazed her skin as he raised the material up over her thighs and then over the curves of her hips and belly. He paused to place a kiss on the tightly stretched skin around her navel, and she shivered. Then he stood, and she raised her arms allowing him to raise the shift over her large, heavy breasts and finally over her head and completely off her.

“Gods, you are so beautiful,” he breathed, tossing the garment to the floor and bending to once more claim her lips with his own before moving his mouth lower to take first one and then the other deliciously darkened nipple into his mouth. She moaned in response to that, and his cock twitched at the sound. Her belly was pressed against his, but the swell of it prevented any real contact between them below it as long as the stood face to face.

“Ned,” she whispered and freed herself from his arms. She smiled at him and walked the few steps to the table. She bent slightly and placed her hands in front of her, bracing herself on the table and exposing the pale skin of her back and the full curves of her arse to his view. She turned and looked at him over her shoulder. “Come here, my lord.”

Without hesitation, he obeyed.

 

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Catelyn drew in her breath at the touch of her husband’s hands on her shoulders and then his lips at the nape of her neck. One of his hands reached around her then to play with her nipple and the other moved lower, reaching around and beneath her belly as he sought out the sensitive flesh of her sex. She cried out as his fingers found what they sought and began teasing with a gentle pressure as he pressed the full length of his body against her back. She began to grind her hips back against his as he slipped two of his fingers inside her. His hips were moving as well, and she could feel an increased hunger in the lips, tongue and teeth at her neck and earlobe.

“Please,” she panted. “Ned, please.” She had missed him beyond all imagination. She had wanted and needed him every day they had been apart, even as she had tried to keep her mind always on what was needed at Winterfell. Now he was here, and she felt as if he couldn’t possibly be close enough, as if they couldn’t possibly touch enough.

He heard her. She felt him move lower as he bent his knees and for one brief moment, she spared a thought for his bad leg, wondering if he should be doing this. Then his hands were on her hips, holding her steady as he thrust up into her from behind, and she cried out as she felt him inside her, filling her up. “Cat . . .Cat . . .” He was whispering her name with almost every breath now, and he moved one hand back around to massage her nub as he began to move within her. She fell into his rhythm, pushing back against him with every thrust and soon found herself coming apart with another cry. He gasped and followed her almost immediately, and she felt the warmth of his seed filling her. He lay his head on her shoulder then, and his cock slipped out of her as he straightened his legs and put his arms around her swollen middle, halfway holding her up, as the arms she had braced on the table were now weak and trembling.

He seemed to recover himself first, placing a soft kiss on her shoulder, and whispering, “Come to bed, my lady.”

Not entirely sure she’d be able to stand, Catelyn slowly removed her hands from the table and straightened up. He stepped back to allow her to stand, but never let go of her, and kept his arms around her as they walked together to the bed. When they lay down, she curled herself into him, her back against his belly, just as they had been when standing, and he held her in his arms.

After several moments of silence, he spoke. “Was Bran well when you left him?”

“As well as he can be.” She twisted just enough to look up at him. “I think he feels guilty for being here, as if he is supposed to be doing something else. Ned, do you know why that is? He’s a child. He shouldn’t be anywhere but home.”

Ned sighed. “I don’t know all of it. Apparently Howland’s son dreamed of Bran and dreamed that he had to go to a Three Eyed Crow. Don’t ask. I can’t explain it. They went north of the Wall in search of him and ended up living in a cavern with the Children of the Forest.”

“The Children?” Catelyn asked incredulously. “But they’re . . .”

“Not as dead as had been thought,” Ned cut in. “Rather like Others and likely dragons as well. This Three Eyed Crow is a greenseer. The last greenseer they call him, although if what he and the Children of the Forest believe about our son is true, he isn’t the last. And if Bran and Meera are correct, he is, in fact, Lord Brynden Rivers, Bloodraven.”

“Bloodraven? But he’d be well over a hundred years old!” Catelyn protested.

“Well, it seems his life is somewhat intertwined with that of an ancient weirwood now. Again, Cat, don’t ask me anything about it. I can’t explain any of it. He is able to see things throughout the realm, things from the distant past, perhaps even things in the future. He believes his time is finished, though, and that he must train Bran to take his place.”

Catelyn shuddered. “Well, I’ll not have a century old tree man take my son anywhere. He’s ten years old. You’ve brought him home, and home he’ll stay.” She lay her head back down and snuggled back even closer against Ned, and felt him chuckling into her hair.

“I don’t imagine any tree man would stand a chance against you, my lady,” he said.

She smiled. “Well he wouldn’t . . .” she started to say with laughter in her voice. “Oh, gods,” she whispered then. She could hardly believe what she had begun to say, and the loss hit her anew with almost as much force as it had when it happened. She couldn’t stop the tears that began falling then, and before she knew it she was sobbing in Ned’s arms.

“Cat! Cat, what is it?” he asked her, frantic. He turned her to face him and kissed her forehead and touched her face. “Tell me, my love, what grieves you so?”

After a moment, she calmed herself enough to reply. “I started to say that he wouldn’t get past Brienne if I put her in charge of watching over Bran.” Her voice caught again. “Oh, Ned, how can she be gone? What shall I do without her?”

He pulled her against him then. “Oh, my love. What shall any of us do? We cannot replace her, and I will not tell you otherwise. We can only remember her and live our lives in a manner that is worthy of what she did for us. I know nothing else to do.” He sat up then and looked down at her, his grey eyes solemn. “But I will tell you this. Lady Brienne was your shield, but she was not your courage. You have courage of your own. That is why she loved you so. You will not fall without her.”

“I almost did,” Catelyn whispered. “I almost lost myself.”

“You didn’t. You have not lost me, and you have not lost yourself, either. And I believe the two of us can stand against most things, my lady.”

Catelyn smiled up at her husband, wondering how it was possible to continually love a man more every passing day. “We can, my lord,” she said, pulling him back down to lie beside her. As she turned to lie with her back against him, she felt the babe inside give a kick, and she grabbed his hand, pulling it over her and placing it against her skin. When the next kick came, he chuckled once more, his low pitched wolf’s laugh which always melted her heart.

“Your babe is strong, my love. Like his father,” she told him.

“Like his mother. Or her mother,” Ned corrected her.

They spoke little after that, although Ned kept his hand on her belly, rubbing the places where their suddenly wakeful child decided to kick and push her, and after awhile Catelyn fell asleep under her husband’s protective arm.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The cold air of the courtyard was bracing after the warmth of Catelyn’s chambers. Winter undoubtedly had Winterfell in its grip, but after the bitter cold north of the Wall and the even worse, unnatural cold of the Others, the chill in the wind here seemed pleasant to Ned Stark.

He smiled to himself thinking of the expression on his wife’s face when he’d opened her windows this morning. “Perhaps I didn’t miss you as much as I’d thought,” she’d scolded him, but then she’d given the lie to her words by inviting him back into her bed. They’d made love in the bed this time, lying on their sides with her back to him, in an almost leisurely fashion as he’d held her against him. Now she had gone to the girls’ room for some reason or another and he was off to break his fast and then see to the men who were going on south with young Meera Reed. Later, he and Catelyn were both to meet with Stannis Baratheon who apparently was anxious to take a more active role in the defense against the Others. Considering the man had a wife and daughter at the Wall and considered himself the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, Ned supposed he couldn’t blame him. Certainly, he was an able enough military strategist, and without the red priestess holding sway over him, Ned was inclined to include him in the planning. He didn’t wish ill upon the missing Lady Melisandre, but he was forced to admit that he preferred to deal with the Baratheon he knew rather than the religious advisor he didn’t. He’d found Lady Selyse’s devotion to the woman and her ideas positively disturbing.

“Lord Stark!”

Ned looked up to see a tall, muscular young man walking toward him from the godswood. He was the lad that had carried Bran around the night before.

“Yes?” he said as the man approached.

“I’m Ian, my lord. I’ve been helping your son, Bran,” the man said, bowing his head deferentially.

“Yes, Ian, what can I do for you?”

“Well, the little lord, Bran I mean, he asked me to get you when you came out and tell you he’s in the godswood. He’d like to speak with you.”

That surprised Ned. “Surely, he should be in the Great Hall breaking his fast.”

“Oh, he did that already,” Ian assured him. “He was up before it was light, my lord, one of the first in the Hall. When Lady Reed came down, she ate as well and then Bran had me take him to the godswood with her so they could talk. And he told me to be on the lookout for you.”

“Thank you, Ian,” Ned said, turning toward the godswood.

“You’re welcome, my lord. If you need me to carry the little lord back, I’m easy enough to find. I’ll be in the stables or the Guards Hall. You can send anybody after me.”

“Thank you, Ian,” Ned said again, thinking he could carry his own son. Catelyn had told him that Samwell Tarly knew of a design for a wheeled chair Bran could use to move himself around indoors, although he’d likely need several of them for different floors of the Keep and one for the Great Hall. He’d still need assistance on the stairs, of course, and wheeled chairs would be useless on the snow covered ground outside. Ned wondered if the design for the special saddle Bran had told him about could be replicated. He was certain they could train another horse to Bran’s specific needs.

Entering the godswood of Winterfell made Ned feel he was truly at home in a very specific way, just as holding his children and lying with his wife had done the night before. He felt closest to all the Starks who had come before when he was here. As he approached the grove containing the heart tree, he heard voices.

“Just promise not to forget who you are, Bran Stark. That’s all I ask of you.” That was Meera Reed.

“I won’t, Meera. I promise.” Bran’s voice. “I will miss you, Meera.”

Meera’s voice sounded considerably warmer when she replied, “I’ll miss you, too, Bran.”

Ned didn’t want to eavesdrop on his son and his companion so he stepped up and greeted them. “Lady Meera, Bran. I was told you wished to speak with me in the godswood, son.”

“Yes, Father,” Bran said.

“I was just leaving, Lord Stark,” Meera said. “I have to see to my horse and make sure everything is prepared for our departure. I hope to be gone well before midday.”

“Well, we shall hate to see you go, Meera, but I understand your haste. You have certainly made an early start, so I anticipate you shall be able to leave this morning without difficulty. We shall certainly be there to see you off. I have a letter for your mother, and I would have you personally give her my regards and my sympathies. She knows well how highly I regarded your father, but that is something which will always bear repeating.”

“I thank you, my lord. And I will tell my mother.” Meera gave him a sad little smile, and then actually walked over to Bran and embraced him quickly before leaving the godswood. Ned smiled at the way his son watched after her as she walked away. Bran was just a boy, but he was undoubtedly very fond of Meera Reed.

“What did you want to speak to me about, Bran?” he asked after a moment.

“Oh,” Bran turned back to face him. Meera or Ian had cleared a spot just in front of one of the larger rocks of most of the snow and placed a large fur down, upon which Bran sat, reclining against the rock. “About me, I suppose. And whether or not I should stay here in Winterfell.”

Ned felt as if he had been stabbed. He had only brought Bran through the gates less than twenty-four hours before. He kept his face carefully blank. “Do you not want to stay in Winterfell, Bran?” he asked carefully.

Tears actually came to Bran’s eyes, those Tully eyes just barely darker than Catelyn’s. “More than anything. Now that I’m here, I don’t ever want to leave. Never.”

“Well then, we are agreed. I do not want you to leave either.”

“But . . .I have to learn how to be a greenseer. I promised Meera that I would.”

“You promised Meera you would remember who you are, Bran,” Ned told him. “I heard you.”

“But that’s who I am. A greenseer. Bloodraven said so, and I know it’s true. I know how it feels to see what the trees see, Father. And it’s important.” Bran sounded desperately young and yet far older than his years all at the same time, and he broke Ned’s heart.

“Yes,” Ned said. “I believe you do have some special ability, Bran, a power that may be used for good for a great many people. But that isn’t everything you are. You are a son and a brother. You are the heir to Winterfell.”

Bran hung his head at that. “I’m not much of an heir. I’m a broken boy. Bran the Broken. Rickon should be your heir before me. Or even the girls. Or Mother’s new baby.” Now he definitely sounded like a ten year old boy, and a desperately unhappy one at that.

“You are my oldest living son, Bran. And you are far more than a broken boy. Did we not just discuss the things which you can do that no one else can? There is far more to being a lord than riding a horse or wielding a sword.”

“Those things are important, though,” Bran said quietly.

“Not as important as you might think,” Ned said, lowering himself to sit beside Bran. “I can always hire a swordsman, but I must make the decisions that see Winterfell through war and winter. I must rule, Bran, and that requires a thoughtful mind and a sense of honor and justice more than prowess with any weapon.”

“You are a good swordsman, though.”

Ned smiled at him. “Not as good as I once was. Yet, I believe I am a better lord than I was when I was twenty or twenty-five, even if I wouldn’t last five minutes against my younger self in swordfight.”

Bran smiled a little at that, but his face quickly turned serious again. “But still,” he said. “I made promises. Jojen gave his life to get me to the Three Eyed Crow. Don’t I have to honor his sacrifice? Don’t I have some duty to fulfill my destiny or whatever it is? I mean, just because I want to be with you and Mother and Sansa and Arya and Rickon . . .” He shook his head. “You didn’t really want to go with King Robert, did you? You would have rather stayed here with Mother and all of us. You had a duty. You‘ve always taught us the importance of honor and duty.”

Bran’s words stung, and Ned had to work hard to keep his face impassive. After a moment, he said softly, “If I could go back and choose again, I would not go south with Robert.”

Bran looked at him skeptically.

Ned thought for a moment. “Bran,” he said. “Can you tell me the words of your mother’s House?”

“The Tully words? Of course. Family, Duty, Honor.”

“Can you say them all three at the same time?”

“What?” Bran asked him in confusion.

“Can you say all three words at once?” Ned asked carefully.

“Of course not,” Bran said. “You can only say one word at a time.”

“Precisely,” Ned said. “And while all three of the Tully words are important, there are times you can only hold to one or two of them. Times you have to choose.” He sighed, wondering how to explain something to a boy of ten that it had taken him over thirty years and a lot of pain to truly begin to understand. “Bran, I never conspired against Robert. I certainly had nothing to do with his death. I spoke only the truth about Cersei Lannister’s children. Yet I was prepared to confess that I had conspired to murder my friend and king and then plotted to disinherit children I knew to be his trueborn heirs.”

“You . . .what?”

“Where is the honor in that, you might ask. There is none. And to save my own life, I would never have done it. My honor is more precious to me than my life, son. It is not, however, more precious to me than your life. Or your sisters’ lives. Cersei Lannister held a sword over Sansa and Arya and promised to let it fall if I did not confess and take the black. I put my family before my honor, and I would do it again, Bran.”

“But she was wrong. She should never have made you make that choice. You couldn’t help it,” Bran protested.

“Bran,” Ned said softly. “Many choices a man must face are not fair ones. The world is not a fair place, and many men . . .and women . . .lack honor. As long as we live in this imperfect world, we will be forced to make imperfect choices. I do not ask you to tell me if you think I chose wrongly or rightly in this one. I simply want you to see that I had to choose. I could not choose both my family and my honor then, and I made my choice. There are other times you can choose both. When I rode into the Twins and took your mother from the Freys, I defended the honor of House Stark and I recovered my lady wife, whose life and honor I certainly value above my own.”

Bran looked hard at him. For all his intelligence, he was still just a child, and Ned could see him trying to make sense of what he’d been told. “It all just seems so . . .impossible,” he said finally.

Ned smiled at him. “Sometimes, it feels impossible, Bran, but you must make the best decisions you can, and then live with them.” He smiled more broadly then. “Fortunately, you needn’t wrestle with such decisions yet. You are not leaving Winterfell in the near future. As your father and your liege, I forbid it.”

“But, Father, what if . . .” Bran started to protest.

“You are ten years old. You are my son, not my prisoner, and as you grow, and you choose your life’s path, if it leads away from Winterfell, I must learn to accept that. But for now, you need only accept my word.” He smiled again. “Or your mother’s word. She informed me last night that no century old tree man was taking her son anywhere.”

Bran laughed in spite of himself. “Did she really say that?”

“Those were her very words. Now, I know you have broken your fast, son, but I have not, and I fear my stomach will not last much longer in its current state. Let me carry you back to the Hall or the Keep.”

“Mother says I’m to have Ian carry me.”

“Do you not think I can carry you, Bran?”

“No . . .it’s just that Mother . . .”

“What your mother doesn’t know will not hurt her,” Ned assured him, rising and stretching before bending to pick up his son. “Or us” he added with a laugh, and he was pleased to hear Bran join in his laughter.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

In the four days since Meera Reed’s departure, things had fallen into some semblance of routine at Winterfell. Ned had personally surveyed every construction project going on and had started men working on the wheeled chairs for Bran. Catelyn continued to be in charge of managing food and supplies within the castle, while he had taken on the bulk of dealing with correspondence from north and south and planning defenses with the men at the Wall and along the line. No word of any major battles had reached them via raven or messenger, and Jon Snow had sent no word of any new troubles at Castle Black.

Stannis Baratheon grew physically stronger by the day, and Catelyn knew he grew more restless as well. He had sat with Ned and herself daily in Ned’s solar discussing what might be done with various men in various places, and she knew that Ned’s continued inclusion of her in the discussions puzzled and irritated him. Sometimes she suspected that was why her husband kept asking her to come to these meetings as he knew all her thoughts already from their own private discussions.

Bran was settling back into life at Winterfell and had lost a little of the deep sadness he’d had upon his arrival. Catelyn knew he missed Meera and that he still mourned Hodor. He’d requested a marker carved and placed for the man in the lichyard, and she and Ned had been happy to oblige him. She’d have liked to have a place where she could specifically go to remember Brienne, but she had sent the Maid of Tarth’s bones south as her lord father requested. She couldn’t begrudge Lord Selwyn his request. When she thought of that man receiving only the bones of the last child he’d left to him while she’d had four of her children returned to her and awaited her sixth baby any day, her heart broke.

Deryk had found a swordsman among the men with a knack for instruction, so Dak, Arya, and Rickon had resumed their sword lessons, and with Samwell Tarly becoming more established in his place at Winterfell, she’d asked him to begin teaching all the children. Arya and Rickon had grumbled tremendously. Rickon had never had a formal lesson in his life, and Arya had never liked hers, but Bran seemed pleased to have something constructive to do, and Dak, surprisingly, had jumped at the chance to take lessons with the others. He’d had no education to speak of, but the Pentoshi boy was quite clever, as his skill with languages indicated. He and Bran got on very well which actually seemed to irritate Arya and Rickon who previously had only each other to contend with for Dak’s attention. Sam gave Sansa books and lessons she could take to her room to work on with Jeyne, as Vayon’s daughter still did not do well with men and rarely came out of the girls’ room. Sansa also spent some time with Catelyn sewing every day, which both of them enjoyed.

In fact, Catelyn enjoyed everything about managing the children, even their squabbles. For some brief moments each day, she could almost close her eyes and imagine the previous years had not happened and the current dangers and threats were not ever present. She was in Winterfell with her husband and children, and the world made sense. Of course, those moments couldn’t last, but she was grateful for them all the same.

This morning, she had not gone down to the Great Hall with Ned for breakfast for her back ached more fiercely than usual, and the tightening of her belly had taken on a bit more of a rhythm than it previously had. She couldn’t be certain and hadn’t said anything to Ned, but she thought that her sixth child was likely preparing to make an appearance. She walked around her rooms, idly picked up bits of sewing, and sipped on water from the pitcher on her table. By the time Ned returned from the Great Hall to see what she was doing, the pains were coming much more closely together, and she was quite certain.

She smiled at him as he entered the room. “I believe you may have another son or daughter by nightfall, my lord.”

The look on his face was priceless, and she nearly laughed out loud remembering how she’d once found that blessed face so frozen and expressionless. “Should you lie down?” he finally asked. “Shall I go get Samwell?”

She did laugh then. “Ned, we’ve been through this before. If I lie down now, I’ll lose my mind before the babe actually comes, and I won’t need Sam for a bit yet, I don’t think. You might want to warn him, though.” She drew in her breath sharply then as a pain hit her, and he was at her side in an instant.

“Cat?”

“I’m fine,” she said through clenched teeth as she grabbed his arm and held it tightly until the pain eased. “I would like you to get the children, though.”

“The children?” He looked stunned.

The pain had passed entirely now, and she smiled at him. “Yes, and hurry. I want them to know what is happening and to see that I am all right. They likely won’t see me again until their new brother or sister is here.”

“You’ll be all right here?” he asked anxiously.

“I am fine, Ned. Go.”

Once he actually turned to go, he left with such speed that Catelyn feared he might knock down any poor soul he happened to meet in the corridor. By the time she heard a knock on her door, the pains had increased in frequency even more, and she hoped she could keep her face composed in front of the children.

“Come in,” she called, and Sansa, Arya, and Rickon all entered.

“Father’s bringing Bran,” Rickon said. He stared at Catelyn’s middle. “He says the baby’s going to come out.”

“Yes, sweetling. It’s time.” She grunted softly as a pain came once more and lowered herself into a chair. “Come here,” she said, wishing her voice didn’t sound quite so tight as she motioned them forward.

“What’s wrong, Mother?” Arya demanded. “Is something wrong?”

Catelyn shook her head, keeping her lips tightly pursed together. “No, Arya,” she said after a moment. “Nothing is wrong. Bringing babes causes some pain, I fear, and if you stay around this part of the Keep, you’ll likely hear me cry out. I am all right. I would prefer that you all go somewhere else so that I don’t frighten you.”

“Why will the baby hurt you?” Rickon asked with big, round eyes.

“The baby will not. It is only getting him from my womb to the outside world that hurts a bit. Now, come and give me kisses, all of you, for I shall miss spending time with you today.”

As the three came forward all at once to throw their arms around her, Ned pushed Bran into her room in his freshly made special chair. She could tell by the way her husband walked and breathed that he had carried the boy up the stairs himself, but she said nothing about it.

“There you are, my boy,” she said with a smile. “Come and let me kiss you, too, before I have to send you all away until I can show you your new brother or sister.”

“Will the baby really come today?” he asked in awe, as Ned pushed him closer to her. He had been far too little to remember much about Rickon’s birth.

“I certainly hope so,” she replied with a small laugh. “I don’t want to do this longer than necessary.” As she put her arms around Bran, she felt her belly tighten painfully once more, and inadvertently squeezed her son a little tighter than she intended.

“Mother?” he asked, in some alarm.

“She says she’s fine,” Arya said darkly, looking at Catelyn as if expecting something dreadful to happen at any moment.

“And I am,” Catelyn said clearly, forcing the words through the pain. “I’m simply very uncomfortable.” She let go of Bran and leaned back in her chair, attempting in vain to find a position of comfort. “You should probably go now, though, my sweetlings. Your father will let you know the minute our new little Stark is here. But don’t worry if it takes some time.”

“Arya, Ian’s at the bottom of the staircase,” Ned said. “Have him come up for Bran. You heard your mother. You all go on now.” Catelyn thought he sounded rather sterner than necessary, but knew he only spoke from his own anxiousness, and she tried to smile at her children reassuringly.

“Yes, go on and be very good today, all right?” She looked at Rickon as she said the last, and her little boy grinned at her and then nodded vigorously.

Ned wheeled Bran’s chair to Arya, and she took the handles, looking back at Catelyn only long enough to say, “You will be fine, Mother. You have to be.” Then she pushed Bran out of the room with Rickon trailing behind them.

Sansa hung back. “May I stay, Mother?” she asked almost shyly. “I . . .I could help you. I am four and ten, and I . . .”

“No, sweetling.” In truth, Catelyn had already considered whether to allow her older daughter to remain. She was certainly old enough to learn what childbirth was, and she’d proven herself a caring and able young lady in countless ways since they’d found her at the Eyrie. Yet, Catelyn remembered well enough her own mother’s cries when she’d brought Edmure into the world and even more clearly the screams when she’d birthed the last child, losing her life as she brought forth the son who outlived her by mere hours. Even if this birth went as well as all her previous deliveries, she didn’t think Sansa would like seeing her mother in such pain, and if something did go wrong . . . “No,” she said again, stopping the protest forming on her daughter’s lips. “Your father will stay with me. I need you to care for your brothers and sister. I will be easier knowing you are with them.”

Sansa hesitated, but then nodded and bent down to kiss her mother's forehead just as Catelyn herself had done so often to her and her siblings. The gesture made Catelyn smile, and she squeezed her daughter’s hand before Sansa turned and left the room.

“Send that Tarly boy now,” Ned called after her.

Catelyn smiled at him. “That Tarly boy is a man grown, educated by the Citadel and sworn to the Night’s Watch. And his name is Sam . . . . Oh!” An even stronger pain gripped her, and she found it suddenly unbearable to remain seated. “Get me up,” she panted, waving her arms toward her husband.

He came at once to her and put his arms around her, helping her to rise from the chair. Once he had her standing, he put one hand on her belly and could feel the tightness. “To bed, my lady?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “Walk with me,” she said between clenched teeth, and he kept his arm around her and walked her slowly about the room. After the pain eased, she stopped and laid her head on his shoulder, and he put both arms around her, rubbing her back gently. “I’m frightened,” she said suddenly, hating herself for saying it because she knew he was already frightened for her.

“You needn’t be,” he said. “I am here. And you will do wonderfully. Just as you always do, my love.” He turned her face up to look at him. “You do well in everything, Cat, and nothing better than caring for our children. You will care for this one just as well.” He smiled at her then, and she felt her lips form her own smile in response. He understood her, just as he always did. He feared for her, but knew she feared only for the babe, and it was about the babe that he reassured her.

“I love you,” she said.

A loud knock came at the door just then. “My lady?” came the voice of Samwell Tarly.

“Come in,” Ned and Catelyn said together.

As Sam entered the room and saw them standing there together, he dropped his eyes. “I . . .forgive me, my lord. My lady. I do not mean to intrude.”

“You are hardly intruding, Sam. I think it’s probably time that I . . .” Another pain gripped her, building from mild to almost unbearable much more quickly than had the previous ones, and then she was aware of a rush of fluid between her legs.

“Oh!” Sam exclaimed. “My lady, I think you should get into bed now,” he stammered.

In spite of the pain which still had her in its grip, Catelyn found herself laughing. Sam looked pale, but determined. Ned, to his credit had not jumped or let go of her when the torrent of fluid had splashed around his boots, but he, too, looked rather pale. “Perhaps the two of you should take to your beds,” she managed to gasp out between giggles, and her words were met by another smile from Ned.

“I shall take to yours, my love,” he told her, and he did, helping her into the bed and then positioning himself behind her that she might lie back against him and hold tightly to his arms through every pain.

The next couple hours were a bit of a blur to Catelyn. Sam had seemed shocked and even dismayed when he realized that Ned had no intention of leaving the room, and Catelyn remembered her own surprise when he’d insisted on staying with her during Sansa’s birth. Now, she couldn’t imagine doing this without him. The pains grew stronger and more frequent to the point that she felt they didn’t actually stop. She certainly didn’t have time to rest or recover herself between them. She tried to remain quiet. She imagined her children somewhere in the Keep being frightened by the sound of her screaming. But sometimes, she did cry out, and Ned would whisper gently to her and hold her until she could breathe again. Finally, she felt the inexorable urge to push. She remembered that well enough, and she braced herself against Ned while two of her maidservants pushed back on her feet, and she pushed all the while the pains lasted, trying to force her child from her.

“Very good, my lady!” Sam cried with great enthusiasm. Once he had become intent on his task, the young man seemed much more at ease. He looked up at her, his big round face almost as flushed as hers most assuredly was. “I think one or two more contractions at the most, if you can push like that again. The babe is right there.” He grinned. “I can see the dark hair.”

“Dark hair?” she gasped, smiling herself and turning to look up at Ned.

“Poor thing,” he said. “Hopefully the child will have your face, at least.”

She started to protest, but felt another great wave of pain and tightness, and heard Sam exclaim, “Now, my lady. Push! Bear down!”

Again, she braced herself and pushed with all her strength. Just as she thought she could bear the pain of it no longer and heard herself make a sound somewhere between a growl and a scream, she felt the odd, painful, but remembered sensation of her body stretching impossibly as the head emerged, and then the quick, slippery sensation of the rest of her infant sliding out behind it.

“A boy!” she heard Sam shout, but she heard nothing from the babe.

“Is he . . .is he all right?” she panted. “Ned . . .Ned, is he all right?”

Ned didn’t answer her. One of the maids had handed Sam some thick cord-like thread and he had his head bent over the babe, blocking Catelyn’s view. “Is he all right?” she asked again.

Then she heard him cry, and her heart almost beat out of her chest. She collapsed back against Ned, but tried to loosen his arms around her and move to the side. “Get him, Ned. Bring me our son.”

Ned kissed her softly, but moved to do as she asked, and Sam held the baby up then where she could see him. His hair was indeed dark, and he had a lot of it. His eyes were tightly closed and his face scrunched up as he cried loudly, but Catelyn had seen Arya cry often enough as a babe to know this child’s face would resemble Ned’s rather than her own.

Sam handed him to a maidservant just as Ned got there to reach for him. “Let me clean him up a bit first, milord.”

“No,” he said softly. “Give me my son.”

The woman hurriedly wrapped him in a linen cloth lying there and gave him to Ned. As his father held him and regarded his newborn son, the baby stopped crying, and Catelyn heard Ned suddenly take a sharp breath. “What is it?” she asked in alarm. “Ned, what is it?”

He looked up at her and smiled one of his beautiful, perfect smiles and said softly, “His eyes, my love.” He came to her then and sat back down on the bed, holding the babe where she could see him. “Look at our son’s eyes.”

She did look. The child was quiet in his father’s arms and stared up at her intently, as if he already knew who she was, his long face and serious expression a miniature version of his father’s. The sky blue eyes that gazed out of that face, however, were her own. “Oh,” she said softly.

“He is beautiful, my lady. Like his mother.”

“He is beautiful,” she agreed. She was shaking although she didn’t feel cold, and she was vaguely aware of the much weaker tightening of her womb which would expel the afterbirth, but she had little thought for any of that or for anyone in the room other than Ned and their new son. “Help me hold him.”

He held the infant in one arm while he put the other around her so that he held them both before he carefully put their son into her arms and then put his own arms under hers. “What would you have us call him, my lady?”

She looked at her son and knew of only one name for him. “Brien,” she said softly. “His name is Brien.”

Ned bent and kissed her again. “It is a fine name, Cat. He could not carry a name with more honor than that one.”

She felt very tired suddenly and cold as well. She remembered well how exhausting childbirth was, but she didn’t remember being quite this tired, even after Rickon, and he had taken much longer to come than Brien had. “Ned, call the children. I’d like to see them with Brien, and I’m afraid I’m going to fall asleep.”

“You’ve worked hard, my love,” he told her, but then he suddenly stopped speaking as he looked at her face. “Cat?” he asked her. Then he turned his gaze toward the foot of the bed, and his face went the color of ice. Frightened, she followed his gaze and saw a bright red stain growing larger as she watched it on the bedding between her thighs.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark felt ice creeping into his heart as he watched the red stain blooming on Catelyn’s bed. Women bled after childbirth. He knew that well enough, but he had held onto his wife four times before in a birthing bed and never seen so much blood. Never had her face been colorless before, either. Only moments before, she had been flushed and warm with the exertion of bringing their son into the world, and now she was bloodless.

“Sam,” he said. “What is happening?”

“I . . .I am not sure, my lord. I am looking at . . .”

“At what?” Ned didn’t want to leave Catelyn, and he wasn’t sure she could even hold onto the babe without his assistance, but he raised up to see what Sam was peering at so intently. The man had spread the soft, gooey mass of tissue that came after a babe out on the foot of the bed and poked at it with his fingers.

“Sam?” he said again, and he was aware that his voice had more than a little threatening growl to it.

“Here,” the fat young man said, poking at a spot on the amorphous blob that looked no different to Ned than any other part of it. “The membrane isn’t complete here . . .and there’s a vessel that looks torn and . . .”

“And what? What are you doing with that thing, Sam? Do you not see _that_?” Ned indicated the still growing bloodstain with his eyes.

“Yes, my lord, I see it. I . . .I think this is the cause. It . . .the afterbirth . . .it didn’t come out complete, and when it’s torn or a piece doesn’t come with the rest, it can cause such bleeding.” Sam looked far too distressed for Ned’s liking, and Catelyn was strangely quiet in his arms through all this conversation.

“What do you do about it?” Ned almost shouted.

“Well, I can try . . .” The man turned back to Catelyn then, seeming utterly dismayed by the amount of blood, but he reached his hand up to her lower belly and pressed hard on it.

“Ow!” Catelyn cried then, tightening her grip on little Brien.

“You’re hurting her. Stop it,” Ned demanded, but Sam didn’t move his hand. Instead he began softly kneading the flesh of Catelyn’s lower abdomen and Catelyn whimpered softly. “I said stop hurting her,” he told Tarly, his voice dangerously low.

Sam shook his head. “I have to, my lord. Massaging the womb can stop . .it can help stop . . .the bleeding.”

“It’s all right, Ned,” Catelyn said then, her voice barely above a whisper. “Sam knows what he’s doing. It doesn’t truly hurt. It was only a shock. That’s all.”

“Shh, Cat. Lie still.” She was listening after all, Ned realized. “You will be fine. Just lie still.”

“Lay her down flat, Lord Stark,” Samwell Tarly ordered, and Ned obeyed without hesitation, removing the pillows from behind her and gently laying her back.

“Oh,” she said softly. “That is better.”

“Of course, it is. You simply need to rest. Give me the baby and . . .”

“No!” It was the loudest she’d been since he’d seen all the blood. “I want to feed him.”

“Catelyn, no. Wait until your strength is better and then . .”

“Ned.” Something about her voice then froze him in place and he looked at his wife’s face. Her blue eyes were clear as she looked up at him. “I may not have another chance, my love. I would feed our son. Just as I fed all our children. Please. Help me.”

A lump which almost prevented him from speaking rose in his throat. “I . . .Cat, I . . .you must save your strength, my love.”

“Actually, my lord, if the babe will suckle, it might help,” put in Samwell Tarly. Ned had forgotten the man’s existence as his wife was speaking. “That can help with this kind of bleeding, too.”

Ned watched a maidservant remove a cloth soaked to the point of dripping blood from between Catelyn’s legs and replace it with another clean white linen cloth and wondered if anything could actually stop such a flow of blood. “Is it all right if I turn her on her side?” he asked Sam, and the man nodded.

“Here, my love,” he said, turning her just slightly, so that he could lay the babe at her breast. He watched as Brien rooted for a few minutes and then found Catelyn’s nipple, latching onto it as if his life depended upon it. _Perhaps her life depends upon it,_ Ned thought darkly.

“Hold me, Ned.” The request was quiet and it stabbed him in the heart. He rose and walked around the bed, trying not to look at the bloody cloth the maidservant was removing now. _Is that the same cloth she just placed there? The cloth that was white a_ _moment ago?_ Sam continued to massage Catelyn’s belly. Ned came to the other side of the bed and lay down, not caring that Sam and the two maids were right there. He moved against Catelyn and put his arms around her.

“I’m so tired,” she murmured. “And I’m cold.”

“Sleep,” he said. “And I’ll warm you.”

She shook her head, a tiny motion. “No. I’m afraid I may not wake up, and I have to tell you . . .I have to tell you . . .”

“Tell me after you sleep, my love,” Ned said stubbornly.

“Tell Sansa she is a fine lady, but she needn’t grow up all at once. Let her . . .let her help you, but remember she isn’t as grown up as she tries so hard to be . . .”

“Cat . .”

“Promise me, Ned.”

 _Promise me, Ned. No. No more promises like that one. Not for Cat. Cat cannot die._ Even as he thought it, he knew that she could. He had seen his share of blood on battlefields and the amount on those cloths . . . “I promise, Cat.”

She smiled, although her eyes were closed. “And tell Arya I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Tell her there’s no one to blame and no one to kill. Not for me. Tell her to let me go. Tell her love is more than vengeance . . .she has to know that . . . She has to . .” Her face contorted into a troubled expression, and Ned ran his hand over it. “I’ll tell her, Cat. I promise.” He wasn’t sure what the talk of killing and vengeance was all about, but he knew Arya had spoken of things with her mother that she had not shared with him and he could not imagine what the loss of her mother would do to his wounded, angry younger daughter. _Don’t die, Cat._

“Tell Rickon I didn’t want to leave. I never wanted to leave. I’m sorry. Don’t you leave him, Ned. He’s still a babe himself, and he won’t understand.” She sounded so sad. Ned wanted to tell her it would be all right. He just held her more tightly. “And Bran . . .tell him I wish I had more time. Tell him I am proud of him. Now as always.”

“I will tell all of them, Cat, and you can tell them again after you sleep. Once you are stronger.”

“Maester Sam, this one’s not nearly so bloody. You think it’s stopping?” The maid’s voice cut through his grief, and he raised himself up to see Sam nodding grimly.

“The bleeding is stopping? She will be all right?” he asked desperately.

“The bleeding is slowing, Lord Stark,” Sam said sadly. “But Lady Stark has lost a great deal of blood already. Perhaps too much.”

“What can you do?” Ned asked him.

Sam met his eyes and slowly shook his head. An icy hand closed tightly around Ned’s heart.

“Ned? I can’t feel you.”

“I’m sorry, my love,” he said, lying back down and pressing her against him. “Can you feel me now?” He buried his face in her hair.

“Mmhm,” she said. “Tell Brien about his name. Tell him of Brienne. And tell him how much I love him.”

“I will. I promise,” he mumbled into her hair. _Tell him yourself, Cat. When you are stronger. When he is older._

“Ned?”

“Yes, my love?” His voice sounded oddly rough to him.

“I’m trying to stay awake, but I’m so tired.”

“Sleep, my love,” he said, although he suddenly found he could hardly speak. “Sleep, and I shall be here when you wake.”

“I love you, Ned.”

“I love you,” he choked out, and he suddenly realized he was crying. He was crying actual tears. His face was wet, and her hair was wet where his face was pressed against it. “I love you, Cat,” he said again, catching in his throat the sob that threatened to escape with the words. “Now, sleep, my lady, and I will be here when you wake.”


	52. Promise Me

“Lady Arya! Come back here!”

She could hear the swordmaster’s shouts, but she paid them no heed. He was not Brienne any more than Sansa was Mother, and she had no wish to listen to him. Besides, if she stayed in that practice yard one more moment, she was likely to kill Dak. She’d beaten him mercilessly, breaking his wooden practice sword with her own and then slashing at him until he fell to the ground and continuing to hit him where he lay until she had heard Rickon screaming her name. She’d stopped then and looked down to see Dak looking up at her with his nose bloodied, but only pity in his eyes. She’d thrown the stupid wooden sword across the field and started running.

She hadn’t known where she was going, was only vaguely aware she’d even run to the Great Keep until she was inside it and nearly collided with Sansa in the corridor.

“Arya!” her sister exclaimed in annoyance. Then she looked at Arya’s face and whatever she saw seemed to frighten her. “What is it?” she demanded. “What is wrong?”

 _What is wrong?_ Arya felt an absurd urge to laugh at that question. Instead, she scowled at her sister. “Nothing.” She started to push past her, but Sansa grabbed her arm.

“Don’t tell me that, Arya. I know better. What has happened?”

 _So patient. So reasonable. So bloody infuriating._ “Leave me alone, Sansa!”

“Arya, please. Don’t do this.”

“Don’t try to tell me what to do! You aren’t my mother!”

Sansa looked stricken, and Arya almost felt bad for her. Almost. She was too angry to truly feel sorry for anyone, though. “I know that,” Sansa whispered. “Gods, Arya, do you honestly think I don’t know that? I need her, too.” Sansa’s voice broke, and tears filled her eyes as she said that. Those eyes that looked too much like Mother’s for Arya to keep looking at them. But _Mother’s eyes won’t open._

She closed her own eyes tighly and refused to allow any tears to find them. When she opened them after a moment, Sansa still stood in front of her. “I’m going to get Brien from Letty. She took him to feed him, but he must be finished by now. Do you want to come with me?” she asked softly.

Arya looked down and shook her head mutely.

“Arya,” Sansa said gently. “He’s our brother. You haven’t even looked at him. He looks like you, you know, only with Mother’s eyes.

 _Mother’s eyes again. I don’t want to see Mother’s eyes except in Mother’s face. And hers won’t open._ “I . . .can’t, Sansa,” she choked out. “I don’t want to see him.”

“It isn’t his fault, Arya.”

“You think I don’t know that?” she demanded, looking back up at her sister. “It doesn’t matter. I just . . .” She couldn’t finish the thought. She couldn’t explain to Sansa what she didn’t really understand herself. “Where’s Father?” she asked abruptly.

“You know where he is,” Sansa said sadly.

Arya felt a stab of guilt as she thought of her father. She could scarcely stand to be with him because the pain etched so deeply on his face echoed and magnified her own. She had never seen him like this, and it frightened her. “Has he eaten anything?”

Sansa shook her head. “Not for me. Not for Sam, either, I don’t think.”

“Sam,” Arya spit the name like a curse.

“It isn’t his fault, either,” Sansa said.

“You don’t know that!” Arya flung at her. “Maester Luwin would have known what to do. Sam’s just a stupid fat craven who can’t even take care of himself in the dark!”

“Arya!”

Arya didn’t listen to her. She pushed around her without getting caught this time and started toward the staircase. “Where are you going?” Sansa called after her.

“To see my father!” Arya shouted without looking back.

She didn’t want to see Father, but she was desperate to see him. She didn’t want to go into that room, but she longed to be there. Once she reached the top of the staircase and started down the corridor, she was almost overwhelmed by memories of other times she’d been drawn to this room--countless nightmares, injuries, and insults had sent her running here seeking solace in Mother’s embrace. Often, she’d found Father here, too, especially at night. And she knew she’d find him here now.

Quietly, she pushed open the door to her mother’s chambers, entering the room without knocking as she had sometimes done when she was small to find them sleeping, usually wrapped around each other in some way. She didn’t realize she’d closed her eyes to keep that image in front of her until the sound of her father’s voice caused her to open them.

“I’m here, Cat,” he said softly. “I will not leave you, my love.” She saw him then, seated beside Mother’s bed, not the enormous bed from her memories, but the smaller one which had taken its place after Winterfell burned. He looked thin and drawn and much older than he had been three days ago. He leaned over the bed and held one of Mother’s pale, cool hands in his own. His other hand gently combed through a long section of her hair, its shining copper the only color her mother had left to her. Everything else about Catelyn Stark’s still form appeared carved from white marble, and Arya swallowed hard, forcing herself to look closely at her mother’s chest, wondering if the shallow breaths had finally stopped. When she saw the slight rise of the chest, she felt an irrational rush of relief and silently cursed herself for it. _Mother isn’t going to wake up. No one but Father_ _believes she will wake up._ Still, she couldn’t completely kill the little bit of hope those barely perceptible breaths gave her.

She stood there biting her lip and staring at her parents, longing for her father to turn and lecture her sternly about entering people’s private chambers without knocking while her mother tried not to laugh at the way he tugged at the furs, trying to cover himself only to uncover her in the process. The memory and the present reality fought for space within her mind, and she felt dizzy.

“Lady Arya,” came a voice from off to her left. _Samwell Tarly. Of course, he is here. Not that he can do anything._

She turned to look at the fat man in his black clothes. He was at the table, dipping a cloth into some sort of liquid. “What are you doing?” she asked him.

“Arya?” her father had noticed her then. “Did you come to see your mother, sweetling?”

 _Sweetling._ Mother had called her that far more often than Father ever had. “I came to see you,” she said flatly. “You have to eat something.”

He shook his head. “I am not hungry. But look. Sam has contrived something for your mother. Watch.”

Sam came over to the bed then and took the rag she had seen him wetting and forced the end of it into her mother’s mouth. Mother did not open her lips or give any sign she even knew it was there.

“Honeyed water?” Arya asked. “She won’t drink it. She doesn’t move at all.”

Sam ran his fingers down the rag as if he were ringing it out, and Arya watched her mother’s lips grow moist. “She can’t drink,” Sam agreed, “And we haven’t been able to get her take anything by trying to pour liquids into her mouth. But look . . . When I run my fingers down the rag, some of the liquid makes it to the tip, even through her closed lips.”

Arya watched. “So?” she said after a moment. “It’s in her mouth. She doesn’t swallow it.”

“Watch,” her father said, and he took his hand from Mother’s hair and started running a finger down the front of her throat, starting just below her chin and ending at the hollow place above her chest, putting slight pressure on her windpipe as he went. It looked very irritating to Arya, and as his finger moved down its path the third time, she saw her mother’s throat contract in a swallow. Her face never changed expression, but Father’s did. “You see? It’s a reflex, Sam tells me. The amount of fluid in her mouth is so small, we do not risk choking her.”

Arya wanted it to be enough. She wanted to believe that Samwell Tarly had discovered the key to saving her mother, but the amount of fluid was small. Too small. She looked at the bloody rags in the basket on the floor. Mother continued to bleed. It was only the normal flow expected after a childbirth now, a maid had told her and Sansa, but still . . .after losing so much blood, how could Mother survive losing any more at all with only drops from a cloth in her lips to sustain her. “It isn’t enough,” she said bitterly, feeling the tears she’d fought against all morning stinging her eyes. “It can’t possibly be enough.”

“It will be, Arya,” her father said quietly. “We shall give her more every moment of every day if she needs it, and little by little, it will be enough.”

She heard the strength of his words, even beneath his grief and exhaustion, and realized that he wasn’t defeated and lost and deluding himself as she’d believed. He was fighting for Mother. He’d always fought for Mother, and he wouldn’t stop now. Whether he could win this time or not.

She put her arms around her father then, and felt that he was shaking slightly. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and she realized his lips trembled as well. _He knows,_ she thought. _He knows he will likely lose this battle, and yet he will still fight it._

She went to pull another chair close to Father’s. “Show me,” she said. “You and Sam can’t do this by yourself. Show me. I can help.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Oh, please, please stop crying, sweetling,” Sansa pleaded with the baby in her arms. “Shh, shh. It’s all right.” She walked back and forth across her room.

“Mayhaps he’s still hungry,” Jeyne suggested. “Look how he’s rooting at your chest.”

“He always does that,” Sansa said. That was true, and it irritated her. _I am not Mother._ “Letty assured me he ate his fill. He looks like Arya, so I suppose he’s going to fret like Arya, too. Mother said she was the most fretful of all of us.”

“I can believe that,” Jeyne said, laughing.

Sansa tried hard not to resent her friend for remembering how to laugh. Three days ago, she’d have been thrilled to hear any sound of joy from Jeyne, but now it was all wrong. Now there was no joy in the world, and while Jeyne had heard about Mother and been sympathetic, she just didn’t quite seem to fully understand the gravity of the situation, hidden away here in their room.

“Please, Brien,” she begged again, bouncing the babe gently on her shoulder. She began to hum to him, almost tunelessly at first, and then trying snippets of various songs she knew. Nothing made the child happy.

“Oh,” Jeyne said, looking up from her sewing as if suddenly struck by a brilliant thought. “Try the one Rickon’s so mad about. You know it. The one about ribbons. You said your mother sang it to all of you. If it worked on Arya, surely, it will work on little Brien.”

Suddenly, it was too much, and Sansa thrust her little brother into the arms of her surprised friend. “I can’t!” she protested. “I can’t sing Silver Ribbons. That’s Mother’s song.” She was actually sobbing as she spoke. “How can I sing that to Brien before Mother ever does? How can I do that, Jeyne?”

Jeyne’s eyes went wide. She looked from the crying baby in her arms to the crying young woman who had flung herself down on her bed. “I’m sorry, Sansa. I’m sorry. I only meant to help . . .I’ll . . .go get someone.” With that, Jeyne laid the squalling Brien in his cradle and left the room.

As Sansa continued to cry, it slowly occurred to her that Jeyne had left their room by herself. She had not done that since she’d come back to Winterfell. Sansa felt ashamed of feeling resentful toward Jeyne and ashamed of her own tears then. If Jeyne Poole could face her fears in order to help Sansa, then surely Sansa could face dealing with a crying baby to help Mother now.

 _Mother has to wake up._ She and Arya had both been there when Sam told Father that Mother would likely not last the night after Brien was was born. Sansa had felt just as she had when Joffrey had held up the head he’d said was Father’s or when she’d watched Hosteen Frey bring his sword down toward Mother’s head. She didn’t remember much of the conversation after that, only her father’s immediate words to Sam. “You are wrong.”

He had been wrong. Mother had survived that night and two more since, but she was deathly pale and deathly still, and Sansa knew she couldn’t continue as she was. _You must wake up, Mother._ Sansa got up from her bed and went to retrieve Brien from his cradle. Miraculously, his cries ceased when she picked him up this time, and she held him close to her a moment and then sat down and laid him in her lap.

He wasn’t asleep. He looked up at her with his wide Tully blue eyes. Mother’s eyes. Her eyes. It almost frightened Sansa how much she loved him. She’d taken it upon herself to make sure he was loved and cared for as soon as Sam had said those awful words, and she’d had him with her nearly all the time since except sometimes when Letty was feeding him. Even then, she often stayed beside Letty while Brien nursed. Yet, he terrified her, too. She didn’t know how to raise a baby. _I am not his_ _mother._ Sometimes, she thought she should just let him stay with Letty all the time. She certainly knew more about babies than Sansa did, but Brien didn’t belong to Letty. Brien was a Stark. He was Mother’s. And Father’s. And hers.

“But I am not your mother, Brien,” she told the baby softly. “I need my mother.”

There was a knock at her door, but before she could respond, the door opened, and Jeyne Poole ushered in Samwell Tarly. “Are you well, Lady Sansa? Jeyne feared you needed my assistance.”

Jeyne had positioned herself in the corner of the room farthest from Sam, but obviously she had found the courage to approach him and speak to him.

“Why aren’t you with my mother?” Sansa asked, suddenly alarmed. “Is she . . .”

“Your mother is the same,” he said softly. “Jeyne met me in the corridor and told me the babe was fretful. Are you worried he is ill?”

“I . . .I don’t think so. I think he just likes to cry. And I don’t always know what to do for him.”

“Perhaps Letty . . .”

“He doesn’t belong to Letty!” Sansa said rather angrily. She took a deep breath. “Letty is a great help,” she said in a more controlled voice. “And I am certainly grateful that she can feed him. But Sam, he needs his mother. Tell me the truth. Is my mother ever going to wake up? Is my mother going to . .” She took another deep breath and forced herself to say the word. “Die?”

Now Sam took a deep breath of his own. “The truth, my lady, is that I do not know.”

“What kind of answer is that?” she asked him.

“The only one I have.” He paused a moment. “And a better one than I had yesterday. Yesterday, I would have answered that she could not live. Yet she did. I don’t know why or how she lives, my lady. The blood she lost . . .” He shook his head. “But since she has not died yet, mayhaps she will not. Your father and sister are with her now, using a cloth to give her honey and water. I should like to try some broth made with the juices of red meat as well, as that is good for the blood.” He paused again. “She does not have the best of chances, my lady. But I will not say she has no chance.”

Sansa nodded. It was a small hope. But she would take it. “Arya is with her? Helping Father care for her?”

“Yes, and it is a good thing. In truth, I worry almost as much about Lord Stark as I do Lady Stark. I fear he exhausts himself.”

Sansa remembered her mother’s name day in the Eyrie, the way the wind from the Moon Door had swirled around her, blowing her hair as she’d faced down Petyr Baelish; the way her father had held her mother’s arms the entire time. Sansa had been so afraid that Mother would fall, but Mother hadn’t been frightened at all. _Your father would never let go of me,_ she had said. And Sansa would never forget her father’s expression when he’d looked at her mother and responded to that with one word. _Never._

“Father will not leave her, Sam,” she said now. “The best we can hope for is to get him to eat, and maybe even sleep a bit in her room.”

“Speaking of sleep, my lady, I believe your brother sleeps now.”

Sansa looked down at the babe on her lap and saw that Sam spoke the truth. The blue eyes were now closed, and Brien’s face was a miniature version of her sister’s when she slept. She smiled at him.

“And speaking of eating,” he continued. “It is nearly past time for the midday meal. You should go to the Hall and eat something yourself. I will return to your mother’s room and send your sister to eat as well. You should both find your brothers and spend time with them.” He looked down as if unsure of himself. “Lady Stark would like that. All of you together, I mean.”

“You are right, Sam,” Sansa told him with a smile. “She would like that.”

“I can watch Brien while he sleeps,” Jeyne said quietly from her corner. Sansa had almost forgotten she was there.

“You don’t want to come with us, Jeyne?” Sansa tried, but Jeyne shook her head quickly and remained in her corner. “Well, I thank you for watching over Brien. Hopefully, the child has tired himself out well enough to sleep for an hour at least.” She turned toward Sam. “What about you, Sam? Have you eaten?”

He shook his head. “I don’t imagine I’ll starve by waiting though,” he said with a rueful grin. “Have something sent to your mother’s chambers for Lord Stark and myself and mayhaps I can get him to eat with me.”

“Thank you, Sam. I understand why Jon thought so highly of you.” She smiled to see the man duck his head in embarrassment, but she believed that whatever Arya might think, any small chance their mother did have of waking again was due at least in part to the work of Samwell Tarly.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Eddard!!!”

He could hear the shout even above the clang of the metal and the grunts of the men as he and his companions fought the three men in white cloaks. _Lya. It was Lyanna’s voice which shouted._ At the sound of his sister’s ragged, pain-filled shout, he stumbled, nearly tripping over Mark Ryswell’s corpse. He would have died then had not William Dustin been beside him to block Gerold Hightower’s blow. As he watched William fall, he heard his name again.

“Eddard.” Only this voice spoke softly rather than shouting. He turned in some confusion and saw not his bloodied companions in the Dornish sun but Catelyn, naked in the candlelight of a room in Riverrun, young and shy, but looking him in the eye as she said, “If we are to do this, I suppose we should call each other by our names, my lord.” She smiled very slightly. “Eddard.”

He looked down and saw that he no longer wore his armor, but was naked as well. “Cat,” he breathed and reached out to take her hand and lead her to the bed. Her hand was cold. That was wrong. Her skin had been warm that night. He remembered how warm she’d been.

“Ned,” came a weak, rasping voice, and he turned to look at the bed. Catelyn’s hand was gone from his grasp, and his sister lay before him in her bed of blood. The room was hot and airless, and his armor felt heavy as he rushed to her side. “Promise me, Ned.” Her grey eyes were desperate and looked enormous in her drawn, pale face. The stink of blood and death was stronger in this tiny room than outside where his men and the three knights of the Kingsguard lay dead under the sun. “Promise me, Ned.”

“I promise, Lya,” he told her, and she smiled as she closed her eyes. He held her against him, lifeless and still, closing his eyes against the pain of it.

“Promise me, Ned.” He opened his eyes and found to his surprise that the woman he held against him now had shining coppery hair and she raised her head up from his shoulder and looked at him with wide, blue eyes. “Promise me, Ned,” she said again softly, but clearly. He could see the scars on her face and throat standing out against her pale white skin.

“I will not let you go,” he said fiercely. “I will not let you go, Cat.”

She only looked at him sadly, and he saw that she had begun to cry, but her tears were red. He looked down and saw that blood covered her legs and pooled around the two of them. “No,” he gasped.

“Promise me, Ned,” she said again, but it was barely a whisper now, and he looked back up to see that blood now ran from the gash at her throat and trickled from the cuts on her face. Somehow she was no longer in his arms, but moving away from him, and he reached for her desperately, noting that his own hands were covered with blood. “Cat!” he called after her.

She made no sound, but her lips moved and formed the word _promise_. “Catelyn!” he screamed desperately.

“Lord Stark!” A man’s voice. “Lord Stark, you must wake. You are dreaming, my lord!”

Ned opened his eyes and swallowed hard. Someone was shaking him. He raised his head and saw that he was in Catelyn’s room, still in his chair, but slumped forward onto her bed. One arm was flung over her still form. Panic seized him. “Cat,” he said desperately, attempting to rise and take her in his arms.

Hands on his shoulders held him in place. “She lives, my lord. There is no change. You were dreaming.”

Shaking, Ned gradually began to comprehend the man’s words, and he looked up into the frightened appearing face of Samwell Tarly. He swallowed hard and then asked him. “How long have I slept?”

“Barely an hour, my lord.”

Ned looked at the jar of water and honey and the cloth which lay by it on the small table he had pulled beside his chair. “An hour?” he demanded. “Has no one given her water? Why did you not wake me?”

“I tried to wake you, my lord,” Sam said quietly. “When your daughters brought the food. But you slept too soundly and they bid me leave you be. You are exhausted, my lord.”

Ned shook his head. “But Catelyn . . .”

“I had been giving her drink, my lord, once you fell asleep. And then the Lady Arya did while I ate my meal here, and she showed the Lady Sansa how it is done. It has been no more than a quarter hour since they left. Lady Stark has been given quite a bit of fluid, actually, a meat tea that Lady Sansa brought as well as the honey, and I thought to let her rest just a bit as well as you.”

Sam looked exhausted, and Ned wondered what he must look like himself. It didn’t matter. Catelyn lived. Nothing mattered at the moment but that. “Were the boys here?” he asked quietly.

Sam shook his head. “Rickon will not come in, my lord, and Bran wanted to stay with him. Apparently, something upset Rickon at sword practice this morning, and now he wants only Bran and the wolves.”

Ned sighed. He had thought sending the children back to their lessons would help occupy their minds. That plan seemed to have failed. Rickon had only come in to see Catelyn the one time, and Ned hadn’t realized that the bloody bedcoverings and rags were still in a basket on the floor then. The boy had seen it immediately and then stared at Catelyn lying so still and pale on the bed. “She’s dead,” he’d whispered. Then he’d shouted it. “She’s dead! She’s dead!” before running out of the room.

Arya had caught him and brought him back.

“Your mother is not dead, Rickon,” Ned had told him. “She is only sleeping.” Then the boy had gone to Catelyn and begun shaking her and yelling at her to wake up. Frightened that he might somehow damage her, Ned had picked him up and taken him out then, and Sam had given him dreamwine. Ned hadn’t seen his third son since, as he had not left Catelyn’s room and Rickon had not returned.

Bran came, though. He had whoever brought him up the stairs wait outside, and he pushed on the large wheels of his chair himself to come close to his mother’s bed. He would simply sit quietly and look at her, saying nothing. He did once ask Ned if he thought she dreamed.

Ned looked at his wife now, lying so unnaturally still, and wondered if she did dream. He laid a hand on her chest as he did so often, to feel the beating of her heart. It was light and fast, much faster than it should be, and each time he felt it he remembered a long ago day when he and Brandon had found a wounded bird in the godswood when they were boys. He’d felt its panicked heart beat when he picked it up and held it in his hands, and it had felt much like Catelyn’s did now. He had insisted to Brandon that they bring the little creature back to the Keep, but it had died anyway.

“You must eat, Lord Stark,” Sam voice broke into his thoughts. “I promised your daughters you would eat when you woke.”

“You shouldn’t make promises for other people,” Ned said softly. “You shouldn’t make promises you cannot keep.” He didn’t look at Sam, but kept his hand on Catelyn’s heart, continuing to look at her white face.

“Please, my lord,” Sam said, and Ned could hear a hint of desperation in his voice. “Lady Stark would not have you starve yourself. You know she would not. Please come and eat, and I will give her more honey and water and broth while you do.”

Ned sighed. Moving even across the room from her seemed unfathomable to him, and he recalled how angry he’d been when she’d refused to move from Bran’s side after his fall. _I understand now, Cat._ He didn’t help his wife or children by fainting into a dead sleep as he sat, though. He should try to eat something. “All right, Sam,” he said, slowly rising from the chair. His leg protested mightily, and his head swam a bit, but he made it to the larger table where food was laid out, and sank into a chair there. When he tore a hunk of bread from the loaf and put it into his mouth, he tasted nothing but sawdust, but his stomach accepted it well enough, so he made himself take another bite and reached for the ale to wash it down.

As he ate, he heard Sansa’s disturbed voice from just outside Catelyn’s chambers. “My lord! I must insist that you not disturb my parents.”

“My lady,” came the dry voice of Stannis Baratheon, “By all reports, your lady mother is beyond my capacity to disturb, and your lord father has a duty to Winterfell and the Realm.”

As Sansa again ordered the Lord of Dragonstone to go away, Sam looked up from the wet cloth he held to Catelyn’s lips and raised his eyes questioningly at Ned. Ned raised a hand indicating he should remain there and continue his ministrations. Then he rose from the chair and went to the door.

He pulled it open to find his daughter backed against it with Stannis Baratheon towering over her in a manner that struck Ned as threatening. “Sansa,” he growled. “Come inside.” As soon as he had pulled his daughter into the room, he stood directly in front of the taller man, blocking his entrance. “How dare you speak so to my daughter?” he said.

Stannis ground his teeth. “I meant no discourtesy to Lady Sansa,” he said. “I only . . .”

“Whether you meant it or not, you were discourteous in the extreme. You will apologize to her and leave.”

Stannis glowered at him, but then looked over his shoulder at Sansa. “I am sorry if I gave you offense, my lady. I meant none.”

Ned saw the man’s gaze flicker off to the side and knew he looked at Catelyn in her bed. Then he looked back at Ned. “But I cannot go, my lord. Not without speaking to you.”

Ned had no desire to speak to Robert’s brother, but he feared he needed to hear what the man had to say. “Speak,” he said gruffly. “Is there news of battle or some other ill in the land?”

“Not battle, precisely, my lord, but there have been ravens from Lord Umber and from the Wall.”

“From Jon?”

“No. One from Eastwatch and one from the Queen.”

“Answer them as you see fit,” Ned said simply, preparing to turn away from him. “Obviously, you have read them since you know there is no news of battle.”

“I . . .I merely wished to do my part during this time of trouble for you, Lord Stark,” Stannis said. “You do have my sympathy, but . . .”

“No one has died, Stannis,” Ned snapped. “Perhaps you mean to offer congratulations on my son or inquire about my lady wife’s recovery.”

“I . .” Stannis Baratheon looked decidedly uncomfortable, but stated flatly. “I came to remind you of your duty, Lord Stark. I am sorry for your wife’s condition. You can do nothing for her, however, and we are fighting a war to the north and preparing for one in the south. You are the Lord of Winterfell.”

“I need not be reminded of that fact,” Ned said in a voice laced with ice. “I know very well who I am. You have repeatedly told me that you are my king. So, as the Lord of Winterfell, I tell you now, _your grace_ , to answer the communications as you see fit. You have been as much a part of our military plans of late as Lady Catelyn or myself. I trust your judgment in this. If something dreadful occurs or we are in imminent danger of attack, I trust you will inform me. Otherwise, I am quite certain you are perfectly capable of directing an army without my holding your hand.”

If Stannis clenched his jaw any tighter, Ned thought he might actually break his teeth. After a moment, the man said stiffly, “I am more than capable, Lord Stark. Do you wish to place me in command of your men?”

 _That’s what you’ve wanted all along,_ Ned thought wearily. “I wish for you to lead them while I cannot,” he said simply. “Just as you asked of Lord Seaworth when you could not lead your men to the Wall.”

“I could not lead my men because I lay wounded in bed, Lord Stark.”

The implication that Ned had no legitimate reason not to lead men wherever they might need to go was clear, and not for the first time, Ned wondered about the marriage of Stannis and Selyse Baratheon. He knew that what he shared with Catelyn was rare, but he had generally found a certain respect and even some small degree of affection between most couples who’d been married for years. Stannis Baratheon seemed never to think of his wife at all. Certainly, if she took ill, he would order her well cared for, but Ned rather thought he’d seek out battles or council meetings in preference to actually spending any time with her himself. Of course, Robert had thought nothing of asking him to leave Winterfell when his son lay ill and possibly dying. _And I went,_ he thought bitterly. _She begged me not to go, but I went._

“My lady wife lies in her bed, Lord Baratheon. Gravely ill. My place right now is with her.”

Stannis looked at him oddly. “While I do not pretend to have held you in quite such lofty esteem as my brother did, I never thought you a man to turn away from duty, Lord Stark.”

“I am not. Mayhaps we do not define duty the same way, however.” _Family, Duty, Honor._ Catelyn’s family’s words came unbidden to his mind, and he almost laughed in spite of feeling less joy than he ever had. He had told her often enough how she’d become a Stark in truth. Perhaps he had become a Tully. He would tell her that and watch her smile when she woke. _She will wake._

“Mayhaps,” Stannis said. “I shall see to the letters, then.”

“Thank you,” Ned said, and he meant it. He did trust Stannis Baratheon’s military judgment. If the Lord of Dragonstone were not in Winterfell at present, he would be faced with far more difficult choices.

“I hope the Lady Catelyn recovers.”

Ned could hear in his voice that he did not believe that she would, but he also thought the words were as kindly meant as any Stannis Baratheon ever spoke. “Thank you,” he said again, and Stannis took his leave.

“He’ll go straight to your solar and sit in your chair,” Sansa said somewhat indignantly after he’d gone.

Ned turned to her tiredly. “Do you think it truly matters where he sits, Sansa?”

She looked at him, and raised her chin just slightly in a gesture so reminiscent of her mother that his heart lurched. “Well, it is _your_ solar and _your_ chair, and he has no business in it.” Her lip trembled just a little as she added, “And when she wakes, Mother will say the same.”

Ned opened his arms then for his daughter to come into them. “She will indeed, Sansa, she will indeed.”

He looked over Sansa’s shoulder at Sam, still working with the cloth to get precious fluid into Catelyn. “I can do that now, Sam,” he said.

Sansa pulled out of his embrace and turned to Sam. “How much did he eat?”

Ned met Sam’s eyes before he responded. “Enough, Lady Sansa,” Sam said carefully. “Not a whole lot, but it isn’t good to eat a whole lot on a stomach as empty as his.”

“All right, then. Now you can get some sleep, Father,” Sansa said to him.

“Sansa I am not . . .”

“Leaving this room,” she interrupted. “I know that. Get into bed with Mother.”

Ned raised his brows at his daughter and saw poor Sam looking almost scandalized.

“Oh gods be good!” Sansa exclaimed looking back and forth between the two of them. “You have to sleep. And Mother’s so cold. She’d be warmer next to you, Father. That could help her, couldn’t it, Sam?”

Sam looked thoughtful and nodded slowly. “It might.”

Ned remembered how she’d complained of being cold as her life’s blood was flowing from her. He’d promised to warm her. “She needs more fluid,” he said doubtfully. “And you need sleep as badly as I do, Sam.”

“I’ll stay,” said Sansa. “Arya went to help Jeyne with Brien, and they’ve got Letty, too. Sam, go to your room and rest. I’ll send for you if you’re needed. Father, you lie down here, and I’ll give Mother more to drink. I slept in my own bed last night.”

Ned smiled at his daughter. “She was right,” he said. “You are growing up too fast.”

Sansa didn’t respond as she was taking Sam’s seat as he rose to go. Once Sam left, Ned sat on the edge of the bed and removed his boots.

“Take your shirt off, too,” she said. “You’ll burn up if you wear that thick shirt and get under the furs with Mother.”

“Sansa,” he started to say.

“I’ve seen men without shirts, Father. It isn’t as if I told you to take your breeches off.” She blushed then, surprised at her own frank words. Ned smiled at her again as he heard the echo of her mother’s unfailing practicality, and he took off his shirt.

He moved slowly under the covers, not wishing to disturb Catelyn, although she gave no sign of knowing he was there. He moved toward her until his body touched hers, and it shocked him to feel the coolness of her skin. He put an arm around her to hold her close to him while taking care not to pull her away from Sansa and her cloth she held to her lips. He watched the liquid pool slightly where her lips came together around the cloth and thought he just might see an almost imperceptible movement of those lips as the liquid disappeared into her mouth.

Still, she appeared not to feel his arm around her or even know he was there, and he was reminded eerily of the dream from which Sam had awakened him, when he’d tried desperately to reach her, and she’d kept drifting further away, blood everywhere. _Don’t go away, Cat._

He leaned his head against hers and put his mouth close to her ear to whisper, “I will be here when you wake.” Then he closed his eyes.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Samwell Tarly was exhausted, but he still he made his way to the Stark daughters’ room before leaving the Great Keep. To his knowledge, Arya Stark had not so much as looked at her infant brother, and it had surprised him when Lady Sansa said she had gone to help Jeyne Poole care for him. As for the Poole girl, she had been scarcely able to speak to Sam when she’d fetched him before, and he feared that she wasn’t entirely stable enough to care for an infant for any great length of time. Sam’s hands had been the first to ever hold Brien Stark, and he was determined to keep the child safe at least. He would not fail Lady Catelyn in that.

He stopped suddenly, recalling that first rush of bright red blood which had followed the afterbirth. How had it happened? What could he have done? He knew the answers well enough from his books. It simply did happen sometimes, and there was nothing he could have done. Yet, he could not accept those answers and so continually asked himself the questions. Lady Catelyn had trusted him. She had insisted that her entire household trust him. And he had failed her.

 _She lives,_ he told himself. _She may continue to live, yet._ He could not imagine how, though. In his time at the Citadel, he had seen no one lose that much blood from any cause and survive it. Initially, he’d thought she would die before the first night ended and had told Lord Stark and his daughters so, watching the older man’s face harden into ice while those grey eyes stared at him with an intensity he feared would actually burn him. “You are wrong,” he’d said simply in that deep voice of his. Then he’d sat by the bed staring at Lady Catelyn and holding onto her hand throughout all that night, neither moving nor speaking. Sam never saw him close his eyes or remove his gaze from his wife’s face, and when she still breathed as the sun rose in the morning, Sam couldn’t shake the absurd idea that Lord Stark had held her there simply through the strength of that grey gaze.

He sighed and continued toward the young ladies’ chamber, still thinking about Eddard Stark. _Jon’s father._ Prior to actually meeting him, he had only ever thought of him as Jon’s father--the man Jon spoke of with respect bordering on awe. Jon’s tales of his father had made Sam envious, thinking that it must be a far better thing to be the bastard of such a man as the Lord of Winterfell than the trueborn eldest son of his own father. He’d wondered if a man so honorable as Jon described could truly exist.

When Lord Stark had arrived in Winterfell, the first thing Sam had noted was the startling resemblance the man bore to his bastard son. Looking at him was like seeing Jon twenty years from now. In fact, Sam had at first sometimes pretended he was Jon, just to keep from being quite so terrified when he turned those grey eyes on him and asked him questions or instructed him to do something. Sam could see that the air of command which had seemed to come so naturally to Jon after his election as Lord Commander had been learned by watching this man, but even Jon did not have quite the innate air of quiet authority that Eddard Stark seemed to exude. By the morning after his arrival, all of Winterfell was obviously under the command of its Lord.

The second thing Sam had noted about Eddard Stark was the way he looked at his wife. The obvious affection with which he regarded his children did not surprise Sam in spite of the man’s outwardly cold demeanor for Jon had spoken warmly of times spent with his father and siblings on numerous occasions. Of course, Jon had spoken of Lady Catelyn only rarely and never warmly, and while Lady Catelyn had spoken of her husband more than once since Sam’s arrival in Winterfell and obviously held him in high regard, she was not one to share her most personal thoughts. When Sam had watched the two of them at that first dinner after Lord Stark’s return, he thought he could almost see a connection binding them together--a connection so strong that it surely must have a visible, palpable form. That was when he began to think of the man as Lady Catelyn’s husband as well as Jon’s father, the Lord of Winterfell.

 _The man who has not left her chambers since Brien’s birth is Lady Catelyn’s husband above all else,_ he thought grimly, _And I have failed him, too._

He found himself standing at the door now, and he knocked, recognizing Lady Arya’s voice as she bid him enter. He walked in to find a crowded room. Bran Stark reclined on the smaller of the two beds in the room with a large grey direwolf stretched out beside him and half lying over his legs. Lady Arya was seated in a chair cradling little Brien in her arms while young Rickon lay on the floor, somewhat tangled up with his enormous black direwolf and another, slightly smaller grey one he knew to be Lady Arya’s. He did not see Jeyne Poole at first, and then realized she had retreated to a corner to his right upon his entrance.

Lady Arya’s eyes registered alarm as she recognized him. “Mother . . .” she said.

“Lady Catelyn is still sleeping,” Sam said quickly. “Your lord father and sister are with her.”

“There is no change?” her voice took on a quiet, controlled quality that reminded Sam of her father’s.

“No, my lady, but she continues to get the honey and water and meat broth.” He sought for some words of comfort. “She is no worse.” That was the best he could come up with.

“Why won’t she wake up?” demanded Rickon. “I want her to wake up!”

Before Sam could respond, Arya and Bran both spoke at almost the same time.

“Hush, Rickon, you’ll wake him,” Arya admonished, holding the baby closer to her.

“We all want her to wake, Rickon,” Bran said quietly. “She will, when she’s ready.”

“She can’t leave,” Rickon insisted, somewhat more quietly, but no less intense. “She promised. You have to fix her.” The last was directed at Sam, and Sam found himself unable to respond.

“Sam is doing everything he can, Rickon,” Bran said in the same quiet voice as before. “And so is Mother. You know she wants to stay with us. We are all here now.”

Sam stared at the crippled little boy on the bed and thought yet again that he inexplicably managed to seem both older and younger than everyone around him. He thought about how he’d found him crying in the lichyard a day or two before Brien’s birth. He’d had Ian leave him by the marker he’d had made for the big man who used to carry him about. Sam remembered Hodor from their meeting at the Nightfort, when he’d taken them to Coldhands. Bran Stark had sat before that marker with tears streaming down his face, repeatedly saying, “I’m sorry.” Sam, thinking the boy wanted to be alone, had quietly walked away without speaking to him.

 _How can he stand to lose his mother, too?_ he thought. He looked at the wild boy on the floor, the guarded expression on the grey eyed girl in the chair, and the sleeping infant who had been at his mother’s breast only one time. _How can any of them lose her?_

He swallowed. “Your lady mother has already proven she is much stronger than anyone should be,” he said. “She isn’t giving up, and I will not either.”

The three Stark siblings all looked at him gravely without replying. “I came to check on Brien,” Sam said then. “Does he need to go to Letty?” It had been awhile since the Lady Sansa had taken him to her, Sam knew.

“You just missed Letty,” Arya said. “I had Dak bring her here to feed Brien. That’s why he’s sleeping so well now. He’s full.” She looked down at the sleeping baby, her expression as unreadable as any of her father’s. “I had Dak walk her back to her own room and go find some food for us to keep here. Midday meal wasn’t long ago, but Rickon’s hungry, of course.”

Sam smiled at the now second-youngest Stark. His ability to eat in all circumstances was rather well known about the castle. He knew the child had spent some time on Skaagos in the company of the wildling woman, Osha. He wondered if Rickon’s eagerness to eat everything available was grounded in spending a good portion of his young life without enough food.

“Are you all planning to stay here?” he asked Lady Arya.

She nodded. “Mother would want us together.”

 _I am the mother of wolves,_ Lady Catelyn had told him once, when Sam had jumped in surprise at a particularly strong kick from her unborn babe as he’d examined her belly. _And this pup will be as fierce as all my others._ She’d smiled at him then. _Wolves are pack animals, you know, Sam. My children draw their strength from each other._

He looked at the four Starks in front of him. “She would indeed want that, Lady Arya,” he said. “I am going to my room for just a bit. Your sister knows to send for me if I am needed. You do the same.”

Lady Arya nodded, and Sam turned to go, attempting to smile reassuringly at Jeyne Poole as he went, but the girl would not look up at him. Out in the corridor, he thought again of Lady Catelyn’s words, her four children he had just left, and the husband and daughter who were beside her. _May you draw strength from them, too, my lady,_ he thought.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Are you awake?”

Ned felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning toward the voice, he saw a soft fall of auburn hair above him, and his heart leapt. “Cat?” he said, blinking his eyes in the darkening room.

“It’s me, Father. Sansa,” his daughter said gently as his eyes focused in the dim light and fixed on her face. _Of course._ He was lying in bed and could feel Catelyn beside him. She didn’t feel quite so cold as she had, and he wondered if she were truly warmer or if his skin had simply adjusted to the coolness of hers. He turned his head to look at her and saw a bright cloud of auburn hair on the pillow, astonishingly like that of the young woman who bent over him. Catelyn’s eyes remained closed and her face was still and pale although Ned imagined that perhaps it was not quite so pale as it had been. “Cat?” he said again, this time looking at his wife and reaching out a hand to touch that motionless face. She did not respond to his voice or his touch.

“Father, Mother’s taken a lot of fluid. I think she even moved her lips a little. I’m going to see Arya and the others and then I’ll send Sam here. Will you be all right?”

 _She is still beyond my voice and my touch. I cannot reach her._ Ned pulled his hand back from his wife’s face and turned again to look up at his daughter, forcing himself to focus on her words. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked her, his voice sounding hoarse.

“A few hours,” Sansa answered. “The sun just went down. Will you be all right here with Mother?”

 _I will not be all right without her._ “Yes,” he said simply.

Sansa smiled at him. “Go back to sleep. I hated to wake you, but I didn’t want you to wake and find me gone and wonder what had become of me.”

He started to push himself up. “I will stay awake and watch her.”

“No,” Sansa said. “She’s better with you there. Truly, Father. I can’t explain how exactly, but she is better.”

Ned knew how insistent his daughter had been that he eat and sleep, and he suspected that her words were spoken in order to keep him in the bed for his own benefit as much as Catelyn’s. Yet, his wife did feel warmer than she had. He was certain of it.

He nodded. “We shall stay as we are."

Sansa bent and kissed his cheek and then leaned over him to press her lips to Catelyn’s face as well. “I won’t be long in sending Sam,” she said, and then she left.

Ned sighed and turned completely on his side to face Catelyn, pulling her against him once more. He moved her gently, always afraid that some act of his could start that terrible bleeding again. Sam had assured him it was unlikely at this point, but still he feared it. He rather hoped Sansa wouldn’t send Sam too quickly. In spite of the constant terror that each breath might be her last, that her fluttering heartbeat might cease, he found that it felt somehow right to be alone with her here in her chambers, in her bed.

How many times had he lain beside her in this room and watched her sleep just as he was doing now? He gently ran a finger down the curve of her face and then twisted it into her hair, winding several strands around it and lifting it above him. Her hair had always fascinated him--the color of it, the feel, the scent, the way it moved when she shook her head or threw it back in laughter. He recalled how he’d first started touching her hair like this while she slept in the early days of their marriage after he’d returned from war--when he’d been so afraid she’d hate him forever, and couldn’t bring himself to ask her to allow him to touch her so when she was awake. _We have come so far, my love. Do not go where I cannot follow._

“Do not leave me, Cat,” he whispered. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair then, wanting to hold her in this world with him, but afraid that he could not.

“Mmm.” He almost didn’t hear the low pitched murmur, but he did hear the sudden catch in her breath, and it frightened him. The steady shallow breaths had been unchanged for three days now. He raised up on an elbow to look down at her face.

“Cat?”

She frowned, wrinkling her nose and squinting her closed eyes, and then licked her lips. Ned thought his own heart might stop then. “Cat . . .Cat, I am here, my love. Open your eyes, Cat.”

She swallowed, and Ned’s grip on her tightened reflexively as she made a pained expression at the movement in her throat. Her hand fluttered up to her neck and her long fingers moved over it as if searching for something.

Suddenly understanding, Ned took her hand in his. “Open your eyes, Cat. You are safe. You are home in Winterfell.”

Her hand stilled in his then, and her eyes, those beautiful blue eyes that could see into his soul, opened slowly. She blinked several times and stared at him in confusion, a fearful expression on her features.

“I am here, Cat. We are safe in your room, my lady. All is well.”

She bit her lip, and he almost cried out at the familiar gesture. “Ned,” she said, her voice dry and hoarse with disuse.

“Yes, yes, my love. I am here."

She kept her hand in his, but brought her other up to her neck and face. “My . . .throat . . .Robb . . .”

“You are not at the Twins, my love.” His heart ached for her waking up to their son’s loss all over again. “You are in Winterfell . . .and we have a new son. Do you remember?”

Her eyes moved about the room, a slightly dazed expression on her face, and then came back to him suddenly, filled with sudden recollection and a new fear. “Brien! Where . . .”

“Shh.” He put his hand gently to her lips. “Brien is well. I promise, Cat. Our babe does very well indeed. He is with his sisters. You would be very proud of our girls.”

She almost smiled, but then looked distressed again. “He will be hungry. I need to feed him.” This was her longest utterance yet, and her voice cracked painfully.

“He is well fed and cared for. I promise. But we will have him brought to you, my love.”

“I . . .” He could see her trying to make sense of things, and he wondered what she remembered of those terrible moments after Brien’s birth. “How long?” she asked finally. “I was bleeding . . .and then . . .how long, Ned?”

“Three days, my love.”

“Three days,” she whispered. “It was five at the Twins.”

Startled, Ned realized he’d never known that. Olyvar had told him that the wound to her throat had very nearly killed her, but he’d never imagined her lying there cold, bloodless, and not moving for days in some bed at the Twins without him there to hold her.

He held her more tightly now. “We are not at the Twins,” he said again. Then he couldn’t keep himself from saying, “Oh gods, Cat, I thought I’d lost you!”

She didn’t say anything, and after a moment he released his hold on her enough to look at her face once more. Her eyes were still open and she looked back at him. “You told me you would be here,” she said softly. “I thought I was dying, but you told me you would be here when I woke.”

She did remember. He ran a hand down over her hair once more. “I did.”

Her eyes closed. “I am so very tired, Ned.”

Those words didn’t frighten him as they had the last time she’d uttered them. “You lost a great deal of blood, my love,” he said gently. “It will take some time to recover your strength.”

“But I . . .” He could hear her fear as she started to ask the question.

“You will recover. The bleeding has stopped.”

“And Brien?”

“He is well, Cat. He is beautiful. He has your eyes.”

She did smile then, and opened those eyes once more. “But he looks like you. I remember that.”

He looked at his wife’s smile and knew there was nothing on earth he wouldn’t do to see that smile always, to have her with him, safe and whole. “I will never let you go,” he said fiercely.

Her smile widened. “I know,” she told him. “You promised me. Remember?”

“I remember.”

She licked her lips again, and he sat up to reach for the honeyed water on the bedside table. “Can you drink this?” he said.

“I . . .can’t sit up,” she answered.

“You needn’t sit.” He moved himself slightly behind her and held her head up. He had to hold the cup as well, and it pained him to see just how weak she truly was. She was able to take several sips, though, before she shook her head.

“No more. I am tired, Ned.”

“Then you must sleep, my lady.” He lowered himself down onto his back and pulled her over to rest her head on his chest. She sighed and moved her fingers lightly on his chest before stilling her hand. “I will still be here when you wake again,” he told her.

He couldn’t see her face, but he heard the smile in her sleepy voice. “Promise me?”

“I promise, my lady.”

Ned Stark gave that promise gladly, for he knew that she would wake again and that he would be here holding her when she did. Sam would be here soon, and he would send him with the glad news to all of the children. He wanted the children to see their mother. He wanted to help Cat hold Brien. He wanted to shout from the tallest tower in the castle that the Lady of Winterfell lived. Above all those things, however, he wanted simply to lie in his lady’s bed and hold her against his heart, thanking the gods for giving her back to him once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the cliffhanger at the end of the previous chapter was cruel, so I hope this quick update helped make it a little better. :) The next update for this story will likely be over a week from now as I have several things going on right now, but I promise I will get it written as soon as I can.
> 
> Thank you, all of you, for continuing to give such incredible support to this story in spite of the terrible things so many of the characters have been put through lately. Every single reader means so much to me. I hope that Love and Honor continues to be worthy of your continued interest.
> 
> Do you think Jon's had any more of those weird dreams? ;)


	53. Threatened By Ice and Fire

Catelyn Stark smiled down at the dark head of her infant son as he suckled at her breast. She could hear his soft swallows, and it gladdened her heart for she’d feared herself unable to produce milk for him after so long. “Look at that, Ned,” she said. “I think he’s actually getting full.”

“Indeed, my lady.” She could hear the smile in his voice, although she didn’t look up from Brien.

“Mayhaps, I can feed him again when he is next hungry . . .rather than sending for Letty.”

At the sound of her husband’s sigh, she did look up to see sympathy but resolve on his long face. “Cat, Sam has said no more than twice a day for now. You must get stronger, and Letty can feed him while . . .”

“I don’t want Letty to feed him!” she snapped at him. “He is my son!”

Her husband’s only reaction to her outburst was to come and lay a hand on her shoulder where she sat on the bed, propped up by numerous pillows. “I know, my love,” he said softly. “But you are still very weak, and I will not risk you. I am sorry, Cat.”

She leaned her head against his arm and closed her eyes. “No, I am sorry,” she told him, regretting her childish outburst. “I know you are right. And Sam has taken very good care of me . . .it is only that . . .”

He sat on the bed beside her and smiled as her voice trailed off. “It is only that you were never made to lie in bed while others care for your children and your home. I know that very well, my lady.”

She tried to smile back at him, but her lip trembled in spite of herself. “I want him to know who his mother is,” she said in a small voice.

Ned’s arms went around her then, pulling Brien and herself back against his strong chest. “Oh, he knows that, my love. I assure you.” He chuckled softly. “Just ask Sansa what a difficult pup this one was to soothe all the time you lay sleeping. Hearing her speak of him, I feared we had another Arya on our hands, but since he’s been in here with you, he is content nearly all the time.”

She leaned against him, comforted by his strength. “And my other babes? How content are they? I haven’t seen them yet this morning.”

“All except Sansa are at lessons with Sam at the moment, my lady, although they’ve been promised they may come see you once they are finished.”

“I fear you and Sam are doing that backwards, my love. They worry for me still. Especially Arya. They would concentrate better if they saw me first and knew me to be well.”

He chuckled. “Well, likely you are correct. You usually are about the children. But you slept so soundly this morning when I came in that I didn’t wish you disturbed.”

She frowned at his words. It had been a week since she’d first awakened, and she disliked Ned sleeping away from her in his own chambers. Yet, two nights ago, she had gotten Sam to agree that Brien might stay in her chambers all the time as long as Letty did also to feed him and help tend him when he woke at night as Catelyn was still not permitted out of bed. Ned couldn’t sleep comfortably with the other woman dozing on her cot beside them so she had reluctantly encouraged him to sleep in his own room. As badly as she wanted him with her, she needed to keep Brien by her even more. It was hard enough that another woman fed her child. She at least would have him with her.

“And where is Sansa?” she asked, not wishing to dwell on the fact that her husband had not slept beside her.

“Sewing, with Jeyne Poole and that poor woman from the town, Kella.”

“Kella?” Catelyn felt a pang of guilt. She had been spending part of every day with Kella prior to Brien’s birth, but since regaining consciousness, her mind had been so full of concern for Brien, her other children, and Ned, that she hadn’t even asked about her. “How is she, Ned?”

He chuckled again. “Well enough, my lady. It would seem our daughter has a gift for helping the Bastard’s victims. Kella was distraught when she heard of your difficulties, and Sansa sought to aid her. She learned that the woman is a fair seamstress, although she’d never been taught anything fancy. The past few days, she’s had Jeyne sit with her, teaching her embroidery, I believe, and both women seem to benefit from their time together.”

Catelyn smiled. “Sansa is far too grown up, I fear. But I am proud of her.”

Brien detached himself from her nipple then and rested his little head back on her arm, eyes closed in contentment. She bent and kissed his sweet face. “Can you take him, my love?” she asked. She could feel her arms starting to shake with exhaustion, and it frustrated her that merely holding her son still tired her so easily.

Ned took the child, put him on his shoulder, and began patting his back gently with the ease of a man who had done this many times before. She smiled at him as she eased herself down on her pillows to more of a reclining position. “Robb was at least twice as big the first time you held him, and yet you handled him as though he might break.”

“I feared he might,” Ned replied, returning her smile. “I’ve learned a wee bit about babes since Robb.”

Their eyes met in shared remembrance of their firstborn, and while Catelyn knew the sadness would never disappear, it felt good just to think of him with Ned, to share a happy memory of the boy they had both loved so fiercely.

“I should go see Kella,” she said wearily after a moment, “And reassure her that I am truly all right.”

“You shall do no such thing,” Ned replied, “Considering that young Samwell has yet to allow you even out of this bed.”

She smiled up at him tiredly. “Well, have Sansa bring her here. Jeyne, too. The child doesn’t seem to be afraid of me, and it would be good for her to have one more room in the Keep she’s willing to visit.”

Ned frowned. “I won’t have you wearing yourself out with visitors,” he said.

She continued to smile at him, and his face softened. “As long as they don’t stay too long, I suppose it will be all right.” He bent to kiss her. “Rest now, as the children will no doubt be here before you know it. I am off to my solar. Sam says we’ve had two more ravens, and I’d like to read my letters before Stannis does.”

She laughed at him. “In that case, you’d better hurry, my lord. Will you take your midday meal here with me?”

“Of course, my lady.” Ned had been taking the first two meals every day with her in her chambers. She made him go to the Great Hall for evening meals. The men needed to see him. Now, he settled their sleeping son into his cradle, and with a promise to send Letty back to watch over them both, and one more kiss, he left her.

She fell asleep almost immediately and had no idea how much time had passed when she was awakened by Letty’s exclamation as three direwolves bounded into her room. Catelyn grinned sleepily, knowing that the wolves’ entrance meant her chidren must not be far behind.

“Help me to sit up, Letty,” she said.

“My lady,” the woman gasped, pointing to Arya’s wolf. The animal had her muzzle right down in Brien’s crib, sniffing at the baby, but rather than alarming Catelyn, the sight made her smile. The smile widened when the female wolf then raised her head and took an obviously protective stance beside the crib while Summer and Shaggy ran to the side of her bed, eager for her to pet them.

“Nymeria only wants to protect the newest pup, Letty. It’s all right.”

As the maidservant helped her to raise herself up on her pillows, she remembered Arya’s tearful confession to her. The children had entered her room that first day hesitant and fearful that the news she had awakened was somehow untrue. Even Rickon had hung back, afraid to touch her.

Unable to do much more than speak and weakly lift her hands at that point, she had beckoned them to come closer and directed Ned to lay Bran beside her and the other three to climb into her bed as well. She had then rapidly been covered in kisses and tears, and poor Ned had actually shouted at them, fearful they might suffocate her. They’d ignored him, however, and as he’d realized she was laughing and crying all at the same time with their children around her, he’d let them be.

It had been Samwell who had finally decreed they had to leave off hugging her and all telling her things at once so that she could sleep again. Just staying awake had been so difficult those first couple days. Sansa and Rickon had obediently left the bed as soon as Ned bent to pick up Bran, but Arya had simply snuggled more tightly against her. Sensing that her younger daughter had need of something, she’d looked at Ned, and he’d taken the other three out and asked Sam to help him with Bran.

Left alone with her mother, Arya had then whispered. “I thought he killed you. Brien, I mean. And I tried to hate him, Mother. But I couldn’t. Not really. I’m sorry I wanted to hate my brother.”

It took all the strength she’d had, but she’d put her arm over her daughter and held her as tightly as she was able. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, sweetling. You were frightened, and you were angry. And of course, I know you could never truly hate your brother. You’re a wolf, Arya. Wolves in a pack may fight, but they never abandon each other.”

Ned had returned then and insisted that Arya leave as well, but Catelyn had thought the child seemed comforted. Watching her wolf with Brien now, her heart swelled with love for her fierce little daughter, and she hoped that her girl’s caring for her newest sibling might help tip the scales more in favor of love than the hatred and need for vengeance she knew that Arya still held on to.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Rickon’s exuberant voice. “Mother! You look pretty!”

She opened her arms to her third son. “You‘ve said that every day, sweetling! Who has been teaching you how to talk to ladies?”

Rickon jumped onto her bed and into her arms. “Sansa says it’s nice to tell ladies they’re pretty,” he said, “But you really are.”

She kissed his auburn curls. “I fear you already need another hair cut,” she told him, running her fingers through it.

He made a face. “Sansa says that, too. But I can wait until you’re all the way better.”

“Where are your sisters and brother, Rickon?” she asked.

“I don’t know where Sansa is. Arya ran to get Bran’s chair. It wasn’t at the top of the stairs.”

Before either of them could say anything else, Arya appeared in the doorway, followed by Dak who pushed Bran’s chair. Dak looked very hesitant as he entered the room.

“Mother, tell Dak he’s allowed to visit you,” Arya said by way of greeting. “He’s being stupid about it.”

Catelyn laughed. “I am very glad to see you, Dak. Have you all just come from lessons?”

Before the Pentoshi boy could reply, Arya said, “Yes!” and rolled her eyes. “I didn’t think Sam was ever going to let us go. Thank the gods that Father had need of him for something.”

That alarmed Catelyn a bit. “Your father called Sam away from your lessons?”

“He did,” Bran said seriously. “Deryk came to get him, and Ian went, too.”

“Ian went? But how did you come all the way from the Maester’s Turret, then, Bran?” Catelyn asked, choosing to focus on that question rather than the question of why Ned might need his maester, the captain of the guard, and other soldiers all at once.

“That’s why I’m here, milady,” Dak offered quietly.

“Dak,” Catelyn said. “You are a strong, healthy boy, I know, but surely you didn’t carry Bran by yourself all the way across the castle grounds.”

“Of course, he didn’t,” Arya said. “I helped. See? We make a sort of seat for Bran like this.” She grabbed Dak’s hands in hers and showed Catelyn how Bran could sit between them. Catelyn tried hard not to imagine the three of them tumbling down the stairs if one of them misplaced a foot.

“I told them they could come without me, Mother, but they wouldn’t,” Bran said. “And I did want to see you. Please don’t be angry with them.”

Catelyn smiled at her son. “Of course, I’m not angry, sweetling. How could I be angry at any of you for wanting to come see me?” To Dak, she added, “I am very grateful for your assistance in getting them all here, Dak. I do hope you’ll let Ian do the job whenever he’s available, though.”

“Yes, milady,” the boy said shyly.

Brien began to fuss then in his crib, and Arya went to retrieve him. Catelyn thought that was likely a very good thing as Letty showed no great eagerness to reach past Nymeria for the babe.

“Are you hungry, little pup?” Arya asked as she raised her brother up to look at his face.

“Give him to Mother,” Rickon demanded.

“No,” Catelyn said sadly. “He probably is hungry, Arya. Give him to Letty, please.”

She was grateful to the woman who provided her son with nourishment when she couldn’t. She truly was, but she had discovered that she simply couldn’t stand to watch Brien suckle at the other woman’s teat, so Catelyn carefully kept her attention on the four other children in the room, listening to their stories and laughing with them as Brien took his fill.

When the babe was sated, Letty brought him to her. “Would you like to hold him a bit, milady?”

“Of course I would,” she answered, more shortly than she intended. “Thank you, Letty,” she added in an attempt to soften her words. “You may go out for awhile as it appears I have plenty of help at the moment. I promise I’ll send someone after you when the children leave.

“Yes, milady.”

“Can I hold him, Mother?” Rickon asked as Letty put the baby in her arms.

“Certainly,” she said with a smile. “Sit very close to me, and hold your arms out.” She laid the baby gently into Rickon’s lap, helping him support the little head with his arm. Brien looked up at him with those striking blue eyes, and Rickon smiled.

“His eyes are just like yours and Sansa’s,” he said.

“And Robb’s,” Arya added softly. “Robb had eyes exactly the same color as Mother’s, too.”

“Yes, he did,” Catelyn agreed.

“You and Bran have blue eyes as well,” Arya continued, “But Bran’s are darker and yours are just different--kind of like they couldn’t decide between blue and grey.”

“Well, yours aren’t blue at all,” Rickon said, somewhat indignantly. “You’re the only one who’s completely different.”

“Arya has your father’s eyes, Rickon,” Catelyn told him. “And they are beautiful.”

“I like Arya’s eyes,” Dak added. Then when everyone looked at him, he blushed profusely and put his head down.

Arya muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Stupid,” and then Bran turned the talk toward the new foal Ned had promised to have trained for him to ride once it grew big enough, and Catelyn simply lay back against her pillows enjoying the presence of her children, grateful that simply talking with them no longer exhausted her so badly.

When Samwell arrived in her room and announced it was time for them to go so that she could rest, she found herself far more irritated than truly tired, but she dutifully kissed each of them, even a surprised Dak, and sent them on their way. She needed to stay in Samwell Tarly’s good graces if she ever wanted out of this bed.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“What did my lord husband require of you so urgently that he called you away from the children’s lessons?”

Samwell Tarly actually jumped at the sound of Lady Stark’s voice. He thought she’d surely be asleep by now as he’d ushered the children out more than a quarter hour ago and she normally was exhausted after receiving any visitors. As pleased as he was by the increase in her stamina, he dearly wished she were asleep. He was not having this conversation with her.

“What, my lady?” he stammered.

She sighed, and actually sat up in her bed without anyone assisting her to do so. “You heard my question, Samwell,” she said, fixing him with those blue eyes of hers.

“Oh . . .he . . .needed to respond to some letters.”

“Who were they from?”

“Lady Stark, you shouldn’t sit up like that,” he admonished her. “At least let me fix the pillows for you to lean back upon.” He began doing precisely that even as he said it.

“The letters, Sam. Who were they from?”

“Oh,” he said, wondering what to tell her. “Um, a Lady Thenn, and Lord Umber, my lady.”

“Lady Thenn?” she murmured, sounding briefly confused. “Oh, Alys Karstark. What did she and the Greatjon have to say, Sam?”

“I . . .I think you should discuss that with Lord Stark, my lady.”

“Sam, you know perfectly well he shares all letters from the men in the North with me,” she said, sounding rather exasperated. “I want to know what was in the letters.”

“Lord Umber just reported on attacks by the Others,” he said.

Lady Stark looked alarmed. “Have attacks increased? Did Lord Umber report having great losses?”

“He . . .Lord Umber, I mean, his troops are holding up well, he said,” Sam told her, hesitantly. That much was true, anyway.

“And Lady Thenn? What did young Alys have to say?”

Sam looked down, unable to stand the gaze of those blue eyes any longer. Lady Stark was definitely feeling more like herself, and she was a woman used to being obeyed here in Winterfell. “I . . .she . . .she said quite a few things, my lady. I can’t remember it all.”

Lady Catelyn sighed and frowned at him. “You are hiding something, Samwell Tarly. Out with it.” When he remained silent, she prodded him. “Surely, Alys Karstark isn’t writing my husband passionate love letters?”

“Oh, no, my lady!” he exclaimed, looking up at her in alarm. “You mustn’t think that . . .”

She interrupted him with her laughter, easily the strongest laugh he heard from her since little Brien’s birth. “Of course, I don’t think that, Sam. You should see your face!” She laughed again.

“You seem to be feeling better, my lady,” Samwell said. “Perhaps we might try getting you out of bed and into a chair on the morrow.”

“Why not now?”

“Because the children have been here. I’d rather get you up after you’ve rested rather than after entertaining them,” Sam told her honestly.

She smiled fondly at the mention of her children and Sam considered that he may have discovered a way to distract her from asking any further about the letter from Lady Thenn. “Lord Stark told me Brien seemed quite content when you fed him this morning, my lady,” he told her. “He said you were anxious to do more of his feeds yourself.”

“I am,” she said certainly. “I can do it, Sam. I’d at least like to do all his night time feeds. He eats less often then than during the day.”

Sam knew perfectly well why Lady Stark wanted to take over the night feeds, and he felt terrible for her as he thought about those letters. “Mayhaps, my lady. But you do need your rest, still.”

“I sleep more than half the day away, Sam!” she insisted. “Waking once or twice a night to lie in bed while my son suckles is not going to harm me, I assure you.”

“Well, let’s see how the rest of today goes, my lady,” Sam offered her. “You should sleep now, though. It is only about an hour until the midday meal, and I’m certain Lord Stark will be coming to join you then.”

“Very well, Sam,” she said. “But we will talk this evening about my feeding Brien, and remember you promised to get me out of bed tomorrow.”

“Promised?” he protested. “I didn’t promise . . .I said . . .”

She laughed again. “Be still, Sam. I need to sleep now, remember.”

He smiled at her. He couldn’t help it. The sparkle in her blue eyes was wonderful to see again, even if it did mean she’d be more difficult to keep down. “Yes, my lady. I’ll be leaving you now,” he said with a bow.

He got almost out the door when her voice stopped him once more. “I haven’t forgotten the letters, Sam.”

He turned back to see that she was lying down with her eyes closed, but a half smile played about her lips.

“My lady?”

Those blue eyes opened and fixed on him again, but she continued to smile. “I simply decided to let you off the hook. After all, my lord husband will be here in an hour.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said, and he left the room before she could ask him any more. He walked down the corridor in search of Letty and wondered how long it would be before he heard Lady Catelyn’s laughter again once her husband told her all about those letters.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark sat staring at his sleeping wife. Her cheeks had regained quite a bit of color, and she looked so lovely lying there. He knew she needed to eat, but he hated to wake her. Waking her meant telling her, and he wasn’t sure he could stand doing that.

As he debated with himself, she made a soft sound and her eyes opened. “Ned,” she said with a smile as she saw him sitting there.

“I’ve brought food, my love,” he said, rising from his chair by the table and going to the bed to kiss her. “Are you hungry?”

“Actually, yes,” she said, stretching. “And curious. Why is Alys Karstark sending you love letters?”

“What?” he asked her, completely taken aback by the comment.

She actually giggled and began to push herself up to sitting. He quickly put his arms out to help her, and she accepted his assistance without protest. “Oh, I was only teasing Sam,” she said. “I got him to tell me you had letters from Jon Umber and Alys Karstark, Lady Thenn I suppose I should call her, but he wouldn’t tell me what was in them. He actually stammered and stuttered so much about the letter from Alys that I asked him if she had sent you a passionate love letter.”

“Poor Sam.” Ned actually almost smiled in spite of his heavy heart. He sat down on the bed beside her and took her hand. “I’ll tell you all of it, Cat,” he said. “But I would prefer to eat first, if you don’t mind. I’ve been dealing with those letters and their contents all morning, and I’d very much like to share a pleasant meal with my wife.” _And I fear you will lose your appetite if I tell you what I must before you’ve eaten._

She looked at him for a long moment. He knew it was pointless to attempt to hide anything from her so he didn’t. He simply looked back at her and let her see both his sorrow and the honesty of his request. She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Then let’s eat, my love.”

As they shared their meal, she talked of their children and their wolves, asked about the foal Bran was so excited about, and asked if Sansa planned to come see her at some point today. Her voice was stronger than it had been since before Brien’s birth, and that gladdened him greatly. Listening to her speak of their children filled him with joy and broke his heart simultaneously, but he managed to keep his expression relatively calm until they had almost finished eating.

“Oh,” she said suddenly. “I nearly forgot. I practically have Sam’s promise that I can do all Brien’s feedings at least at night. So, as long as you are willing to get him in and out of his cradle, my love, I will no longer need Letty in my room at night.” Her eyes shone. “I know I’m silly, Ned, but I miss you. I sleep better with you here.”

“You aren’t silly at all, my love,” he told her, his heart in his throat at her words. Apparently, his face showed her his distress because her expression turned serious.

“What is it, Ned? Whatever it is, please don’t keep it from me. I know it has something to do with those letters.”

He nodded. “I fear the news is not good,” he told her.

“Sam told me the Greatjon and his men were all right.”

Ned nodded again. “Jon Umber wrote to tell me what had happened to the east of him. Lord Thenn, Sigorn, Alys Karstark’s husband, was attacked by great numbers of Others and wights, greater numbers than we had seen before.”

The healthy color he had noted in Catelyn’s cheeks drained away. “What happened to him?” she whispered.

“Killed,” he said bluntly. “With all his men save one he sent riding for the Karhold at the beginning of the attack.”

“Oh, Ned,” Catelyn breathed, horror on her face.

“Lady Alys sent word of the attack to companies nearest those of her husband, and when they sent riders to investigate, they found nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He looked at her, wishing he didn’t have to tell her all of it. “Nothing at the site of the battle except tattered tents, a few discarded weapons, and obviously disturbed snow and ground. No men. No . . .bodies.”

“No Others, though? No wights?” she asked, breathlessly.

“Not there,” he said grimly.

“Oh gods, Ned,” she said, putting her hand to her mouth. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He swallowed. “All of this information was in Lord Umber’s letter,” he said. “The communication among the various companies along the line has been very good to this point. He has now pulled his men back, closer to Last Hearth. Having no way of knowing whether or not the Others had continued on past the line after defeating Lord Thenn’s men, he couldn’t risk leaving his seat unprotected to the east.”

“What . . .what was in Alys’s letter, my love?” she asked him softly.

He shook his head slowly and made himself meet her eyes. “Word of the bodies,” he said. “Some of them at least. They are wandering home. Lady Alys has closed all her gates, and each night at least a few wights are seen outside the walls of the Karhold. They shoot flaming arrows at them and they are destroyed or run off, but more keep coming. If they get close enough, the people within the Karhold recognize them as men they once knew.”

“Oh, Ned, my love” she said. “Come here.” She reached out for him, unable to do more than barely touch him in the chair where he sat by the table near her bed, so he rose and went to sit beside her on the bed once more and let her put her arms around him. He felt guilty at how badly he needed her to hold him then. She barely had the strength to sit up and yet her arms held him tightly and she pulled his head to her shoulder, running her fingers through his hair.

He inhaled the sweet scent of her hair, holding her even more tightly than she held him, wishing he could simply stay here in her chambers forever and knowing he could not. After a moment, he raised his head to look at her. “They have seen no Others at the Karhold, at least they had not when Lady Alys penned her letter.”

“But if the wights are there . . .” Catelyn said.

Ned nodded. “We must assume the Others may be also.”

He knew she understood what this meant. He could feel her tremble in his arms, and it wasn’t exhaustion or physical weakness. It was fear . . .for him. He knew that and wished he could give her some comfort. She had returned to him from the brink of death only to have him come to her with such tidings.

She looked at him steadily, though. “When do you leave?” she asked, and her voice did not break.

“We hope to be prepared within three days,” he answered. “We’ll take nearly all of Lord Jason’s men. I’ve sent ravens to White Harbor, Torrhen’s Square, and Barrow Hall commanding them to send men to you here. The threat from the south pales beside this one, and they can best protect themselves by protecting Winterfell now.”

“Some of Lord Jason’s men went with Lady Dustin’s men to the Dreadfort after the Bastard’s death. Remember? I told you I sent them to discover the state of things there,” she said, her voice still remarkably steady in spite of the tremor he could still feel in her skin.

He nodded. “We have heard from them as well. The Dreadfort was all but deserted when they reached it although they did recover some captives from the sack of Winterfell, all women. They are making their way back here now. Those men will remain here with you.”

“You said ‘we’,” she said then. “Who is leading our men other than yourself?”

“Stannis,” he said shortly. “He’ll take men to reinforce Lord Umber while I’ll push on toward the Karhold.”

“Is he well enough?”

“He says he is. I cannot keep him here, Cat. The man takes seriously his responsibility to defend the Seven Kingdoms from this threat whatever else you feel about him. And he is an able leader.”

She nodded. “Who will rule Winterfell?” she asked in a quiet voice.

He cupped her face with his hands and looked at her sadly. “It must be you, my love, although it is not fair to ask it of you.” He clenched his jaw to keep from swearing at the unfairness of it. She should be lying in bed, thinking only of her children and her own health. He shouldn’t be leaving her like this.

“I fear I will need help,” she said. “I . . .I want to be strong, Ned, but I am not.”

“Your body is not yet strong,” he told her. “But you are stronger than any of us, my lady.” She snorted at that, and he kissed her forehead. “I speak only the truth. And you will have help. I shall leave you Deryk. Your choice of him as captain of the guard was an excellent one, Cat. And you shall have Samwell.” He smiled at her a little sadly before adding, “And Sansa. Whether we choose to acknowledge it or not, our daughter is a most capable young woman.”

“She is,” Catelyn agreed. “I only hate to ask so much of her. And I honestly don’t know how much I can push myself.”

Now Ned frowned and held her slightly away from him. This is what he had feared more than her tears. This is what frightened him more than any peril he might face himself. “You will not push yourself at all, Catelyn. I will not have it. I trust no one as I do you, and therefore you will speak with my voice while I am gone in all things save one.”

She raised her brow.

“Samwell Tarly has complete authority over your physical wellbeing and he may restrict your physical activity as he feels is warranted.”

“Ned,” she began to protest.

He cut her off. “Do not argue with me on this point, my lady. I will not concede it. I will not risk you. Deryk and Sam have already been informed of this provision, and I will make certain Sansa, Letty, and all important household staff and guards know it as well before my departure.” His voice was hard, and he hated that, but he had to know that she would obey him in this.

“I thought we had moved past your treating me as your property, my lord,” she said bitterly. “But in truth, it is your right. So, yes, my lord. I shall obey your commands.” The last sentence was spoken with contempt which she made no attempt to hide from him.

“Damn it, Catelyn!” he nearly shouted at her. “I cannot go and do my duty if I must worry that you are killing yourself here! Can you not see that?”

“Yes!” she shouted back, her voice louder than he’d heard it since she’d cried out with her birthing pains. “Yes, I see that! Can you not see that you are asking me to stay and do my duty while I know that you ride out to be killed? Why do you always fail to realize that my fears for you are as crippling to me as any of your fears for me are to you?”

She did cry then. Great racking sobs came from her, and she beat at his chest with her fists before collapsing onto him and letting him hold her as she cried. He didn’t know how long she cried, only that he would hold her until she stopped. When her sobs finally slowed and gradually did stop, she raised her reddened eyes to his once more. “I don’t know how many more times I can do this, Ned,” she said softly. “How many times can I send you away to fight and die before I simply die myself? When do I get to say, ‘I will not risk you’?”

He gently pushed her hair back from her face. “You do not get to say it. And it is not fair, I know. But these are the parts we are given, Cat. I must risk myself to protect you, our children, our home, our people. That is my part, and I cannot change it. And you must remain safe, not only for yourself, but for Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon, and Brien. They need you, my love.”

“They need you, too,” she protested.

He nodded. “Yes, but they need you more.” He kissed her softly. She didn’t resist, but she did not kiss him back either. “I do not wish to argue with you, Cat. And I certainly do not consider you property. You know that, my lady. I ask you, though, regardless of the unfairness of it--I ask you to allow Sam to care for your wellbeing and to keep yourself strong and safe for the sake of our children. Please, Catelyn.”

She looked at him for a moment, and then gave the tiniest of nods without speaking.

“Lie down now, my love. I know you are tired.”

“I’m not . ..” she started.

“Lie back, Cat, and sleep. If I am going to find Samwell and tell him that Letty is no longer needed at night as long as I am here, it would be better if he does not come in and find you in a state of exhaustion.”

She almost smiled at that, and she let him lay her down. He kissed her again before turning to go. As he walked toward the door, she said softly, “I love you, Ned.”

He turned and smiled at his brave, beautiful wife. “And there is nothing I value more, my lady.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Sansa had cried when she’d first seen the old woman. When the soldiers of Seagard and Barrowton brought the ragged little group of captives from the Dreadfort into Winterfell, she’d been shocked and overjoyed to learn that Old Nan lived, but once she actually saw her, she wondered if life meant very much to the woman anymore. She’d been older than anyone at Winterfell during Sansa’s childhood, and now she looked a hundred years older than she had then. She was more stooped, more frail, and she muttered to herself almost constantly. Her eyes seemed filmy and slightly out of focus when she looked at you, and Sansa could never be certain how much the old woman actually understood of what was said to her.

Bran had tried to tell her about Hodor. As far as anyone knew, Hodor had been her last living family member, but she did not seem to react to the news of his death. She did ask for food when she was hungry, and sometimes asked for Bran, but no one was sure which Bran she meant. There had been a lot of Brandon Starks during Old Nan’s years at Winterfell. Bran did say that he thought she’d been confused about which Bran he was even before King Robert had ever come and their lives had spiraled out of control. Still, she seemed to respond to Bran better than anyone else, and Sansa wondered if that were because he had always listened most attentively to her stories.

Old Nan and the others had arrived at Winterfell two days ago, adding to the chaos of all the men preparing to march out on the morrow. It had been four days since Father had come to her, telling her what had occurred to the north and then telling her that he was depending upon her to help Mother take care of everything at Winterfell. Mother wasn’t even allowed to walk yet! They had gotten her up in a chair in her room for a few hours yesterday and the day before, but she had been so tired after that. Sansa had also learned to read her mother well enough to know that Father’s imminent departure was affecting her far more than most people could see.

Father and Lord Stannis had hoped to be gone by now, but with the new arrivals and then a brief, but fairly violent snowstorm yesterday, their departure had been delayed. Lord Stannis stalked the Great Keep gritting his teeth, anxious to be gone. Father was frustrated as well, Sansa knew, but she also knew he felt rather torn in two about leaving Mother before she was truly well, so he accepted the delay with rather better temper. Then the letter from Jon had arrived this morning.

She had been standing in Father’s solar when he opened it, and she’d waited as he read it, eager to hear what her older brother had to say. She’d watched his face grow paler than usual and seen the little muscle tighten in his jaw, and she’d grown afraid. When he’d finished and laid the letter on his desk without speaking, she’d been terrified.

“It is from Jon, isn’t it? He’s all right?” she’d asked.

He’d seemed not to hear her for a moment. “What? Oh. Yes, Jon is fine,” he’d said tersely. Then he’d looked down and stared at the parchment on his desk as if searching it for some hidden secret. After a long moment, he’d looked up at her. “Sansa, have you seen Old Nan today?”

“Yes, Father,” she’d answered, completely taken aback by the apparent non-sequitur in his thoughts.

“Is she well enough to come here and speak with me?”

“Old Nan? You want Old Nan to come and speak with you?”

“Yes,” he’d snapped at her. “That is what I said. Can the woman hold a conversation?”

Sansa had very nearly cried, but had reminded herself that whatever her father was so angry about, it wasn’t her. “Well, after a fashion,” she said. “If you really want her to pay attention, you might want to get Bran, too. She likes Bran. She talks to him more than anybody else.”

“Bran . . .yes,” her father had said thoughtfully. “The gods know he’s heard all of her stories often enough.” He looked down at the parchment on the desk once more. “You go get Old Nan, Sansa, and I’ll find your brother.”

Sansa had stared at him. “Now?” she’d asked.

“Yes, now!” he’d growled at her, and she’d actually jumped. He had looked somewhat contrite at that. “I am sorry, Sansa,” he’d said more quietly. “But it is important.” After a moment, he’d added, “I won’t snarl at her. Or you.”

Sansa had smiled at him then, and gone to fetch Old Nan.

The room where Old Nan had stayed in all the years Sansa had known her had been burned beyond recognition in the fire, and she looked somewhat confused sitting in the room she had been given upon her return. Sansa approached her carefully. “Nan?” she said softly.

The old woman looked up, squinting her eyes at her. After a moment, she smiled. “Hello, my lady,” she said in her quavery voice. “Don’t be so sad. You may not belong here now, but I think you’ll do fine. Lord Stark’s a good man, you’ll see.” She rose from her seat and walked to Sansa with slow, shuffling steps. “Better for you than his brother, I think,” she whispered conspiratorially as she patted Sansa’s arm. Her words made no sense, but at least Sansa could take her arm easily now.

“Lord Stark wants to see you, Nan,” she said in a voice slightly louder than her usual, for the old woman was somewhat hard of hearing. “I’m to take you to his solar.”

The woman nodded, but Sansa wasn’t sure what she was nodding about. As she shuffled along holding onto Sansa’s arm, she reached up with her other hand to pat her hair. “Kissed by fire,” she said. “That’s what the wildlings would call you. A lucky bride, my lady. Lord Eddard might not know it yet, but he’s got himself a lucky bride.”

That’s when Sansa realized the woman had her confused with her mother. At least she was going to speak with the correct Lord Stark.

When they reached the lord’s solar, her father had not yet returned with Bran, so Sansa helped Old Nan into a seat. The woman looked around the room, confusion again in her eyes. _No wonder,_ Sansa thought, _This room is as changed as everything else._ Her father did at least have a desk again, instead of the table that had served for some time, but it was not the beautiful thing that had been at Winterfell since before his father’s time, perhaps even before Old Nan’s time. Her father’s chair was the only item in the room that predated the fire.

“Hello, Nan!” Her brother’s voice rang out cheerily as Father pushed him into the solar in one of his wheeled chairs.

“Brandon Stark!” the old woman said, smiling at Bran. “Come to beg a story, have you?”

Sansa saw Bran hesitate and look at Father. Father nodded. “Yes, Nan,” Bran said as Father wheeled him close to Old Nan. “I’d like to hear about the Night’s King.”

“Ah, that’ll give you nightmares, little Brandon,” the old woman said. Nevertheless, she launched into the tale with relish, her speech clearer and more animated than Sansa had heard it since her return to Winterfell as she recounted the story of the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch who legend claimed had lived some 8,000 years ago and wooed and wedded an icy woman with cold blue eyes from beyond the Wall who took his very soul. He became the Night’s King and made the otherworldly woman his queen and they reigned for thirteen years, sacrificing to Others and doing all manner of terrible things until the Stark of Winterfell and Joramun, the king-beyond-the-wall, joined forces to defeat him.

“He was a Stark, you know,” Old Nan said leaning close to Bran, “the brother of the man who killed him.”

Sansa shivered, but Bran simply looked at Father who nodded once more. Then Bran asked Old Nan, “How can you know that? The name of the Night’s King was erased from everything. There are no records of it anywhere.”

Old Nan cackled and looked around as if searching for someone. “That’s your Maester Luwin talking. Don’t listen to him, Brandon. He’ll tell you nothing is real unless it’s in a book. But not everything got put in the books, little wolf. There’s not a book in the Citadel as old as the Night’s King. And memories of men are harder to erase than books. And those men told their stories. The First Men. The Starks.”

She stopped speaking and closed her eyes, leaning back in her chair, and Sansa wondered if she had fallen asleep.

“Go on, Bran,” Father said softly.

“Old Nan,” Bran said. When the woman didn’t open her eyes, he leaned forward and touched her arm. “Old Nan,” he said again.

Her eyes opened then, and she grinned at him. “Brandon Stark!” she exclaimed, as if seeing him for the first time in a long time. “Come to beg a story?”

Sansa feared they were in for a repeat of the entire tale, but Bran said, “No, Nan. I only have a question about a story you’ve told me before.”

“ A question?” the old woman asked him. “What question?”

“How did Joramun and the Stark in Winterfell defeat the Night’s King?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t you know?” she whispered.

“No,” Bran said, and Sansa realized she had leaned forward in her own chair and whispered ‘no’ with him.

“The corpse queen was ice, you know,” Old Nan whispered so softly they could barely hear. “And her touch was ice. The Night’s King had to become like ice himself to stand it. What is the enemy of ice, young Bran?”

“Fire,” Bran whispered loudly, and Sansa was impressed that he answered so quickly. It made sense once he said it, but she hadn’t known the answer right away.

“Fire,” the old woman nodded. “Azor Ahai drove out the Others at the end of the Long Night with a sword of fire from the blood of a living heart. The Stark and the wildling king had to find a fire just as powerful, just as magic, or they never would have succeeded.”

“What did they find?” Sansa asked breathlessly.

Old Nan had been looking only at Bran, and at the sound of Sansa’s voice, she startled, looking around to find her. She smiled when she did. “You always have liked my stories as much as your children, my lady, although I think they’re less pretty than those they tell in your southron keeps. You should tell your lord husband the tales for I think he forgets them when he talks to that Luwin.”

Father was standing behind Old Nan’s chair, and Sansa could tell by his expression that he had just realized the old woman had confused her with Mother. He nodded slightly at her then, just as he had done with Bran, so Sansa smiled at Old Nan. “I’ll tell him, Nan,” she promised. “But what fire did they find to defeat the Night’s King and his Queen?”

Old Nan cackled again. “The stories don’t say, now do they? But they don’t have to. It had to be the most magical kind of fire. That would do the best.” She smiled at Sansa somewhat vaguely. “Fire,” she said again, staring at Sansa’s hair. “Kissed by fire, the wildlings would call you, my lady. You’ll be a lucky bride, you will.” She looked around the solar, and her eyes clouded. “What has happened?” she said hesitantly. “Where is Brandon and the little one? Where did they take them?” She now looked and sounded upset.

“I’m right here, Nan,” Bran said quickly, taking her hand. “Rickon’s gone to bed already.” That was a lie, of course. It wasn’t quite midday yet, but Old Nan seemed to believe it.

“Of course you’re here, young Bran. No more stories. I’m tired. I’ve slept badly and had evil dreams.” She paused and looked around the room again. “Evil dreams.”

When none of them spoke again, she closed her eyes once more.

“Thank you, children,” Father said very quietly.

“Shall I wake her and walk her back to her room?” Sansa asked.

Father shook his head. “She seems quite comfortable. Let her stay here for now, but send someone to sit with her so that she won’t wake alone and be frightened. I need you to go to your mother. Help her into a chair.”

“Sam had said she ought not to get up today,” Sansa said. “Sitting up two days in a row seemed to tire her greatly.”

Ned frowned. “I am aware of that, and I am sorry to make her do it, but I do not think your mother would wish to receive Stannis Baratheon lying in her bed.”

“Lord Stannis? But why must Mother . . .”

“Sansa,” Father interrupted. “I haven’t much time. I know I haven’t explained any of this to you, and I cannot do so yet, but I will take Bran down to the Great Hall for the midday meal and then I shall find Lord Stannis in order to take him to your mother’s room. I must speak with both of them urgently. While I do those things, you go to your lady mother and help her prepare herself however she asks of you. Will you do that for me?”

Father’s words frightened her. What on earth could Old Nan’s stories have to do with Jon’s letter? Why should any of it require an audience with Stannis Baratheon that included Mother, who needed to be in bed? Sansa bit back her questions for her father’s face told her clearly enough she was not to have answers now. Instead, she simply nodded. “Yes, Father,” she said.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Daenerys Targaryen is in Dragonstone. With three dragons.”

Whatever lethargy had been pulling Catelyn Stark down disappeared with her husband’s words. She was seated in the large armed chair beside her bed, wearing her best dressing gown with a fur draped over her legs. Sansa had hurriedly done her hair in a simple, single braid which now hung over her left shoulder. Whatever she’d expected from Ned’s impromptu gathering in her chambers, it had not been this.

“Nonsense!” Stannis Baratheon exclaimed loudly, and Catelyn was glad she had sent Brien out with Sansa and Letty. A startled, crying infant would not have improved this situation.

“It is not nonsense, my lord. It is fact,” Ned stated flatly.

Stannis Baratheon took a deep breath. “We have all heard these dragon rumors. There is no question the girl has been up to any number of things in Slaver’s Bay, but to speak of dragons here in Westeros . . .”

“The dragons are not rumors, and they are here in Westeros whether we speak of them or not,” Ned said with certainty. “Jon’s letter was very clear. She arrived in Dragonstone by ship accompanied by an unknown number of men and by three dragons.”

“Why would Jon Snow hear tidings of Dragonstone at the Wall? Why have we heard nothing?” Stannis insisted.

“As to why we have heard nothing, I cannot say except that as Dragonstone had already been taken by Lannister forces, they had no reason to send us word of any difficulties they had. As for Daenerys, perhaps she is merely biding her time, formulating her next move. That is what concerns me.”

“But Jon Snow is at the Wall,” Stannis repeated stubbornly.

“Of course, he is,” Ned said rather coldly. “He’s the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” He sighed then. “He does have information sources that we do not, my lord.”

“What sources?” Stannis demanded.

“I could not say,” Ned said very carefully. “The Night’s Watch takes no part in squabbles over the Iron Throne. Nor does the Lord Commander share all the business of the Night’s Watch with me.”

 _You are being purposely vague, Ned,_ Catelyn thought. _Why?_ She didn’t doubt one minute that the Targaryen girl and her dragons were indeed at Dragonstone. Ned would not say it with such certainty if he were not sure of it. _But how does Jon know_ _this?_

Stannis Baratheon’s blue eyes never left Ned’s grey ones. “I wish I shared your confidence in his information sources, my lord,” Stannis said then. “But in the event, it does not matter. We know the threat from the Others is real. We must march tomorrow.”

“The threat from Dragonstone is real as well,” Ned countered.

“You believe the Targaryen girl will attack here?” Stannis asked.

“Robert is dead,” Ned said flatly. “I fought beside him from the very beginning of the Rebellion that killed her father, brother, niece and nephew. You are Robert’s brother. Can you think of any two men she might want to kill more? And we are both known to be here at Winterfell.”

“We cannot ignore the threat from the north,” Stannis insisted.

“No,” Ned agreed. “We cannot. You must still go on the morrow.”

“I must go? You would abandon your men, Lord Stark?” Stannis asked coldly.

At that, Catelyn could not remain silent. “You forget yourself, Lord Baratheon,” she told him. “You are in my lord husband’s home. You will speak to him with the courtesy he is due or you will hold your tongue . . .my lord.”

Stannis turned his gaze upon her, as if mildly surprised she was there in spite of them having this meeting in her chambers. “My apologies if I gave offense, my lady,” he said stiffly. “But surely you agree that the Lord of Winterfell is obligated to defend the people of the north against its enemies.”

“Of course, my lord,” Catelyn said with exaggerated courtesy. “My lord husband will always do what he feels is necessary to protect the people of the north, whether you or anyone else agrees with him or not.”

“My lady, I do not think that . . .”

“Enough,” Ned growled. “Stannis, I did not ask you here to trade barbs with my wife. I asked you here because the two of you both needed to hear what Jon had written and to hear what I plan to do about it.”

“Sit behind the walls of your castle and wait for the girl to make her move?” Stannis asked.

Catelyn bit her lip so that it almost bled then, biting back a retort. She forced herself to wait and hear what Ned had to say.

“No, Lord Stannis.” Catelyn did not miss the extra emphasis Ned put on the word ‘lord’ and she imagined that Stannis Baratheon didn’t either. “I plan to treat with her. I will send a raven to Dragonstone and ask her here.”

“Ask her here? With dragons?” Catelyn couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice, and Stannis chuckled mirthlessly.

“Your lady wife seems as puzzled by such an action as I am, Lord Stark. You tell me the girl has every reason to wish us dead. You tell me to take the bulk of your armed men and march away. And then you tell me you will invite the girl and her fell beasts here. I fail to see the wisdom in this plan of action, my lord.”

Ned sighed. “I will ask her here as a guest. Better a guest bound by the laws of hospitality than an invader on dragonback.” He held up his hand to silence Stannis before he could speak. “And do not bother speaking of that godsforsaken wedding. Daenerys Targaryen is not Walder Frey.” He paused. “And Stannis, even if she were, what do I have to lose. Aegon conquered all of Westeros with his dragons, defeating much larger armies and burning everything in his path. If Daenerys Targaryen truly desires my death above anything else, she will have it--whether I invite her here or she comes of her own accord. Whether I keep Lord Mallister’s men here to burn with me or I send them where they might just do some good.” He sighed. “I have no defense against dragons, Stannis, and neither do you.”

“So you simply plan to give up? Kneel to the Targaryens like Torrhen Stark and abandon your honor?”

This time, Ned held his hand up toward her, and Catelyn once more bit her lip hard to keep silent as she watched her husband stride over to stand directly in front of the taller man. “How old were you when you held Storm’s End during the siege?” he asked Stannis quietly.

“Seventeen,” Stannis answered just as quietly, and Catelyn was jarred to remember just how young he had been then.

“And how many of your people died?” Ned asked.

“Some. Most survived, thanks to Davos . . . .and you,” Stannis said grudgingly.

“And had Lord Seaworth not come with his onions, or had I not arrived until later to break the siege. If your people had started dying in large numbers . . .what would you have done then?”

“Robert bid me hold the castle. At any cost,” the man said stubbornly.

Ned nodded. “And at seventeen, I believe you would have done just that. And when everyone was dead, and Mace Tyrell walked into Storm’s End over the starved bodies, little purpose would have been served. You are older now, Stannis, and have seen as many men die needlessly as I have. You have a wife and daughter of your own. Do not speak to me of honor as if it is bloodless concept. There is little honor to be found in the meaningless deaths of innocents.”

Stannis looked Ned in the eye, but remained silent.

Ned continued. “I have no desire to seat another Targaryen on the Iron Throne. I fought a war to remove the dragons. I have not forgotten that. But I will put my people ahead of my own desires, my lord, and do what I must to protect them.” He swallowed. “I would even ask Daenerys Targaryen for aid in our current troubles if she proves willing to treat with me.”

At that, Stannis Baratheon could no longer remain silent. “You would what?” he demanded.

“We cannot defeat them, Stannis. The Others. We can trouble them with our dragonglass weapons and our dragonsteel blades, but it is not enough. We both know it. Dragons breathe fire, my lord. Fire is the enemy of ice.” Ned’s voice was very quiet then.

“That’s a dangerous proposition, my lord,” Stannis told him.

Ned sighed. “It is indeed. But these are dangerous times.”

“You are resolved then?” Stannis asked him.

“I am,” Ned said. “I cannot leave Winterfell while three dragons threaten from Dragonstone. I must take action, and this is the only action I see open to me.”

“You will have Lord Jason lead your share of the men, I take it?”

Ned nodded.

“Very well, Lord Stark. May we both find success in our endeavors. Assuming these dragons indeed prove real.”

“They are real, all right,” Ned said with icy certainty.

Stannis nodded then, and took his leave.

When he had gone, Ned came to her and pulled her up into his arms. “I must thank you for your vigorous defense of me, my lady,” he said with a tiny hint of amusement in his voice, “But I believe we should get you back to your bed.”

Catelyn didn’t argue as he all but carried her to the bed. Once she was settled back against her pillows and he sat down on the bed beside her, she spoke. “All right, my lord. Tell me the rest.”

Ned actually chuckled a bit at that. “I knew you would see through me.”

She allowed herself a small smile, but turned serious again quickly. “Tell me, Ned. How does Jon Snow know what is happening on Dragonstone?”

“He saw it,” Ned said simply.

“But he has not left the Wall has he?” Catelyn asked, at a loss as to what her husband could mean by such words.

“No. He has not.” He took her hands. “Arya has spoken with Bran of seeing the Riverlands when she was in Braavos. Bran has seen more things than I can imagine. You know these things are true, my lady.”

“But Jon’s wolf cannot possibly be on Dragonstone, however fast he might run. It’s an island.”

“It is an island,” Ned agreed. “So the only way to reach it is by ship . . . .or to fly. Jon knows of the dragons, my love . . .because he is a dragon. Just as he is a wolf.”

Understanding came to Catelyn suddenly, and she felt dizzy in spite of the fact that she was lying down. “Ned . . .how . . .he does with dragons . . .what the children do with their wolves?”

Ned nodded. “With one dragon anyway. He began dreaming of the dragon after speaking with Bran about flying with ravens. Jon can’t do that any more than the other children can. The ability to share the skins of multiple creatures, not to mention weirwoods seemed to be Bran’s alone. The others share only with their individual wolves. It would seem now, though, that Jon also has a dragon.”

She swallowed. “What does it mean?”

Ned took her hand. “Jon thinks it means he can use the dragon to fight the Others. He hopes to convince Daenerys to do the same with the other dragons.”

“He can control it?”

“He believes so.” Ned took a deep breath. “When he first dreamed he was a dragon, he saw Meereen beneath him, although he didn’t know it was Meereen. Then he saw the other two dragons. At first he only drifted along where the dragon wished to go, but in his letter he says that he began to direct the dragon where he wanted to go at times. Then he began to dream of a ship and the ocean and finally Dragonstone.” He smiled ruefully at Catelyn. “You see why I could not name the source of Jon’s information to Stannis.”

“Mmm,” she said. “So all three dragons are truly at Dragonstone.”

Ned looked grave and shook his head. “Two of them are.”

“What?” Catelyn asked.

“Jon has called his dragon to him, and it heeded his call. It flies for the Wall. The Targaryen girl will not understand and will likely follow after. This is another reason I am so certain she will come north before turning her attention to any other of the Seven Kingdoms. Jon wrote me because Winterfell lies between Daenerys and the Wall. He fears she will come here in any event and he wants me to be prepared.”

“His reckless behavior has endangered all of us,” Catelyn said angrily. “Just how does he expect you to prepare to greet a Targaryen who’s angry about her stolen dragon?”

Ned looked at her levelly. “He expects me to greet her with the truth.”

It took a moment for that to sink in. “The truth,” she repeated quietly. “The truth about . . .Jon?”

Ned nodded. “He is convinced the dragon will do his bidding, but he believes his aunt might believe the tale of his birth more readily from the Lord of Winterfell than from a lowly bastard.” He shook his head. “I fear he underestimates the girl’s hatred for me.”

“This is a dangerous game, Ned,” she told him fearfully.

“It is, my love. But as I told Stannis, these are dangerous times. I will do what I can to convince Daenerys Targaryen of the truth and hope she cares more for this kingdom she claims to want to rule than for vengeance against me. Then I shall hope that Jon is right, and that Old Nan is right--that these dragons truly can defeat the Others for us.”

“Old Nan?” she said, startled. “What does Old Nan have to do with any of this?” Sansa had told her that Ned had wanted to hear one of Old Nan’s stories before meeting with Stannis and herself.

Ned sighed. “Do you remember the first letter Jon sent me after hearing of our resurrections, Cat? At the Eyrie?”

She nodded. She’d gotten angry at Jon’s survival. Irrational, but true, none the less. And she’d been hurt by Ned’s joy in the boy when their son Robb lay rotting somewhere she would never find. “I remember,” she said softly.

“I have seen too many things I thought existed only in Old Nan’s stories, he wrote. It would seem we all are living in one of Old Nan’s stories now, my love. She has always sworn her stories were true. I thought it was high time I started listening to her. If she tells me powerful, magic fire is the key to defeating these Others, I have more reason to trust her words on the subject than anyone else’s.”

“Powerful, magic fire,” she repeated. “Dragons.” She shivered as she spoke the word.

“Dragons,” he echoed. “Gods help us, Cat, but Jon and I are calling down dragons upon us.”

He looked uncertain then for the first time since he had entered her chambers with Stannis Baratheon and looked at her as if seeking affirmation.

“You had no choice, Ned,” she told him firmly. “You can only navigate the current you find yourself in, my lord. You cannot change the course of the river.”

He smiled at her. “Spoken like a true Tully,” he said.

She reached up, wanting to put her arms around him, and he lifted her up to hold her. As she clutched him tightly she felt the bitter stab of guilt. Even as she’d resigned herself to his going to the Karhold, she’d prayed that she might somehow keep him with her. She couldn’t stop herself from it. She remembered how she’d prayed to keep Bran with her in Winterfell rather than having him go to King’s Landing, and then Jaime Lannister had pushed him and crippled him for life. _Gods forgive me,_ she thought, _if my selfish prayers have cursed Ned as well. Please protect him. Protect all of us from Others and dragons. Please, you old gods and new. Do not allow Winterfell to fall to ice or fire._


	54. Dragons and Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally just the first half of a chapter, but as I think this part of it stands on its own and I couldn't get the second half completely finished before going out of town this weekend, I decided to split it in two, and at least give you this much since I haven't updated in awhile.  
> Since the second part is partially written as well, it should be a shorter time until the next update!  
> Again, all these wonderful characters are GRRM's. I own nothing.

The wind felt cold enough to freeze a man solid here on the top of the Wall. Yet, Jon welcomed it. His Green Dragon would arrive today. He was sure of it. Last night’s dream of flight had been so vivid, it was still with him, and the ache from the cold in his very bones served to remind him he was a man, not a powerful creature whose own heat made it near impervious to cold.

 _Green Dragon._ He thought the words as if they were the creature’s name, for he had no other for it. If Daenerys Targaryen, _my_ _aunt, though she is younger than I,_ had given the beast another name, he had no way to know it. He had no need of it, really, as the dragon and he communed with no words at all. He had recognized the landscape as he flew over it last night. Green Dragon was further north than Winterfell. It would be here today.

He had tried, a few times before, to reach out to the dragon while awake, as Bran had taught him to do so much more effectively with Ghost. He had failed miserably, though, and as he had grown better at directing the dragon in his sleep, even summoning it to come to him, he had not tried it while awake in some time. He wondered now if the distance had been a problem. Green was so close now. He could easily reach for Ghost at longer distances than this.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind, slipping from his own skin. For a brief moment, he was running through the snow, the distant scent of an elk spurring him on. _Ghost,_ he thought, and forcibly pulled himself away from the urge to chase down prey, continuing to reach outward. Then he was flying. He lurched as he found himself at a dizzying height without the Wall beneath his feet to support him.

“My lord!” The panicked shout caused him to open his eyes, and he stood there blinking and disoriented. He felt slightly off balance, but an arm quickly reached out to steady him.

“Lord Snow, are you well? I thought you were going to fall!”

It was Satin, his steward. “I‘m all right, Satin. My mind was . . .elsewhere.” Jon shrugged and took a couple steps to assure himself he was once again solidly in his own skin. “Why have you come up here?” he asked the steward.

“We’ve had a raven from Ser Perwyn, my lord. I thought you’d want to see it.”

Jon nodded. “I certainly do.” He hesitated then because he didn’t know how to tell Satin or the other men what was going to happen here soon. “Have Clydas bring the letter to my quarters and then send word out to have the men gather in the Shield Hall.”

“My lord?”

“I need to say something to everyone, Satin, and I’m afraid I need to say it quickly.”

Satin looked puzzled and intensely curious, but he merely nodded and turned back toward the long staircase with Jon following behind him.

The letter from Perwyn contained no real new tidings. Jon had sent him out with men to ride behind the defensive line to the first main camp and have men sent out from there on to the next, and so on so that he could have men riding out at points well back of the line all the way to the sea to look for evidence of Others having crossed after the wholesale slaughter of Sigorn and his men. Jon couldn’t supress a stab of guilt each time he thought about the Thenn. He had sent Sigorn off to take control of the Karhold, in effect sending him to his death. He also feared for brave little Lady Alys, barricaded behind her gates as her keep was assailed by the dead.

Perwyn was to continue all the way to the Karhold, and it appeared he had made it as far as Lord Royce’s camp already, just northwest of Last Hearth. Perwyn had not seen any Others or wights himself, and the western portions of the line were relatively quiet. The most interesting tidbit in the letter was Perwyn’s assertion that Bronze Yohn’s famous rune covered armor did indeed seem to ward off not only wights, but the Others themselves. Apparently, the man was nearly killing himself by attempting to ride to the fore of every battle he heard about. Hopefully, Perwyn could convince the man to rest a bit. Lord Royce was a formidable soldier, even without magic armor, and they could ill afford to lose him to exhaustion.

A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts. “My lord?” Satin called softly. “All the men who can come have gathered in the Shield Hall. I invited her grace, Queen Selyse, and her men as well, and she did send her Hand, Axell Florent.”

Jon nodded. “That was well thought of, Satin. This affects the Queen and her men as much as anyone else here.”

As he followed Satin out into the cold once more on their way to the Shield Hall, Jon thought about what he could possibly say. He had to warn the men of the Green’s coming. He couldn’t have them shooting at it in panic. He didn’t know if he could keep it from incinerating them if they wounded it.

Once inside, he walked to the front of the room and stood in front of his men. The clamor of voices gradually stilled, and they looked toward him expectantly.

“Men of the Night’s Watch,” he said. “Every one of you knows that fell creatures once thought gone forever now roam our land. I tell you these Others and their wights are not the only magical beings that have returned from the past.”

There was a slight murmur at that.

“Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of the former King Aerys has landed at Dragonstone. And she has brought with her three living dragons.”

The noise this time was much louder than a murmur. “How can you know that?” a voice shouted over the general rumble.

Jon held up his hand. “We have been sending and receiving many ravens since sending so many of our brothers out to defend against the Others. I fear the winter claims a good number of them, but still, we have managed to receive a great deal of news from distant places.” _That isn’t how I know about the dragons, though._

“You believe this, Lord Snow? You believe these dragons are real?” The question came from Ty, who had risen to stand from his bench near the front.

“I do,” Jon said simply. He knew that would be good enough for Ty, as surely as he knew it would not satisfy some others. Well, they would know the truth of it soon enough.

“There is more,” he said in a louder voice, as men began to mutter and talk among themselves. That quieted them down again. “One of these dragons is coming here, likely today.”

Now, the noise level in the Shield Hall nearly exploded. “A dragon here!” one man shouted. “What the hell for?”

“Because I asked for it,” Jon said calmly. That actually stunned a large number of the men into silence.

“You . . .asked for it?” said Satin incredulously.

“I did,” he said to his friend. Turning to the room at large, he spoke clearly. “We fight the Others, but we do not have the strength to defeat them. And what names do our only effective weapons bear? Dragonglass. Dragonsteel. We know that ordinary fire destroys the wights and even gives pause to the Others. How much more could dragonfire do, then? I believe the dragons can destroy them all.”

“Aye!” shouted the same man from before. “And burn all of us to bits with them!” Several shouts of agreement followed.

“No!” Jon shouted. “This dragon will do as I say.” Again, stunned silence was the general reaction. “What man here has been mauled by my direwolf? Are not direwolves fearsome beasts not be ordered about like dogs? And yet, Ghost obeys my every command. You know this is true.”

“It is true,” said Ty. “But, begging your pardon, my lord, even a direwolf is not a dragon. I only ever heard of Targaryen dragonriders. Do you mean to ride this dragon like the Targaryens did?”

Jon swallowed. _I am a Targaryen,_ he thought. But he couldn’t say it. He just couldn’t. “Daenerys Targaryen rides one of them,” he said instead. “I have no need to ride Ghost to get him to do my bidding. I believe I can do the same with this dragon. At least I believe I must try. When this dragon comes, and it will come soon, I order that no man interfere with it. Let it come to me. Let me go to it. If I can do this, we may defeat these Others once and for all. If the beast attacks us, then all of you may defend yourselves using any means necessary.”

After he made this declaration, he turned and walked from the Shield Hall. He had no more answers for them. None that he wished to give, anyway.

He drew his cloak around him, pulled up his hood, and made his way back to the steps leading to the top of the Wall. He had decided to wait there. He prayed that the Green would not be long in coming now that he had spoken to the men. It would be better if they did not have much time to think too much on the prospect of a dragon in their midst or the methods their Lord Commander might use to control it.

He was out of breath when he reached the top but he walked some distance from the top of the staircase before stopping to stand still in the middle of the Wall’s wide surface and looking toward the southern sky. He thought about reaching out for the dragon again, but he knew it was flying this way. And while he didn’t think he’d been in danger of falling before, he certainly had found the experience disorienting, and considered that the top of the Wall was likely not a good place to try it once more.

He didn’t know how long he’d stood there when the small dark spot appeared above the horizon. He knew what it was immediately, but the shouts of the men below and the other men on the Wall did not start until the spot had become larger, obviously green, and with visible wings.

“Go down from the Wall,” he ordered tersely, not taking his eyes from the approaching dragon. He knew the Green was watching him, too, even if it was still too far away for him to see its eyes. He had never seen its eyes, having always looked out from them, and he wondered suddenly if its eyes were green, too.

As it drew nearer, Jon began to truly appreciate the immense size of the creature. He almost feared it wouldn’t fit on the top of the Wall, although he knew it would from nights spent landing with it on perches of smaller widths in his dreams. When it was no more than a hundred yards away, it lifted its head and gave a cry, a high pitched screeching sound that made several of the men below cry out, but Jon simply lifted his arms high.

“Here!” he shouted. “Come here!” He had no idea if the dragon understood the words, but it didn’t matter. He knew the dragon understood him. He stood very still, in complete awe of the terrifyingly beautiful beast as it came directly over head and then lowered its massive body to the top of the Wall with impossible grace. When it landed not ten feet away from him, it cocked its head sideways and stared straight at Jon as if asking him, _What now?_

“My gods,” Jon breathed. He had flown with this dragon, shared its thoughts and its skin. Yet staring into its face was something else altogether. Its eyes were not green. They were a bright bronze color and seemed to glow as if lit from within. Its mouth was slightly open, and the enormous teeth were the things of nightmares as were the faint tendrils of smoke which escaped from its nostrils when it exhaled. Jon had never seen anything more incredible.

He held out his hand toward the dragon, and it lowered its head, stretching its neck toward him and moving forward slightly, so that with a single step, Jon could reach out and touch those glowing deep green scales on the side of its head. They were warm to the touch. He could feel the heat even through his thick gloves.

“Welcome,” he whispered. _You are here. We are together,_ he thought wordlessly, slipping into the dragon’s mind as easily as he did Ghost’s, and yet able to keep within his own skin now as he could do with Ghost as well.

The dragon then raised its head to give another loud, high-pitched cry, and Jon’s heart leapt at the sound, for sharing the Green’s mind as he did then, he knew it to be a cry of joy.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The landscape below her did not appear real. Everything was white, and often Daenerys Targaryen could not distinguish between trees or ground or even small buildings as they appeared only tiny irregularities and elevations in the vast whiteness so far below Drogon’s beating wings. More distressingly, she often could not make out the Kingsroad as it, too, was blanketed in white. More than once she had realized she’d lost it and had to circle Drogon about, flying much lower than she’d like in order to find it again. The road would lead her to Winterfell, Lord Tyrion had said, to the lair of the Usurper’s Dog. She only hoped this Winterfell were truly a great castle or she might fly past it without ever knowing it for more than a bump in the snow.

Her Old Bear had argued strongly against her coming here alone on her dragon. “Wait, Khaleesi. Let us go in strength, with all our men around you lest your enemies do you harm.”

Ser Barristan and Lord Tyrion had been likewise hesitant to see her go, but their fears had been more for the perils of travel itself rather than of any enemies. She had laughed when Tyrion had insisted she dress in heavy fur, for even on Dragonstone’s chilly cliffs, she had been warm upon Drogon’s hot back. Her legs were warm even now, but as a particularly strong blast of Northern wind hit her full in the face, she pulled the hood of her fur cloak down more tightly and thanked the gods she had heeded the dwarf’s advice.

Jorah had worried she might be met by archers on the walls of Winterfell, but neither Ser Barristan nor Tyrion Lannister considered it remotely possible that Eddard Stark would send a letter specifically asking her to come only so that he might shoot her down.

“Does it matter if he would?” she had laughed. “Does the North have any weapon more powerful than my dragons?”

“Well, Your Grace,” Tyrion had said. “It would appear the North may very well have one of your dragons if Lord Stark’s letter is to be believed.”

“He doesn’t have Rhaegal,” she said firmly. “He has merely seen him somewhere. That’s how he knows his appearance. Rhaegal barely answers to me. He would hardly heed the word of the Usurper’s Dog.”

“He doesn’t say that he has the dragon,” Ser Barristan had said carefully. “Merely that he knows you have lost your great green beast, and that he knows where you can find it. As for this other information which he believes will interest you, to be honest, Your Grace, I cannot imagine what that might be. Little has been heard of the man since he took the Twins and Riverrun after his surprising resurrection. There was some news he had gone to the Vale after that, but since then he has apparently not stirred from his frozen lands.”

“It matters little,” Dany had answered him. “I must find Rhaegal. I will go.”

In the end, her advisors had acceded to her wishes, not that she gave them any choice. Even Jorah had finally admitted that if she were received as a guest at Winterfell, she needn’t fear any treason while she was there. Apparently, this Eddard Stark, paragon of honor that he was, would offer nothing but courtesy to a guest in his castle. All three men had agreed on that point.

It bothered her, actually, the way they all spoke of this man’s honor. This man was with the Usurper when her brother was cut down on the Trident. He had helped put Robert Baratheon on her father’s throne. Where was the honor in that?

Her musings were cut short by a sharp cry somewhere to her left which caused Drogon to turn his head sharply. Fortunately, she’d gotten much better at riding him, and the sudden movement didn’t affect her balance in the slightest. She, too, turned toward the cry and spied Viserion’s cream colored form flying rapidly toward them. She hadn’t seen him for several hours, but that hadn’t worried her too terribly. The cream and gold dragon often disappeared to hunt but infallibly found Drogon again when he had finished. Dany only hoped that if his hunt had been successful, his prey had been some animal rather than some northman.

She believed she had finally gotten Drogon to understand that humans were not to be killed for food. They were to be attacked only at her command. Her big, black dragon responded much better to her commands now. Part of that was simply more time spent riding him and learning his response patterns, but Dany believed the greater part was in thanks to the surprising assistance of Tyrion Lannister. Apparently, the dwarf had read every book ever written, and had been particularly fond of reading about dragons in his youth. He remembered specific words in High Valyrian her ancestors had used to command their mounts, and her dragons responded remarkably well to these. Why her dragons would have any knowledge of an ancient human tongue, she had no idea, but it worked. Perhaps the Valyrian language itself was magic and full of spells, or perhaps it was merely a reflection of the mysterious connection between the dragons’ blood and her own. Whatever the origin, she found it much easier to communicate to Drogon what she wanted now, and he certainly seemed more inclined to obey. He only completely disregarded her now when he was hungry and dove suddenly after some animal below or when Viserion or Rhaegal nipped at him and he immediately gave chase like some overgrown puppy or kitten. The other two dragons obeyed her in a general fashion, but both were far more wont to do as they pleased, probably because she did not ride them. They were all her children, but Drogon was her mount. Riderless, the other two remained a bit wild all the time.

Still, she had never expected Rhaegal to disappear when he’d flown off to the north. She’d thought he’d fly to the mainland to hunt and return to her and his brothers when he’d had his fill. When days passed without sign of him, she’d become alarmed, and she was more than willing to fly off immediately in response to Eddard Stark’s surprising letter if it meant any chance at retrieving her wayward child.

 _Eddard Stark._ Her thoughts returned to the man she flew to meet. This man had been one of the architects of her family’s fall from power. Robert Baratheon, Jon Arryn, Tywin Lannister. They were all dead, but this Stark lived on. A large part of her wished nothing more than to send him to join his fellow traitors. Yet, Ser Barristan had repeatedly encouraged her to listen to the man before making any judgments. After all, she had accepted Jorah back into her service after his betrayal and even accepted Lord Tyrion, and he was a Lannister.

 _It isn’t the same!_ she wanted to shout. Her Old Bear loved her. She had known that even when she’d sent him away. He’d allowed the Usurper to tempt him with promises of his lost home, but none of his actions had actually led to the deaths of any of her family. As for Tyrion, Lannister he may be, but he had admitted to her that he'd killed Lord Tywin, and he had been a boy at the time of the Usurper’s Rebellion. Besides he was useful. He seemed to know a great many things.

In truth, the dwarf irritated her as often as he assisted her, and she’d been sorely tempted to have her dragons set him afire on any number of occasions since Jorah had brought him to her after her Dothraki and Unsullied had won that last terrible battle in Mereen with the assistance of the sellsword companies that had jumped to her side. But he did have an annoying habit of being right about an awful lot of things, so she’d kept him by her.

She wondered if he were right about Stark and his wife. He’d assured her that whatever her feelings about the Usurper’s Dog, the man had no deceit in him and would treat with her honestly and fairly, whatever his objective was. He’d cautioned her about the wife, though, calling her a seven times damned she-wolf, and warning her that the woman was far more cunning than her frosty husband and willing to do anything in defense of her family.

Ser Barristan had snickered a little when Tyrion told her these things, and Dany realized there must be some story behind his words, but the little man didn’t seem inclined to say more on the subject, and she’d let it drop. She’d been anxious to leave in any event.

She’d slept poorly this journey, although she certainly hadn’t been cold lying between Drogon and Viserion each night when they stopped. Still, the ground was hard, and her dreams were troubled. She dreamed of war and blood and death. She dreamed of Drogo staring blankly before she covered his face with the pillow. She dreamed of Daario’s head, flung at her in a last act of insolence by the defeated Yunkai’i. She even dreamed of Viserys, the molten gold bonded to his burnt face.

She pushed these images far away during her waking hours. She had too many dead to dwell upon. She had no time to remember or mourn them. No time to question her decisions. _If I look back, I am lost._

Viserion, who had sped a bit ahead of Drogon, gave another sharp screech, and Dany turned her gaze in his direction. Rising up from the snow in the distance were grey stone walls and towers. The tops of them were blanketed white like everything else, but these structures were simply too large to be completely covered in white and they stood out easily in the otherwise monochromatic landscape.

 _Winterfell,_ Dany thought. _Eddard Stark. The Usurper’s Dog._ She urged Drogon forward with equal parts anticipation and dread.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The castle seemed much quieter and less busy since the departure of Stannis Baratheon, Lord Mallister, and the majority of the men-at-arms. An air of fearful anticipation seemed to hang over the place, but only Catelyn, her husband, and Samwell Tarly knew what they truly waited for. Ned had informed those remaining in the castle that Daenerys of House Targaryen was expected, and that she was coming at his invitation. He had given strict instructions that no one was to fire upon her or any of her people regardless of what they may see. He said little else, but rumors of the Dragon Queen’s activities in Essos had penetrated even the frozen North, and Catelyn heard the word _dragons_ whispered in the corridors.

As she watched her husband dress by candlelight in the predawn hours, and took note of the worry lines and deep frown seemingly permanently etched into his long face, she wondered if it wouldn’t have been better simply to tell the people all of it. In any event, she knew beyond doubt that four people deserved a great deal more of the truth than they’d thus far been given. Five, actually. Sam, who knew more than most, should hear the rest of it from Ned rather than from the whispers which would undoubtedly follow her husband’s meeting with the Targaryen girl.

Brien made a soft cooing noise from his cradle. The babe had been sleeping longer and longer at night since he’d been sharing Catelyn’s chambers with both his parents, and this was the first sound he’d made since Ned had taken him from her and laid him in his cradle before they both lay down to sleep last night. Catelyn thought the sun would likely peek over the horizon within the hour so he had slept a good long stretch.

Ned fastened his doublet and bent to retrieve his son. “Are you awake, my lady?” he said softly.

“You know I am,” she replied.

He came to her then, laying Brien beside her and leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “You always sleep so lightly when our babes are still small enough to share your room. I worry you aren’t getting enough rest, Catelyn.”

“I am fine, Ned,” she assured him as she pushed herself up to sitting and put Brien to her breast. “Honestly, my love, I am better every day. I intend to go to the Great Hall to break my fast this morning regardless of what you or Sam have to say about it. I cannot stay locked in the Great Keep forever.”

In truth, she’d only been allowed out of her rooms for the past two days, and then only for brief excursions to Ned’s solar or to the childrens’ rooms, leaning more heavily than usual on Ned’s or Sansa’s arms as she went. She knew well enough how tired even those short walks had left her, but she had no intention of hiding in the Keep if the Targaryen girl indeed arrived on dragonback in the next few days. And she missed the snow. She wanted to feel the brisk wind on her face and catch the flakes on her tongue as she’d often done with her children--as she’d once watched Brienne do for the first time on the High Road. Memories of Robb and Brienne, as always, struck her heart with both joy and pain, so she turned her thoughts instead to the absurd idea that she actually missed the snow at all. When she’d first married into the North, she’d dreaded endless snow-filled days and weeks, and now snow simply meant home. She actually giggled softly at the thought.

The frown on Ned’s face softened somewhat at that, and the admonishment she expected over her declared intent to go to the Great Hall didn’t come. “You are even more beautiful when you smile, my love,” he said softly, and he ran his hand down her cheek and then down through the hair that spilled over her shoulder. There was great tenderness in the gesture, but a certain amount of longing as well, and Catelyn felt a stab of guilt in spite of knowing how irrational that was.

It was still too soon after Brien’s birth for the two of them to make love, and in truth, after what that birth had done to her, Catelyn worried that her husband might fear to ever bed her again. She had heard him say more than once already that Brien must be their last babe for he would not risk her. _I will not risk you,_ spoken in that voice of solid ice that brooked no argument. She was getting very tired of those words in all contexts. She was not made of glass. She was flesh and blood, stronger than he seemed to believe, and she needed him to be her husband as much as he needed her to be his wife.

He had never taken other bedmates to meet his needs when she’d been recovering from the births of their other children. She remembered how that had surprised her somewhat after Sansa, as she had been told so often of the needs of men. At the time, she’d thought perhaps it was a penance he’d set himself--the gesture of an honorable man trying to make up in some small measure for the insult he’d given her with Jon Snow. As the other children had come, he’d not only taken no other women into his bed, but had most often remained in hers, helping her manage the babies’ night time wakings, holding her in his arms when she cried from exhaustion, and never seeking his own satisfaction until she was fully healed and demanding it of him. Those nights had helped convince her of the depth of his feeling for her in spite of the bastard boy, and of course, now she knew he had never strayed from his marriage vows at all. Not once.

She shifted Brien to one arm so that she could free a hand to reach up and touch the bearded face she loved so much. She would heal, and she would find a way to get him past this fear for her. But that was a problem for another day. Today, she had to help him with something else.

“You must tell them, Ned,” she said softly.

His hand dropped from her hair and he stood up. “It is not mine to tell,” he said shortly, repeating what he’d said when she’d broached the subject last night. “Cat, you told me yourself that he is their brother. That it was Jon’s place to decide when and what to tell them. Not mine. And not yours.”

“You intend to tell the Targaryen girl. Jon requested that you do that, did he not?”

In spite of his stress and irritation, a flicker of a smile crossed Ned’s face. “You once chided me for referring to Robert’s wife as the Lannister woman when she was our queen,” he told her. “Perhaps you should guard your tongue, my lady, and find a more respectful way to refer to young Daenerys. I cannot imagine she is any less prideful of her name or title than Cersei was.”

Catelyn returned the smile, but did not allow herself to be distracted. “Point taken, my lord. But you do intend to tell her Grace, Mother of Dragons, and Queen of Meereen the truth about Jon, do you not?”

“I do.”

“Then you must tell our children.” Before he could verbalize his protest, she added, “And Sam.”

“Sam?”

“Yes, Sam,” she said. “The gods know I’ve spent far more time with Samwell Tarly than I ever wished for since Brien’s birth, and I swear to you, Ned, he sees Jon Snow as his brother nearly as much as our own children do. Oh, he tries not to speak much of him out of respect for me, poor boy, but he can’t hide the love he bears him any more than you or the children ever could.”

He looked at her guiltily then, and she almost regretted her words. Her intent had not been to bring up old hurts of her own. “Then he should hear it from Jon,” he said softly. “Just as our children should.”

She sighed. “But that is impossible now, my love, and you know it. Do you think the Targar . . .Queen Daenerys . . . will keep all you tell her secret? She may have no wish to claim Lyanna’s son as her nephew. She may not even believe you at first, but Ned, if Jon Snow indeed has the same connection to one of those dragons as he and the children do with their wolves . . .he likely has more control over the beast than she does. And if that is the case, she must claim him as a Targaryen or allow everyone to believe that dragons can be wielded by anyone--even the bastard of a traitorous lord.”

Ned strode toward the windows and threw them open, letting in a blast of cold air and the dim, grey first light of a winter morning. “Bastard of traitorous lord,” he muttered angrily under his breath, standing there with his back to her allowing the cold wind to hit him full in the face.

Catelyn pulled the fur up to cover herself and Brien. “She sees you as a traitor, my love. What else would she see? And the whole world sees Jon as your bastard.”

“The whole world,” Ned said softly, turning to face her once more and looking at her with serious grey eyes. “I am quite certain there are any number of people in the world who are unaware that the Lord of Winterfell has a bastard son.”

Catelyn tried to smile at him then, but could not prevent the tears which sprang to her eyes. “That is likely true, my lord,” she said softly. “I just never met any of them.”

“Cat,” he said, putting more emotion into the one syllable of her name than he normally put into entire sentences. He came back to the bed and sat beside her, pulling her and the babe into his arms. “I wish . . .” He didn’t seem able to find any other words just then, and he simply repeated her name into her hair as he held her against him.

“It is all right, Ned. We have come through much already, and we shall come through this. You must tell them. Our children cannot hear such tidings from kitchen maids or stable boys who heard it from someone else who heard Danerys Targaryen speak of it.”

He nodded. “You are right, of course, my lady.” After a moment, he said. “I will find Samwell and have him order breakfast prepared for all of us in your chambers. And then I will go and bring our children here.”

She heard the sorrow and resignation in his voice, and her heart went out to him. This would hurt the children, and he didn’t want to do it. “I see you have found a way to keep me from the Great Hall this morning, my lord,” she teased, hoping to coax a smile.

She was rewarded with a small one. “I must take my victories where I can get them, my love,” he said.

She squeezed his hand as he rose from the bed. “Close my windows before you go, Ned, so that I might get up and dress without fear of frostbite.”

His smile actually widened a bit with the comfort of their old familiar window debate, and he bowed formally. “I would not have you freeze, my lady,” he said courteously, and she watched him close the windows before turning to go. His shoulders were squared, his limp barely noticeable, and he looked for all the world like a man preparing to do battle rather than a man fetching his children for breakfast.

Her eyes teared up again as the door closed behind him. “I love you, Ned,” she whispered into the space he had left.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Bran was apprehensive as Arya pushed his chair through the doorway into their mother’s chambers. He’d thought a family breakfast in Mother’s room sounded like fun until his sister informed him that such gatherings usually involved their parents imparting some piece of important news like “Mother’s with child” or “Theon’s here and Father’s going to chop his head off.” As Mother being with child again was highly unlikely, Bran feared the news imparted at this gathering would not be of the happier kind.

The expressions on his parents’ faces as they all gathered around confirmed his suspicions. Father wore his lord’s face, and Mother looked nervous, although she was up out of bed, dressed for the day, and had her hair braided back. That was good at least. She was still very pale which made those red marks on her face stand out more, and he didn’t like that. When he’d asked Sansa about Mother’s scars, she’d not told him any more about how they’d happened than Mother had herself, but she had assured him that after awhile he wouldn’t even notice the scars. He still did, though. He hated them because every time he looked at his Mother, he knew that someone had hurt her.

“We’re all here now, Father,” Sansa said then.

“Can we eat?” Rickon asked, looking at the food spread out on the table.

“Of course you may, sweetling,” Mother said, but Bran could hear the tension in her voice, and she made no move toward the food. She sat on a chair near the table, but their Father was standing before them. Samwell Tarly stood behind the table, looking as if he wondered why he had to be there.

“We have something to tell you,” their father said then. “I have something to tell you,” he clarified. “About Jon.”

“Jon?” Sansa asked, alarmed. “Is he all right? Has he been hurt . . .or . . .”

 _Killed,_ Bran thought. _That’s the word she can’t say._ Bran didn’t think he had, though. He rather thought he and Summer would know if that were the case.

“No,” Mother said quickly, as Father seemed unable to speak suddenly. “Jon is fine. We received a letter from him just before Lord Stannis and Lord Jason left.”

“A letter!” Arya shouted. “Where is it? Why didn’t you show it to us?”

“Be still, Arya,” Father said sternly, finding his voice. _His lord’s voice,_ Bran thought. “You will wake Brien with that shouting. Sit down all of you.”

Bran was already seated, of course, but Sansa took the other chair by the table while Arya dropped down cross legged on the little stool by the dressing table Father had had made to replace the one Mother lost in the fire. Rickon just dropped to the floor, grabbing a rather large chunk of bread before he sat.

“You know that Daenerys Targaryen is coming here,” Father started.

“With dragons!” Rickon exclaimed around a mouth full of bread. “I heard it in the kitchen. She’s got dragons!”

“She has three of them,” their father said without hesitation, and that caused all of them to sit rather still and quietly. “But only two are with her now. She is coming here because I wrote her and told her I know where her third dragon has gone.”

“You’ve got a dragon?” Rickon asked with wide eyes at the exact same time as Sansa said, “Do you know?”

“I do not have a dragon, Rickon, and yes, Sansa, I do know.” Bran thought the impenetrable expression on his father’s face wavered just a bit as he said, “Her third dragon is with Jon.”

“Jon stole a dragon?” Arya asked, sounding rather impressed by the feat.

“Of course not,” Father said. “Jon is not a thief. He called to the dragon, and it went to him.”

“He called . . .” Bran spoke out loud for the first time. “But Jon is at the Wall. He could only call if . . .” He looked at his father carefully. “Jon can only warg Ghost,” he said. “He’s like your other children. Not like me.”

Father nodded. Bran carefully avoided looking at Mother as he’d just spoken of Jon being one of Father’s children. “And Lord Brynden said that powerful magical creatures are nearly impossible to warg, even for the strongest and most powerful skinchangers,” he continued.

Father simply nodded again.

“But then how could Jon . . .”

His mother rose from her chair and came to stand beside Father, taking his hand. That was surprising in itself as they were discussing Jon, but then she spoke. “Jon gets his abilities from his parents, just as all of you do,” she said softly.

Bran stared at her, shocked into silence by her words, and he knew Sansa and Arya were doing the same. Rickon, however, screwed up his little face in puzzlement. “Father’s not a warg. He told me he’s not. Just us.”

“That’s right, sweetling,” Mother said to him. “Your father is not a warg, but he is a Stark. And all of you can warg direwolves. I have no doubt that other Starks did the same before you.”

“But even I can’t warg a dragon,” Bran said. “At least I don’t think I can.”

“Children have two parents,” Mother said so quietly that Bran almost didn’t hear her.

“I have never spoken to any of you about the circumstances of Jon’s birth,” Father said then, seeming to find his voice again.

Immediately, Bran tensed and saw that his sisters did the same, all of them looking nervously at their mother. But she only squeezed their father’s hand and whispered, “Go on, Ned.”

“I kept Jon’s parentage a secret for many years. I had good reason. But I told your mother the truth after I recovered her from the Twins, and I told Jon the truth when he was here in Winterfell.” Father’s voice didn’t waver as he spoke, but Bran could see the muscles of his jaw contracting slightly. “I had wanted it to be Jon’s decision about when to speak to you, but I am afraid you must know the truth now.”

Silence met this pronouncement until Sam spoke up nervously. “Lord Stark, would you like me to go?”

“Stay, Sam.” Mother answered. Again, Bran and his sisters stared at her, waiting for her to be angry.

When she didn’t move from Father’s side or let go of his hand, Bran turned his thoughts back to the puzzle of Jon and dragons, and it hit him. “A Targaryen,” he whispered. Forgetting his fear of upsetting his mother in his excitement of possibly having figured it out, he asked his father, “Is that it? Is Jon’s mother a Targaryen?”

Sansa and Arya both made a sort of strangled sound, and Father shut his eyes as if in pain. Mother didn’t move.

Rickon, though, suddenly seemed to understand the gist of the conversation. “Jon is our brother, Bran,” he said as if explaining something to an idiot. “Mother is our mother.”

“No, Rickon,” Mother said softly. “I am not Jon’s mother.”

Rickon looked thoroughly confused, and it suddenly occurred to Bran that his younger brother had only been three when their family had been scattered, and since they had been back together, there probably had not been a lot of occasion to discuss Jon’s bastardy since their oldest living brother was not at Winterfell, but at the Wall.

“But . . .” Rickon started, and Father held up his hand.

“Be still,” he said in his lord’s voice again. Rickon may have been confused, but no Stark child kept asking questions of Father when met with that voice. Father swallowed hard. “And no, Bran. Jon’s mother was not a Targaryen. His mother was a Stark. His father was a Targaryen.”

“What?” Arya exclaimed loudly, and as Bran tried to make sense of his father’s words, he then heard Sansa almost whisper, “Lyanna.”

He turned to look at his older sister. She was staring intently at their father with an almost calculating look on her face that was most unlike all his memories of her, but that he had noted on more than one occasion since he’d been back at Winterfell. “That’s it, isn’t it?” she challenged. “Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped our aunt, and Jon is her child.”

Father only nodded.

“What?” Arya exploded again. “That’s craziness. Jon is our brother!”

“Arya, sweetling, your father . . .” Mother started to say, but Arya rounded on her.

“No, Mother. Jon is my brother. What Father did to you was wrong and I don’t blame you for being angry, but Jon is my brother!”

“Arya, be still!” This time, Father did shout, and all of them jumped.

“You’re lying!” Arya shouted back with tears in her eyes.

Then Rickon shouted loudest of all, “Why is everybody yelling?”

Mother finally let go of Father’s hand and started toward Rickon just as Brien suddenly let out a piercing wail from his cradle freezing her in place as if she were trapped between her two younger sons.

“Enough,” Father said, his voice again like quiet ice. “There will be no more shouting from anyone. Sansa, get the babe.”

His older sister moved to retrieve Brien from the cradle, his mother went to embrace a now crying Rickon, and Arya simply glared at everyone, but Bran saw tears in her eyes as well.

“My sister was never kidnapped,” Father said softly then. “She loved Rhaegar Targaryen and ran away with him. He actually wed her as a second wife and hid her away in Dorne. She died not long after Jon was born.”

Arya still looked angry. “But why would you lie to us? Why would you make Jon a bastard? And hurt Mother? Why, Father?” She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks now. “He’s always been my brother,” she whispered almost to herself.

Bran took up her question. “Yes, why did you claim him, Father?”

“He removed him from the game.” It was his sister’s voice that answered. Bran looked at Sansa and saw that everyone else was looking at her, too. “He was only an infant. The Rebellion was barely won and Rhaegar’s other children had been killed. Jon would have been a pawn. A valuable piece for any player to control.” She looked up at Father. “But no one would care if a bastard boy lived or died or who raised him. That’s it, isn’t it, Father?”

“I promised Lyanna I would keep him safe,” Father said simply.

“Petyr told me you were a hopeless player. He was wrong.”

Bran wasn’t sure what Sansa meant by that comment, but his attention was then distracted by a shadow over one of the windows of Mother’s room. He looked up and saw a raven on the sill outside, looking directly at him. Closing his eyes, he reached out to it, and immediately found himself flying south. The bird seemed eager to show him something.

Bran did love flying. It was even better than the climbing he remembered doing with his own body. As he soared southward on the raven’s wings, enjoying the feel of the air beneath him, he looked ahead to see two large creatures flying directly toward him. He couldn’t believe what he saw, but he knew the raven’s eyes he looked through were even sharper than the broken boy’s. The larger of the two creatures looked directly at him and made a noise that sounded like a scream. Bran gasped.

“Bran! Are you all right?” His mother’s voice. Bran opened his eyes and blinked. He was sitting in his mother’s room. She was back in her chair with Rickon in her lap and Sansa sat in the other chair with Brien on her shoulder. Bran nodded to Mother.

No one else had moved, but someone had apparently asked a question for his father said, “I will try to explain it to you as much as I can. Ask anything you wish, and I will do my best to answer.”

Bran remembered what he had seen. “No,” he said suddenly. “You don’t have time for that.”

Father and everyone else looked at him.

“Daenerys Targaryen is coming here,” he said. “She rides a huge black dragon and she has another one with her as well. It’s the color of cream with shiny, golden bits on it.” He swallowed. “Father, she’s almost here. And those dragons fly faster than ravens.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark stood alone atop the wall of his castle staring into the southern sky. He saw nothing yet, but he had no reason to doubt Bran’s word. If he had learned nothing else in the past year, he had learned to listen to his children.

He had sent all the watchmen down. He wished for Daenerys Targaryen to see that this was not an ambush long before she reached his walls. Samwell had walked up to the top of the wall with him, wishing to speak just a little more about Jon. The poor man had stood in stunned silence in Catelyn’s chambers, seemingly embarrassed simply by being present. Yet as he’d walked with Ned, he’d asked haltingly, “That is all true, my lord? What you told the children?”

“It is. I have told that story only twice before, Sam. Once to my lady wife, and then once to Jon, himself.”

Sam had looked down. “I don’t imagine Jon took it well.”

“Being lied to for his entire life? No. He didn’t take that well at all. And I do not blame him.”

“Oh,” Sam had said. “I didn’t mean that.”

They had reached the top of the stairs then, and their conversation had been interrupted as Ned gave orders for his men to stand down. As those orders were relayed and the men began to descend, he’d turned to Sam again.

“What did you mean, Sam?”

“I . . It’s only that . . .” Sam had stuttered and looked down at his feet, but he looked back up at Ned’s face when he continued. “Jon was always so proud to be your son, my lord. I don’t imagine he liked being told he was someone else’s. Even if that made him a prince, or a king.”

Ned had felt an odd heaviness in his chest at that, and had looked away himself, waiting several moments to respond. “I always tried to do the best I could for him,” he’d finally said softly.

“He’s a good man,” Sam had said. “I’d say you did well.”

They had stood there in silence for another few moments, and then Ned had sent him down from the wall as well. He was alone for only a few moments before he heard footsteps behind him.

“I ordered that no men were to be on the wall,” he said without turning around.

“Then it is most fortunate I am not a man.”

Her voice caused his heart to skip a beat as he turned to face her. “Catelyn. You should not be here.”

“I disagree, my lord,” she said, moving toward him. “I would not have you waiting here all alone.”

Her voice sounded slightly breathless, and he moved to support her with his arm. “You should not be outside,” he admonished her. “And you certainly should not have climbed the stairs of the wall alone.”

“I didn’t,” she said. “I met Sam as he came down, and I had him walk me up.” At Ned’s scowl, she added, “And don’t you dare scold him. I gave him no choice. He could assist me or stand there while I did it by myself. He’s waiting on the staircase to help me back down.”

“Back down?” Ned asked her, raising a brow.

“I know you’ll send me back, and you are right to, as much as I hate to say it. Our children do not need both of their parents standing here to meet a dragon.” Her voice trembled only a little, but he tightened his hold on her. “I would at least stay with you until she approaches,” she finished.

“I am glad of your company, my lady,” he said sincerely. “Where are the children?”

“In my chambers. I had them bring Dak and Jeyne and all the wolves there as well.”

He nodded and looked back to the south at the empty sky. “I cannot know what will happen here today,” he said after a moment.

“No,” she said softly.

“I would have you go back inside with the children.”

“No,” she repeated, more firmly. “I will go down off the wall. I will even go inside the guardhouse in the turret and stay out of sight until you call for me. But I will not go further from you than that.”

He’d known her long enough to know that demanding any more would lead to an argument which he would not win. And he had no wish to argue with her.

“I know better than to argue with a Tully,” he said simply, acknowledging that he accepted her terms.

“Then why have you persisted in doing precisely that so often over these many long years, my lord?” she asked him, smiling.

“Because I enjoy that expression on your face when you invariably win,” he told her, and she laughed.

After that, they stood silently for a moment. “Ned,” she said then, her tone much more serious. “She is very young, Daenerys Targaryen. Although she is no child. She cannot have lived the life she has and remained a child--no more than our children could.” Her eyes clouded momentarily as they always did when she thought of Robb.

“She is young,” he agreed neutrally.

“So take care not to insult her. The young see offense easily. Their pride is too close to the surface and easily wounded.”

“I do not intend to insult her,” he said gruffly.

She sighed. “I know you do not intend to insult her, my love. But you are a wolf. You tend to growl. And occasionally snap. She’s a dragon--a young dragon--likely to react impulsively if she feels insulted or threatened.”

“I won’t . .” he started to snap at her. Then he hung his head. “I shall be the very soul of courtesy, my lady,” he said softly.

“Good,” Catelyn said with a smile. “Don’t give her any reason to mislike you.”

Ned laughed hollowly. “I fear she has enough reasons to mislike me already. Or have you forgotten I’m a traitorous lord?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” she said gravely. “The thought of you alone on this wall facing a girl who likely hates you and who has two dragons at her command terrifies me, Ned.” She reached up to pull his face closer to hers. “I have to believe that she is willing to talk to you, though. I have no choice but to believe that. So you make her see the good man that you are, my love. Make her see that.”

She spoke the last words fiercely, and Ned had found himself greatly wanting to kiss her. They were in plain sight of any number of men in the courtyard, though, and he couldn’t imagine she’d approve of that. “I don’t know if I can convince her of my goodness, my love,” he said. “But I promise you that I will endeavor to make her see I am not her enemy.”

She nodded as if that would do, and then turned to look toward the south herself. Ned was staring at the copper braid which had escaped from her hood reflecting the morning light when she gasped. “Ned!”

Her hand tightened on his arm, and he turned his eyes toward where she looked. There on the horizon he could see them. Two creatures that looked the size of birds--one dark and one light. Yet, at that distance, no bird would be visible yet, even as a speck. As he and Catelyn watched, the two flyers became larger and grew closer at an alarming speed.

“You must go down now, my lady.”

“Ned . . .”

“I will be careful of myself. I promise. But I cannot do this if I am thinking only of you.”

She tiptoed and pressed a kiss to his lips, a quick chaste touch, but more than was her usual habit in public. He grabbed her head and held her there just a moment longer, and she did not object. “Now go, my love,” he said gruffly when he released her.

She nodded. “I will await you below, my lord,” she said. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, Ned.”

“I won’t,” he promised.

He watched her walk back to the turret where the stairs went down and saw Samwell Tarly reach up to take her hand. Then he turned back to the south and saw that the dragons were twice as close now. He could actually make out the outline of the figure riding the black one.

He took a deep breath and prayed that dragons and wolves could make peace with one another. His sister had prayed that once, but no peace was found, and the entire realm had bled. It must be different now.

He raised his hand high in a salute, and Lord Eddard Stark prepared to welcome Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of Meereen and Mother of Dragons into Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next : "The Usurper's Dog"


	55. The Usurper's Dog

No archers. That point went to Ser Barristan and the dwarf rather than to her Bear then. She could see the solitary figure on the wall raise a hand toward her. She had been almost certain there were two figures there before, but the man was quite alone now. _The Usurper’s Dog_ , she thought. Surely, he would not ask her here and then have another man come forth to meet her. She’d heard many conflicting words about this man through the years of her life, but _craven_ had never been one of them.

The walls of Winterfell looked sturdy enough, but not wide enough at the top to make an appealing perch for her dragons. She called out to Viserion, and with a downward sweep of her arm and a shouted word in Old Valyrian, she bid him descend to the ground outside the walls. Thankfully, he obeyed. Both dragons were tired from the flight, she knew, and he likely welcomed the opportunity to rest. She had discovered that neither he nor Drogon seemed to mind the snow very much, but then of course they were their own heat sources.

She flew Drogon in a tight circle just above the man. She could see people down in the courtyard within the walls now, and even heard some shout at the sight of Drogon above them. Most seemed to withdraw toward various forms of shelter, but none drew weapons at her, and she turned her attention back to the man atop the wall. He wore a thick cloak of fur, but was bare headed in spite of the cold. His hair was dark, but appeared to have some white through it. Of course, that may have been just the snow that seemed to cover everything here.

Not far from where he stood, the wall widened slightly into a round turret by a gate. She gently guided Drogon to land there. As his feet touched down on the snow covered stone, he threw his head back and gave a piercing shriek. Dany heard several answering shrieks, of the terrified human variety, from below, but the man on the wall made no sound or movement except to bow his head toward her quite respectfully, and then to raise it again and attempt to meet her eyes. That was somewhat difficult with her on Drogon’s back, as he kept thrashing his head about, and it intermittently blocked the man from her vision.

“Be still,” she hissed at the dragon in High Valyrian, and he stopped the movement, dropping his head almost to the ground. She realized he was staring at Eddard Stark, and when the man looked into the blood red eyes of her dragon still without flinching or giving any outward sign of fear, she was impressed in spite of herself.

“I bid you welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace,” the man said in a voice that seemed to be formed from the icy wind blowing about them. The words were courteous enough, but they held no warmth. His expression revealed no warmth either, although she couldn’t truly call it hostile. He simply appeared . . .cold . . .as frozen as this place he apparently called home.

“I am here for Rhaegal,” she said without any courtesies of her own. This man deserved a traitor’s death, not courtesies from a queen.

“Rhaegal?” he inquired in that same wintry voice.

“My dragon,” she said. “One of my dragons,” she clarified, running a gloved hand over Drogon’s long neck lest the man have any doubt that all the dragons were hers. “You will tell me what you know of him.

” “I would ask that you come inside and speak with me, Your Grace. You have traveled far, and we have much to say to each other. I would have you be comfortable. We have food and drink and . . .”

“I am quite comfortable where I am,” she interrupted. “And I have little to say to you.”

He showed no emotion, no reaction at all, to her rudeness, and that made her feel almost silly, as if she were behaving like a sullen child who deserved no notice. She was much higher than he was as she sat upon Drogon, and he had to tilt his head back to look up at her. Yet, somehow he made her feel small, and she didn’t like that.

“I fear I do not know what accommodations your dragons require, Your Grace,” he continued as if she had not interrupted him. “But we shall endeavor to see them comfortable as well. I see that the other one appears quite content lying in the snow outside the gate, but you may bring them inside the walls if you prefer it. I would ask your assurances that they will not harm any of my people.”

Dany stared at him. She had seen any number of reactions to her dragons, but this frozen faced northman was the first person who had simply refused to react at all. He just stood there, looking up at her as if he discussed lodging arrangements with women on dragonback routinely.

“I . . .the dragons will remain outside the walls. I do not wish to frighten your people.” _Nor do I wish for the dragons to burn_ _anyone needlessly. I do wish you were more frightened of them, though._ “My Rhaegal is not here?”

“He is not.”

“But you know where he is."

“I do.”

He was infuriating. He answered her questions, but told her almost nothing. She decided perhaps she should get off her dragon. If she had to speak at any length with this man, the least he owed her was a warm fire and a good meal. And she was hungry.

As she moved to dismount, Drogon suddenly snapped his head to the side quickly. She looked up to see that Eddard Stark had stepped toward her, although he’d jumped back quickly enough when Drogon snapped at him.

His frozen face may have looked a bit paler than it had before, but his voice didn’t shake as he said, “I merely wanted to assist you in dismounting, Your Grace. Will the beast allow me to pass?”

“Your assistance is unnecessary,” Dany told him, not actually answering his question. At a Valyrian word from her, Drogon flattened himself as low as possible against the stone top of the turret, and she slid off his back with practiced ease. She then patted his side and spoke another word which caused him to leap into the air and then glide down to join Viserion below. Eddard Stark watched him settle onto the snow-covered ground, and when his eyes turned back to hers, she could tell he was impressed. Silently she thanked whatever gods might be listening that both dragons were choosing to behave themselves at the moment.

The man stepped forward and bowed formally to her once again. “If you would allow me, I will escort you down from the wall, Your Grace.” He offered his arm. “The stairs become quite slick with the snow.”

She ignored his proffered arm, and stared at his face. She could study him much better now that they were so close together. He was nowhere near as big as Drogo had been, of course, but he was only a little shorter than her traitorous second husband had been, and broader through the shoulders. He was certainly much taller than Dany. Up close, she could see that he indeed had quite a bit of grey in his hair, and that his beard had far more grey than brown. She realized with a start that this man was younger than her brother Rhaegar would be now. He likely was not yet forty, yet his frozen face was as lined as Jorah’s.

“Your Grace?” the man inquired, and she realized she had been staring at him silently longer than she’d realized.

“You keep calling me that,” she said. “Did you ask me here that you might bend the knee, Lord Stark?”

She thought his jaw might have clenched a bit tighter at that, but otherwise he gave no reaction. His grey eyes met hers directly as he replied. “I was not aware you had made any claims upon the throne here, Your Grace. You are, however, the Queen of Meereen, and entitled to be addressed accordingly.”

He had used more words then, but still his answer told her nearly nothing. His cold grey eyes made her shiver. _You are the_ _blood of the dragon,_ she told herself, _and he is only the Usurper’s dog._ Yet, as he looked at her without so much as blinking those ice eyes, she thought _wolf._

Again, he held his arm out to her. _Dragons do not fear wolves or dogs,_ she told herself firmly. _It matters little what sort of animal the Usurper’s pet is._ She met the man’s unblinking gaze and put her hand on his arm, turning with him toward the stairs that led down from the turret.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

He was still alive.

Ned Stark held firmly to that thought as he carefully navigated the stairs down the turret with the petite, fur-wrapped, young woman on his arm. His heart had gradually stopped hammering against his ribcage after that enormous, black, winged beast had descended to join its fellow in the snow outside the castle. Looking into those red eyes had been like staring into the very pits of hell, and he still was uncertain of precisely what he had said to Daenerys Targaryen while she’d looked down at him from the creature’s back.

Not that anyone in Winterfell was safe with the beasts just outside the walls. Ned had been to Harrenhal. He had seen with his own eyes what dragonfire could do to even the thickest, strongest stone walls, and that black beast the girl had ridden looked for all the world like the illustrations he had seen of Balerion, the Black Dread. It was not quite as huge as Balerion was said to have been, but Ned doubted it had finished growing. The dragons had both seemed to heed Daenerys Targaryen’s commands well enough which reassured him somewhat about their accidentally incinerating anyone, but also confirmed in his mind that she could easily order them to burn his castle and his people if she chose to do so.

The girl had no love for him. That was plain enough in her voice at her first words, and plainer still in those violet eyes that were perhaps a shade lighter, but the precise shape her brother Rhaegar’s had been. He’d noticed that as soon as the dragon had flown down from the wall, and he’d been able to look at her properly. Likely, her hair was that same shade of silver blonde as well, although he could see nothing of it with the fur hood drawn so tightly around her face. He wondered that she hadn’t been far too warm in those furs upon her dragon. He’d felt the heat emanating from it even when he’d stood ten feet away, and he’d seen the hot steam rising from its nostrils with every exhaled breath.

He felt his pulse quicken even at the thought of the dragon. Ned had faced death more times than he could count. He’d been afraid every time, and even more afraid at times when those he loved were at risk. Yet, he had never known a terror as paralyzing as these dragons inspired. Even against the Others, he could make some small attempt at defense. Against a creature that could fly above his walls and burn him to ash from a distance, he had no defense at all. He was at their mercy.

That put him at the mercy of this young girl who hated him. She did not speak as they descended the stairs. She kept hold of his arm and stepped carefully, but she kept her chin high and looked straight ahead of her. She was a tiny thing, Ned thought. Rhaegar had been a tall man, but his sister was scarcely taller than Arya who had not even flowered yet. Catelyn and Sansa were both much taller than she was. He glanced at her face as she walked beside him. Catelyn was right. Daenerys Targaryen was very young. She was obviously also very much a queen rather than a child. He prayed he could find the right words to tell her what he must, and that she would have the wisdom to listen and not react in anger.

“Last step, Your Grace,” he said as they reached the bottom. She said nothing, simply removing her hand from his arm and looking out at the courtyard. Ned saw that his soldiers had withdrawn some distance from the foot of the turret, but they were visible in several places, most notably along the interior wall separating this area from the yard around the Great Hall, and in front of the Guest House across the courtyard.

Deryk, not surprisingly, was closest to them, and he stepped forward and dropped to one knee when Ned and the Targaryen girl appeared from the staircase.

“Deryk, I present to you Daenerys of House Targaryen, Queen of Meereen,” Ned said.

“Your Grace,” Deryk said, looking up at the girl, but not rising until she extended him a hand.

“Deryk is Captain of our Guard, Your Grace,” Ned told her, and she inclined her head to the young man as he stood before her, although she still said nothing.

“Is my lady wife within the guardhouse?” Ned inquired of him.

Deryk smiled. “She is, my lord.”

A large part of Ned wished to keep her there. He had no desire to bring Catelyn outside where the dragons could swoop down at any moment. Yet, he knew there was no real safety for her or anyone else even indoors. “Ask her to come out, please, that I might present her to Queen Daenerys. Then send to the kitchens. I would have a suitable feast prepared in her Grace’s honor tonight and have some refreshment sent to my solar now.”

Deryk nodded, bowing low once more first to Daenerys and then to Ned before turning to call over two of his men and give them instructions before walking to the turret behind them. Ned was well pleased with his captain. At least young Daenerys had been given no cause for complaint about northern courtesy thus far.

She raised her eyebrows as Deryk rapped soundly on the closed door in the wall of the turret behind them and spoke for the first time since they had descended. “You have your wife hidden away inside your walls, my lord?”

Ned almost smiled at that. “She preferred to stay with me, Your Grace. I had no wish to have her stand before your dragons, so she remained as close as I would allow.”

“Did you think my dragons would attack your wife?” she asked sharply.

 _Damn,_ Ned thought. _Have I insulted her now?_ “I had never seen a dragon before today, Your Grace. In truth, I did not know what to expect from them. Now that I have seen how they obey you, I know I need not fear them lashing out haphazardly.”

Something flickered in those violet eyes at that, but the expression was gone too quickly for Ned to name it. “People should fear my dragons, my lord,” she said. “They heed no one but me, as many men have learned to their sorrow.” The words were spoken firmly, but he no longer heard the spark of anger he’d heard in her question a moment ago.

Before he could think of any reply to that, Deryk, who had disappeared briefly into the turret, emerged once more, followed by Catelyn. Still far too pale for Ned’s liking, his wife none the less carried herself as regally as Daenerys Targaryen did, walking directly up to the girl before dropping to her knees and bowing her head. “Your Grace,” she said clearly.

“Your Grace, may I present my lady wife, Catelyn,” Ned said formally.

“I have heard about you, Lady Stark,” Daenerys said simply.

Catelyn looked up at her and smiled. “We have heard much of your great accomplishments in Essos, Your Grace. Even here in the North.”

Daenerys seemed puzzled that Catelyn had not risen from her knees, and Ned cursed himself silently. He reached out to his wife, and the way she clutched at his arm, giving him nearly all her weight to support as she rose confirmed his suspicion that she’d been unable to get up on her own.

 _She has done too much today, damn it! The woman should be in her bed!_ “I have asked to have food sent to my solar, my lady. The queen and I have much to discuss. Perhaps you would wish to rest before the feast tonight?”

“I do not wish to rest, my lord, but I fear I must.” That statement frightened him almost as much as the dragons had. If Catelyn were agreeing without argument to go to her room and rest rather than come to his solar, she must feel very weak indeed.

She turned to Daenerys Targaryen. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I fear I have not been well since the birth of my son, and my strength is not what it should be. I shall require my husband’s assistance to manage the stairs to my chambers.”

The Targaryen girl looked at her a moment and then nodded. “Of course, Lady Stark. If someone could show me to your husband’s solar?”

“Deryk!” Ned called. “Please have one of your men escort Queen Daenerys to my solar and see that she is comfortable. I shall join her there as soon as I have seen Lady Catelyn to her chambers.” In a lower voice, he added. “The men may resume their positions on the wall, but caution them to do absolutely nothing that might irritate those dragons.”

Ned and Catelyn walked just behind Daenerys and her escort all the way to the Great Keep. When they parted ways to go to her room, Catelyn again begged the young girl’s forgiveness of her frailty, and invited her to come and speak with her in her chambers after she’d finished her discussion with Ned.

Once they were alone in the corridor outside her room, Ned asked, “What are you up to, my love? It isn’t like you to insist on my escorting you when we have a guest. I’d have expected you to send me with the Targaryen girl. Any one of our men would have been pleased to bring you here.”

“I know it’s breach of courtesy, Ned,” she sighed, “But hopefully, I appear ill enough to be forgiven. I couldn’t very well speak to you if I sent you with her, could I? And who’s calling her the Targaryen girl now?” she added with a smile.

“Not to her face, I assure you,” he said gravely. “Catelyn, she controls those dragons with a word. I hope Jon knows what he is doing. I cannot imagine him ordering such a beast about.”

“I heard it,” she said then, and her voice shook for the first time since she‘d come from the guardhouse. “I heard it shriek and I feared that . . .”

He put his arms around her. “I am unharmed, my love. Although, I confess I thought I might die of sheer fright when that thing landed on the wall and stared at me.”

“It landed on the wall? Close to you?” Her blue eyes widened in fear.

He nodded. “She remained on its back and demanded that I tell her of her third dragon. I wasn’t entirely certain she’d ever dismount for a time.” He met her eyes. “She is young, Cat, but she’s ruled over men and is grown used to being obeyed. And she has no love for me.”

Catelyn nodded. “That is no more than we expected, my love.” She bit her lower lip. “She may be used to being obeyed now, but I am quite certain it wasn’t always so. She would have been under the control of her brother Viserys as a child. And then she was wed to a Dothraki horselord, was she not? I doubt she had much say in that.”

“And why do you tell me this, my love?” He knew by the way she bit her lip that her mind was working at something.

“Only this, Ned. It is often a hard thing to be ever at the mercy of a man, and a terrible thing if that man happens to be cruel or unfair. If Daenerys Targaryen has been ill treated by men, she will be quick to judge men harshly, but she may also have learned the value of an honest man who treats with her fairly. Even a queen needs good men around her, and even a queen as young as this one must have realized that in order for her to have accomplished what she already has--even with dragons. Show her your worth, my love.”

Ned kissed her quickly, and prayed he was worthy of the faith she put in him. He then opened the door to her chambers and the two of them were quickly surrounded by children and direwolves. He held up his hand to fend off the barrage of questions. “Sansa, help your mother to her bed. I must go and speak with our visitor.”

Feeling somewhat guilty about abandoning his obviously exhausted wife to deal with the insatiable curiosity of the children, he left the room and quickly made his way to his solar. Daenerys Targaryen was there, seated in his chair and eating some type of warm stew and bread. Without the large fur cloak, she appeared even tinier, and he saw now that her hair was indeed the typical Targaryen silver blonde. Oddly, it was also quite short.

“I hope the food is to your liking, Your Grace,” he said as he entered. He saw that the fire had been lit in the hearth. “Is the room warm enough for you? I fear I tend to keep it rather colder than my lady wife tells me is comfortable for most people.” He took a seat across the desk from her.

“Is she well? Your wife?” Daenerys asked him. “She said she had been sick since your son’s birth. How old is the boy?”

Ned smiled at her, realizing that if Daenerys had been told anything of his children, it was likely by people unaware of Brien’s existence.

Just past two moons' turns, Your Grace,” he said, and by the shocked look on her face, he realized he had been correct in his assumption. “My lady presented me with our sixth child, Brien. He is a fine, healthy boy, but it was a difficult birth. She should still be in her bed, but my Lady Catelyn is not kept down easily.”

“Where is my dragon?”

The abrupt change of topic took him by surprise, and before he could form a response, she continued, “One of my advisors called your wife a she-wolf and warned me that she is fiercely protective of her children. I should warn you that dragons are just as protective of their young as wolves are.” She smiled at him then, but there was no warmth in it. “You have met two of my children, Lord Stark. If any harm comes to my third child, I shall not restrain their wrath.”

He did not doubt she meant what she said. “No harm has been done, Your Grace. In truth, I don’t know how harm could be done to your . . .children.”

“Then tell me where he is!” she demanded. “I am tired of you saying nothing. I did not come here to eat and drink and congratulate you on the birth of your latest pup. Why should I even hesitate to burn your castle to the ground? You claimed the Iron Throne for the Usurper over my father’s murdered corpse!”

“I did,” Ned said calmly, “But I did not murder your father. He did, however, murder my father. And my brother.”

“Your brother rode into King’s Landing and demanded that my brother come out and die! He threatened the crown prince!” the girl shouted, and Ned feared that he’d spoken too much too soon.

“Yes,” he said very quietly. “Brandon did precisely that. He was ever more rash than he should have been. But he loved our sister very much.”

Now the Targaryen girl stared at him quietly for a moment. When she spoke, her own voice was much quieter. “Lyanna Stark,” she said. “The northern maid kidnapped by the dragon prince. I’ve heard the story, Lord Stark.”

“You’ve likely heard any number of stories, Your Grace. But I doubt you’ve heard the truth.”

Anger flashed in the violet eyes again, and Ned found himself wondering if the girl were merely young and temperamental or prone to the Targaryen madness that had claimed his father’s and brother’s lives. Unbidden, an image of dragons flying over Winterfell as flames leapt from all the towers, and his wife and children screamed in terror came to his mind. His throat tightened.

“Do you insinuate I have been lied to? I have heard the words of men I’ve far more reason to trust than the Usurper’s Dog!”

 _Usurper’s Dog? So that is how she thinks of me._ “I do not say you have been lied to, Your Grace,” Ned said, trying to keep both anger and fear from his voice. “But the truth of what happened between your brother and my sister is known to very few people still alive.”

“The only truth I want from you, traitor, is whatever truth you know about my dragon.”

Ned sighed deeply. “And to tell you that truth, Your Grace, I must start by telling you the truth about Prince Rhaegar and my sister Lyanna. This begins with them.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Daenerys stared at the man seated in front of her. Nothing seemed to frighten him or crack that icy exterior at all. Not her dragons, nor her threats, nor her insults. It infuriated her. And now he had gone from saying nothing at all to saying nonsense.

“What does the kidnapping of a girl long dead have to do with my dragon?” she demanded of him.

“My sister was never kidnapped,” Lord Stark said then.

Dany stared at him once more, this time saying nothing, simply waiting for the man to speak again.

“Lyanna did not wish to wed Robert Baratheon. She was much like our brother Brandon in many ways, prone to act impulsively. She fell in love with Rhaegar at Harrenhal, or at least she believed she did. When he came for her, she went with him of her own free will.”

“You are saying that they ran away for love? Both of them?” She still could see no connection to her missing dragon, but Dany found herself interested in what the man said in spite of that.

“I have no idea what Rhaegar truly felt for my sister. He was dead on the Trident by the time I found her, and she was dying. She told me she had gone with him of her own free will. That he had wed her. That they had never intended any of the rest of it to happen.” As he spoke now, Dany actually heard grief in that icy voice of his, although his face still seemed expressionless. “But Brandon rode into King’s Landing and got arrested. Aerys killed him and my father and called for Robert and myself. Jon Arryn called his banners, and Robert and I did, too. Nothing could be stopped by then.”

“I came to hear about my dragon,” Dany said then. “Not to hear you make excuses for your treason.”

He had been looking almost through her while he’d been speaking of the past, but now those grey eyes looked directly into hers. “I make no excuses, Your Grace. I did what I did, and I have lived with the consequences. I can look back and say honestly that I would do the same again. Yet, I took no joy in it.”

Dany swallowed. In spite of her resolve to force him back to the subject of Rhaegal, she heard herself asking, “What do you mean he wed her? My brother was already wedded to Elia of Dorne.”

Stark nodded. “He was. He thought himself entitled to another wife, apparently. Targaryens had done it before. I don’t know what was in his mind, Your Grace, any more than I know what was in his heart. My sister was near death when I found her, and spoke only a little of Rhaegar. She spoke mostly of . . .her son.”

“Son?” The room was actually quite warm enough since the soldier who’d brought her in lit the fire, but suddenly Dany felt cold. “She had a son?”

Stark nodded again. “The last trueborn child of Rhaegar Targaryen. His father died at the Trident before he was born, and his mother lay dying of childbed fever soon after he was born.”

“You lie,” Dany said between clenched teeth. “I have never heard of this child. Is it dead? What happened to it if there was a child?”

“I took him. I claimed him as my own.”

“You kidnapped the heir to the Iron Throne?” Dany asked, disbelievingly.

“No,” he said. “I saved his life.” He looked at her, and Dany thought perhaps she saw sadness in those icy grey eyes. “Do you know what happened to Princess Elia and her children?”

“They were murdered by your men,” she accused him sharply.

“Not mine,” he said softly. “That was Tywin Lannister’s handiwork. But Robert was pleased enough by it. We fought over it, and I left King’s Landing to break the siege at Storm’s End. Lyanna had heard about it, too. She feared Robert would have her child killed rather than have him threaten his new throne. I promised her I would protect him.”

“I don’t believe you. The Usurper fought the war for your wretched sister. He loved her, didn’t he? And you were his faithful dog. Why would he kill her child?”

“Dragonspawn.” The word was almost whispered, and Dany wasn’t certain she had heard him correctly. “He would have wanted Jon dead because he was Rhaegar’s son and heir. It would have mattered little who his mother was.”

“A mere babe. The Usurper would have felt threatened by a babe younger than this new pup of yours?”

“He felt threatened by your babe before it was born, Your Grace.”

Dany’s breath caught at the man’s mention of Rhaego. She had almost forgotten that Robert Baratheon had sent someone to murder her and Rhaego so long ago. The witch Mirri Maz Duur had succeeded in killing Rhaego where the Usurper had failed, but Dany was still here, and the witch and Usurper were both as dead as her son and his father.

“Ser Barristan said you spoke against that,” she said softly.

“Ser Barristan? You know Ser Barristan Selmy, Your Grace?”

“He is the Lord Commander of my Queensguard. Did you speak against it?”

“I did. There is no honor in killing children. You were barely more than a girl yourself then.”

“I was a wife, a mother, a Khaleesi,” she spat at him. “And the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I was hardly a girl.” This conversation meant nothing. The man was spinning fables. She had never heard any hint of this. Surely, Ser Barristan would have known it if it were true. “Where is my dragon?”

“With Jon.”

“Jon?”

“Your nephew. My sister’s son.”

“I have no nephew!” she shouted at him. “Who is this Jon? And where is he?”

“Jon Snow. He is at Castle Black on the Wall. He is Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” The man’s voice was all icy formality again, and she wondered if she’d imagined hearing any emotion in it at all.

“Snow is a bastard’s name. Not the name of a prince,” she said derisively. “How would a bastard come to have my dragon?”

“He is not a bastard, although everyone who knows him believes him to be my bastard son. I told you I claimed him as mine to save his life.”

“Your bastard could not have my dragon,” she said flatly.

“He is not my bastard, and he does have your dragon. He has been dreaming of the beast for some time. He told me it is green and even the flame it breathes out is touched with green, although it mostly burns brightly orange. He first dreamt of it atop a pyramid in Meereen, and when he saw it at Dragonstone, he called to it, and it came to him.”

Dany sat in stunned silence at the accurate description of Rhaegal. Obviously Stark had lied about never seeing dragons before. He had seen Rhaegal. That was the only explanation. It was common knowledge that Meereen had great pyramids. “You lie,” she said softly after a moment. “Even I cannot call to my dragons from hundreds of leagues away. And your bastard could not call to my dragons at all.”

“He is not my bastard,” the man stubbornly repeated. “And I cannot explain how he communicates with the dragon except to say it is the same as all my children do with their direwolves.”

“Direwolves?” Dany asked. “Your children have direwolves? Real ones?”

“As real as your dragons, Your Grace. And they have a connection of sorts with the animals. I believe Jon’s Targaryen blood has given him a similar connection with your green dragon.”

The man looked her directly in the eye as he made this fantastic statement. She shook her head. “I know nothing about this bastard of yours. But I am the blood of the dragon, and I know how my dragons respond to me. You are making this up for some reason of your own. What has been done to my dragon?”

“Nothing, Your Grace. I am quite certain you will find your beast at the Wall with Jon. It is a much shorter trip there than the one you have made here from Dragonstone already.”

“You want me to fly to the Wall?” she demanded.

“I can write to Jon and ask him to bring the dragon here, I suppose. But as you seem quite adamant about finding the beast now, traveling to the Wall on your other dragons is the quickest option.”

“If your story is true, why did your bastard not write me himself? Did he intend to keep my dragon hidden? Did you betray him in hopes that I’d forget your treason?”

“You had no way of knowing who Jon is, Your Grace. He believed you would accept the truth more easily from me than from him. He asked that I write you.”

Dany felt somewhat dizzy. The room now felt almost too warm to her. She stood up and walked to the door of the solar. “I accept nothing as truth when it comes from the lips of the Usurper’s Dog,” she declared. “Where is your wife’s room?”

“What?” he sounded stunned at her question.

She smiled at him. “Your lady wife invited me to visit her in her chambers when I finished with you. I have nothing more to say to you right now, Lord Stark, and I have no interest in hearing any more of your tales at the moment.”

“You want to see Catelyn?” he asked, still sounding a bit dumbfounded.

“I do. Are you afraid she’ll sing me a different song, my lord?”

“No. My lady wife knows the truth I’ve told you, Your Grace.”

“Then you have no reason to object to my speaking with her, do you, my lord?”

“None except that I do not wish her overtired, Your Grace. I told you Brien’s birth was difficult. My lady wife very nearly died. She bled so that she did not wake for three days afterward. I must insist that she rest.”

“She can speak with me from her bed,” Dany said, deciding that she’d had more than enough of Eddard Stark for the moment. “You call me Your Grace, but you are so very careful to refer to me as the Queen only in Meereen. I am the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord Stark, and neither your bastard nor the Lannister bastard nor the Usurper’s brother will take my throne and keep it. _If_ I decide to offer you pardon, you _will_ bend the knee, my lord, or you will learn the meaning of fire and blood.”

Stark had risen from his seat when she had, but had not moved from beside his chair. Now he walked to her. “I understand the meaning of fire and blood, Your Grace. I have no desire to see more blood spilled if it can be helped.” She saw a muscle tense in his jaw. “I will take you to Lady Catelyn’s chambers. Please, remember that she is still far weaker than she will admit. I will not deny your right to be angry at me, but please do not extend that anger to her. She is blameless.”

His voice and expression gave little clue to his emotions, but Dany felt that pleading with her did not come easily to the man. She also felt that his concern for his wife was genuine. She refused the arm he offered her, but nodded curtly. “I will be careful of her, Lord Stark. I wish the Lady Catelyn no ill.”

He returned her nod and led her out into the corridor.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“I want to see the dragons, Mother! Did you really see them flying?” Rickon bounced up and down on the bed as he spoke, and Catelyn found herself smiling at her little boy in spite of her fear and exhaustion.

“Mayhaps, you can see them later, sweetling, but you must never forget they are very dangerous, Rickon. You must never go near them.”

“But if Jon has a dragon, Jon will let me ride it. Did this queen really ride her dragon right into the castle, Mother? Did she?”

Catelyn sighed deeply and closed her eyes for a brief moment, questioning the wisdom of having allowed Rickon to hear the truth about Jon--a truth he was too young to fully appreciate. He had fixated on two facts. Arya said Jon was their brother and nothing could change that, and Jon had a dragon. The first she thought was a good thing, for as long as the boy was content to simply know he had an older brother, he was unlikely to go about the castle telling tales of Rhaegar Targaryen. The second, however . . .

“Rickon,” she said severely. “You are not to speak of Jon and dragons together. You must obey me in this. Do you understand?”

Her little boy pouted. “Of course I understand. I’m not a baby like Brien. But I’m only talking to you. You know all about . . .”

“Rickon!” Arya hissed. “Dak and Jeyne are here, and they _don’t_ know. Bran and Sansa have had to drag both of them over to the sitting room because you won’t stop talking. But if you get any louder, they’ll hear you anyway.”

Rickon did look abashed at that. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he said. “I didn’t think . . .” He swallowed then and looked at her with a solemn expression so reminiscent of his father that Catelyn found it difficult to maintain her own severe expression. “I will keep my silence, my lady,” he said in a formal voice, now echoing Ned’s vocal patterns as well. “And I will prove that my lord father was right to trust me. I am almost a man grown.”

“You certainly are,” Catelyn managed to say without laughing. “Now, stop pestering me about dragons and let me close my eyes a moment.”

She was already reclined on the bed, still fully dressed except for her boots so that she could rise quickly if needed, and uncovered for the room was quite warm, especially with all the children and wolves present. She closed her eyes, but even as exhausted as she was, she knew she would be unable to sleep. Her mind was far too full of troubled thoughts.

Rickon and Arya both sat upon her bed. Shaggydog sprawled across the bottom half of it, taking up more room than any of the humans. Nymeria sat beside the bed with her head in Arya’s lap. The stillness of the wolf let Catelyn know her younger daughter was in a pensive mood. She had been since Ned’s revelations to the children earlier.

Sansa and Jeyne Poole sat in the little room off to the side doing their needlework, as Sansa had persuaded the other girl that the light was better in there, and Bran and Dak were laughing loudly at something Summer was doing. Bran had coaxed Dak into the side room on the pretext of watching some new trick he’d taught the wolf without disturbing Catelyn’s rest. Brien had nursed as soon as she’d settled on the bed and now slept contentedly in his cradle.

 _Gods, I love them,_ she thought suddenly. Then she thought about the dragons at their gate and felt she needed all of them to be even closer to her. She couldn’t possibly hold them close enough right now. She wished Ned were here with them, and she prayed that his conversation with the Targaryen girl was going as well as it could. _Fire and blood_ , she thought. _What terrible_ _words._ She nearly laughed to think that she’d once found the Stark words so ominous. _Winter is coming._ She would happily endure a thousand winters within the safety of Winterfell’s warm walls, securely held in the arms of her husband with her children all around her. No, winter did not frighten Catelyn Stark as it once had, but fire . . .Daenerys Targaryen’s father had burned Rickard Stark alive while Brandon strangled to death in his vain attempt to save his father. Would this girl set her dragons on Ned or the children? _Fire and blood._ Were Targaryens even capable of turning away from those destructive words? _She must be,_ Catelyn thought fiercely. _I cannot lose you Ned. I cannot lose another child. Not one more of our precious babes._ Robb’s sweet face appeared to her behind her closed eyelids, and she felt tears begin to pool there.

“Mother, are you in pain?” Arya’s voice was full of concern, and Catelyn silently cursed her thoughts and whatever expression they had put on her face.

“No, sweetling,” she said, reaching for her daughter’s hand. “I am very tired, and I confess I am worried about your father, but I do not hurt.” She realized she must have been closer to sleep than she thought, for Rickon and Shaggydog were no longer on her bed. They had wandered over to join the other children, and she hadn’t even noticed them go.

Arya lay down close beside her. “I’m worried, too,” she said quietly. “But I’m still angry at him. He lied to us, Mother. He lied to Jon. He lied to you.”

“He did.” She put her arm around her daughter and pulled her close. “I was very angry when he told me what he‘d done, Arya. But he felt he didn’t have a choice at the time.”

“Do you think he did?”

Catelyn sighed. This was a question she tried not to ponder often, for it invariably irritated her and often still angered her when she thought about the years of doubt, grief, and bitterness--all for a lie. “I wish he had done things differently,” she answered honestly after a moment. “But I believe that he did not see another way. I know he loves all of us. He would do anything for us. He has. I accept that he had his reasons, and I have forgiven him the lie.” She ran her long fingers through her daughter’s invariably untidy hair. “I would forgive him much more for the love I bear him, Arya.”

Arya looked intently at her, the expression in those grey Stark eyes seeming so much older than her twelve years. “Did Jon forgive him?”

“I think so. He was very angry, too. But he loves your father very much. That never changed, even if he wished it would.”

“And what about you?” she asked then. “Do you still hate . . .”

A sharp rap at the door interrupted her daughter’s words, but Catelyn knew well enough what she had been about to ask. _I do_ _not hate Jon Snow,_ she thought tiredly.

“My lady?” Ned’s voice called as the door opened.

Arya jumped up with a start. Catelyn tried to sit up, but found she simply didn’t have the energy. All of the children moved toward the door at the sound of their father’s voice, but when Daenerys Targaryen entered the room before him, they stopped suddenly. Sansa, bless her, dropped immediately into a deep curtsy with a murmured “Your Grace,” and Jeyne Poole quickly followed suit. The others gradually caught on and knelt or curtsied as well, except of course for Bran, who respectfully bowed his head in his wheeled chair.

“My children, Your Grace,” Ned said, and Catelyn heard the pride and affection in his voice.

“There are even more than I thought,” the Targaryen girl said.

Catelyn smiled and forced her resisting body into a slightly more upright position. She would not lie flat on her back before this dragon queen. “They are not all ours, Your Grace,” she said. “Jeyne is the daughter of our loyal steward who was murdered by the Lannisters. And Dak is from Pentos. He aided my lord husband in escaping his imprisonment there.”

Daenerys Targaryen’s eyes widened, and in that moment she looked like nothing other than a young girl who had unexpectedly met someone from home. “Pentos?” she said, offering the skinny Pentoshi boy her hand. “I lived in Pentos for a time.”

Catelyn suppressed a smile at the awkward way Dak took the girl’s hand and rose to stand. He nodded. “I know, Your Grace. I . . .I saw the Khal Drogo once, from a distance, when he was there. And the Dothraki I met talked about his silver Khaleesi.” He blushed. “I . . .I was just a little kid then.”

Ned subtly indicated to the other children that they could rise as well, but Daenerys continued to look at Dak. “You could speak to the Dothraki?” she asked, sounding a bit doubtful.

Now the boy grinned, and said something in a harsh guttural tongue Catelyn had never heard. Daenerys Targaryen, however, laughed out loud, and answered him in the same tongue, although it sounded much more fluid when she spoke it. The smile on her face then truly made her youth even more apparent.

That smile faded rather abruptly, however, almost as if the girl suddenly remembered who and where she was. She turned to Catelyn. “You invited me to visit you here, Lady Stark. I would converse with you if you feel well enough.”

“If you will forgive my staying abed, I feel quite well enough to speak, Your Grace,” Catelyn said evenly.

“But of course. I promised your lord husband I would not overtire you, my lady.”

The tone with which the girl spoke the words _lord husband_ was somewhat less respectful than Catelyn would have liked, and she looked carefully at Ned. He wore his lord’s face, of course, but she could see the strain beneath it. Whatever had occurred between the two of them, he was still unsure of this dragon queen and still fearful of what she might do. She held out her hand toward her husband.

“My lord,” she said, and he came to take her hand. She squeezed it ever so slightly in reassurance, and was gratified to feel him squeeze back. “If you would take the children with you, I would like to speak with Queen Daenerys privately.”

He looked at her, and while she knew his expression was likely unreadable to anyone else, she could see a great number of things in his eyes--apprehension, warning, but most of all love and trust toward her. She smiled at him. “I will be fine, my lord. I promise I will not rise from this bed, and if I find that I am still tired, I will not hold you to your promise to allow me to dine in the Great Hall tonight.”

He offered her a fraction of a smile in return, and bent to put his lips to the hand he held. The chaste, formal brush of his lips on her skin warmed her to her toes, and the expression in his eyes as he looked into her face then was much softer.

“Come, children,” he said. “We shall give Queen Daenerys and your mother their privacy.” He bowed formally to the girl. “Your Grace,” he said, taking his leave.

As the children filed out behind him, Catelyn noticed that Daenerys Targaryen seemed wary of the three direwolves. Shaggy walked right up and sniffed at her, and she actually jumped backward, but recovered her composure fairly quickly.

“She smells hot,” Catelyn heard Rickon say from the corridor. “Is that her dragon’s smell, Father?”

Dak, who had gone out last, looked apologetically at Daenerys Targaryen and closed the door before they could hear any more. Daenerys stood where she was, seeming suddenly unsure of herself.

“Please sit down, Your Grace,” Catelyn told her, indicating the chair nearest the bed.

“Thank you,” the young woman said, moving to sit down. She was a petite girl whose silver hair was as short as Arya’s. Catelyn doubted Daenerys had been posing as a boy at any point and wondered why she kept it so. She was taller than Arya, but just barely. She’d looked like a young girl beside Sansa and Jeyne, but she was actually older than they were. Catelyn thought she was about a year younger than Robb. _Robb._ The tiny, inadvertent, mundane thoughts of him never went away, and yet never failed to surprise her.

“I count five,” Daenerys said then.

“What?” Catelyn asked, confused by the young woman’s statement.

“There were six children, and two are not yours. So the babe in that cradle makes five. Lord Stark told me this was your sixth child.”

“My son Robb is dead,” Catelyn said flatly. “Murdered at the Twins at my brother’s wedding.”

“Oh!” Daenerys looked horrified, and Catelyn realized she must have heard the tale of the Red Wedding. “Forgive me, my lady. The Young Wolf. Of course, I had heard.” She looked down momentarily, but then turned her violet eyes back to Catelyn’s to add, “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Catelyn said softly. “And I am sorry for yours, Your Grace.”

Those violet eyes widened at that. Daenerys Targaren looked at her as if unsure of her meaning. “My lord husband told me that you carried a child during your first marriage, Your Grace. And we heard that you lost it. I am sorry for you.”

“I am sure it pleased your lord husband, though,” the girl said bitterly. “As his friend the false king had ordered my son’s death as well as mine.”

Catelyn resisted the urge to lean forward and slap the girl. In truth, she likely didn’t have the strength to do it anyway. She looked directly at this young queen and said coldly, “If you think Eddard Stark would ever take pleasure in the death of a child, you know nothing about him, Your Grace.”

“I know he is nothing but the Usurper’s Dog,” Daenerys countered. “And I know he is attempting to pass off his bastard as the blood of the dragon. He is a man without honor whose life is nothing but treason and lies.”

The girl’s statements were so blatantly wrong and spoken with such certainty that Catelyn was stunned into silence. For a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. Then, inexplicably, she began to laugh. Perhaps it was exhaustion. Perhaps, after everything she had come through to this point, she finally had gone mad. Perhaps, the situation was simply too ludicrous for any other response. She laughed until her shoulders shook and tears fell from her eyes. When she had regained her composure enough to look calmly at Daenerys Targaryen again, it was plain to see that the girl certainly thought she was mad.

“Your Grace,” Catelyn said carefully. “I will speak with you, but I would ask you to actually listen to what I have to say because you are wrong about a great many things.” Daenerys started to speak, but queen or not, Catelyn cut her off. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I do not see the purpose in your coming to my chambers if you do not allow me to speak honestly.”

The younger woman regarded her a moment and then nodded without saying anything.

“I wed Eddard Stark for duty, Your Grace. I had no real desire to do so, but my lord father told me he was to be my husband and that was that. I only met him when he came to Riverrun to take me to wife.”

Daenerys said nothing, but Catelyn recognized the understanding in her eyes. “I suspect you understand that very well, Your Grace,” she said. “I only hope for your sake that the Dothraki lord you were given to was half the man my lord husband is.” She continued quickly before the girl could take that as some sort of slight to her dead horselord. “You see, I discovered that I had wed a man with more honor than anyone I have ever known. He is also courageous in battle and in speaking his mind, and he is no man’s dog.” She said that last very fiercely, but the little queen remained silent. “As for his treasons, yes, he has committed them, but never without provocation that would drive any just man who cared at all for his family or his people to take action.”

She paused then, letting her words sink in. She continued then in a far quieter voice, holding Daenerys‘s eyes with her own. “You say his life is nothing but treason and lies. I tell you that in seventeen years of marriage, that man has told me one lie. He told me that Jon Targaryen, trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and heir to the Iron Throne, was his own bastard."

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Dany stared at the copper haired woman with the scarred face semi-reclined on the bed in front of her. She seemed too weak to even sit up properly, and yet she managed to give the impression of great strength. And she repeated that ridiculous claim that Lord Stark had made as if it were indisputable fact.

“Lady Stark,” she said carefully. “I think, mayhaps, you are mistaken about when your husband has lied. I cannot blame you for preferring to believe the man you wed saved a child rather than fathered one on some serving wench, but surely you must know that a bastard is far more likely than a secret prince.”

“Is it?” the older woman said evenly. Her face was far more expressive than her husband’s, but like him, she did not flinch at all under Dany’s gaze.

“Of course, it is!” Dany exclaimed.

“Rhaegar Targaryen had Lyanna Stark for a very long time, Your Grace. Whatever spin you put on that, it is unlikely he took her, hid her away, and went to war for her so that they could read books together or discuss northern customs.”

Dany’s temper flared. “Well, certainly he lay with the little wolf bitch. But he was no raper! Even your husband says she went with him willingly!”

“And when men and women lie together, children do tend to come of it, Your Grace,” the Stark woman continued in that same infuriatingly even voice. “My own husband put our first son in my belly on our very first night together. Prince Rhaegar certainly had more time than that to get Lyanna with child.”

Dany shook her head stubbornly. “Even so, the child would be a bastard. No threat to anyone. Your husband would have no need to claim him. He has simply seized upon a way to remove the blot to this mythic honor of his. And you, understandably, are too willing to believe him.”

Lady Stark looked at her sadly. “I told you I wed my husband for duty. We were still little more than strangers when he rode off to war. Do you truly think I would have been heartbroken at the thought that this man I barely knew, gone from me for endless moons, took comfort in a stranger’s bed? I had been taught to expect such behavior from men. Even honorable ones. Nor could I have faulted him for taking responsibility for any child his seed produced. He is honorable, Your Grace, and I knew it. That is what made his actions so unbelievable to me. He brought this bastard home. He raised him with our trueborn children. He seemed to fear letting him leave the walls of Winterfell, much less allowing him to foster elsewhere. That’s what should have been done with a bastard, Your Grace, and he knew it. He knew the insult the boy’s presence here gave to me, and yet he would not bend. The more I knew him . . .the more I loved him . . .the less I understood it. It wasn’t in him to treat me with such little regard, and yet in this one thing he persisted in doing so. I could only surmise that he loved the boy’s mother fiercely. Yet, I gradually came to accept that my husband loved me. He showed me his love in countless quiet ways, and I found more happiness here than I’d ever dreamed of. Yet, still he would not speak of the boy’s mother or ever send him away.”

Dany listened to the woman’s story, mesmerized by her quiet forthright manner. Whatever else was true, she thought it likely that Lady Stark was correct about her husband’s feelings toward her. She had heard the almost imperceptible softening in his voice when he spoke of her, and although she had seen the two of them together only briefly, she thought that the only time that frozen face of his softened just a bit was when he looked at his lady wife. That didn’t mean, however, that he hadn’t loved another woman as well.

“Of course, now I know that he did love the boy’s mother fiercely,” Lady Stark continued. “For she was his own dear sister. He promised her he would keep her son safe, and he did.” She looked at Dany with serious eyes. “If there is one thing you should know above all about my husband, Your Grace, it is that he keeps his promises. It is said that words are wind, but the word of Eddard Stark is worth more than gold.”

“But you say he lied to you! When did he tell you this supposed truth, my lady?”

“Just about a year ago,” she said quietly.

“A year ago! You’ve been married to the man for seventeen years and he lied to you for the first sixteen and you tell me his word is worth more than gold?”

Dany thought she saw moisture in the older woman’s blue eyes. “The promise he gave his sister took precedence, Your Grace. He promised to protect her child, and he did. He does not have it in him to lie, so once he told me the lie initially, he simply refused to speak any word on the subject again. And yes, Your Grace, knowing that my husband, the man whose word is his bond, had lied to me for so many years hurt deeply. I’d forgiven him the bastard years ago and made the best peace with it I could. So before you tell me you understand what I might _prefer_ to believe, you need to understand all of it. I believe Jon Snow is who my husband tells you he is because it is the truth. It is the only truth that makes sense of all of it. And learning that truth hurt me all over again, possibly worse than before. The truth has nothing to do with my _preferences._ ”

The two women looked at each other silently then for what seemed a long time to Dany when a piercing wail suddenly sounded from the cradle. Lady Stark closed her eyes tiredly. “Oh gods, Brien, are you truly hungry again?”

Lying back against the pillows, the older woman suddenly looked much less formidable to Dany. Lord Stark had said this babe nearly cost her life, and Dany could easily believe it as she watched Lady Stark’s arms tremble a bit as she tried to push herself up. “Can I help you somehow, Lady Stark?” she asked.

“If you could just get him from the cradle and bring him to me . . .” she said. “If we put a pillow beneath him, I can hold him well enough.”

Dany moved to pick up the crying infant. Even with his face scrunched up as he cried, it was obvious who the child’s father was. “He looks like your lord husband,” she said.

Lady Stark nodded and shifted herself slightly to accept the child. As Dany propped a pillow beneath him, the babe relaxed in his mother’s arms and opened his eyes. “Oh!” Dany exclaimed. “But he has your eyes.”

Lady Stark smiled as she helped the babe latch on to her nipple. “He does. He is the only one who has obvious features from both of us. Well, Rickon, perhaps, but his features are more of a compromise. He started out with Tully looks and his coloring trends more toward the Starks as he gets older. Robb, Sansa, and Bran all favor me, and Arya’s face is her father’s.” The woman’s eyes had not left her son as she spoke.

It occurred to Dany that this woman had likely spent hours just looking at the faces of her children, memorizing them, seeing bits of herself or of her husband. She wondered if her own mother had done that with Rhaegar and Viserys. She’d never had the chance to do it with Dany.

“I dreamed of Rhaego,” she said softly. Catelyn Stark looked up from the babe at her breast with a question in her eyes. “My son,” Dany said. “I saw him with Drogo’s face and copper skin. But his hair and eyes were the color of mine.” She didn’t know why she told the woman this. She never spoke of her Rhaego dream.

Lady Stark smiled sadly. “He would have undoubtedly grown to be a very handsome man.”

Dany merely nodded, staring at the babe who suckled at the breast of her enemy’s wife and missing the babe she never held with a longing so great it almost prevented her from breathing.

“You won’t ever stop missing him, Your Grace,” Lady Stark said softly. Dany looked back up at her face. “I miss my Robb as much today as I did the day I woke up at the Twins and first remembered he was gone. There is no shame in mourning your child, Your Grace.”

Dany swallowed hard. “But . . .I never knew him, really. You raised your son. You saw him grow to be a man. I never . . .”

“You carried him inside you, child. You felt him there. You knew him.” She smiled again. “Do you think I love Brien less than Sansa because I have had him for a shorter time? They are all my children, Your Grace, and each of them is infinitely precious to me, and has been since I first knew they grew within me. It is the same for you and your son.”

Dany wanted to speak of something else. Anything else. No one had ever spoken to her of Rhaego the way this woman did. She had come here to speak of her dragons and learn what she could of Lord Stark’s plans and plots, not to speak of children. She had to speak of something else.

“My son was murdered . . .just as yours was.” The words left her mouth seemingly of their own volition.

Lady Stark looked startled, and then almost frightened. “Robert . . .?” she asked hesitantly.

Dany shook her head. “The Usurper’s plots failed. My son was murdered in my womb by a witch. I had begged her to save my husband’s life and instead she betrayed me. She did not save Drogo, and she took Rhaego’s life as well.”

“You poor child,” Catelyn Stark murmured, almost inaudibly.

 _I am not a child. I am a queen. I am the Mother of Dragons._ Yet she didn’t lash out at Lady Stark for her words. She felt almost a child watching this woman feed her baby and listening to her speak of children. She almost wished to be a child, and for the first time in a very long time, she wished she had known her mother.

“I still don’t believe this bastard on the wall is my nephew,” she said, forcing her mind away from thoughts of mothers and children. “Even if he has managed to somehow lure Rhaegal to him.”

“Rhaegal?”

“My dragon.”

“Oh. What are the others’ names?”

Lord Stark hadn’t been interested in their names. He’d asked almost nothing about them. “Drogon is the black one which I ride. The cream colored dragon is Viserion.”

“The wolves you met briefly are Nymeria, Summer, and Shaggydog,” Lady Stark responded.

“My dragons are not pets, Lady Stark,” Dany said shortly.

“Neither are direwolves, Your Grace. Just ask the men who met my son’s Grey Wind in battle.”

Dany frowned. “What does your husband want from me, Lady Stark?”

“Firstly, he wants you not to have your dragons burn down our castle, Your Grace. I should think that would be obvious.” She smiled wryly. “We’ve only just begun to set things right since the Bastard of Bolton set fire to Winterfell, and he didn’t have dragons.”

“I didn’t come here to burn your castle,” Dany said irritably.

“No, but you want to be certain that we know you can,” the older woman said evenly. “You want the Iron Throne. You want my lord husband to bend the knee and acknowledge you as queen. You want your third dragon back. That is all good and well, Your Grace, but perhaps you should learn more about what the people you would rule want.”

“I just asked you what your husband wants,” Dany snapped, becoming as irritated with Catelyn Stark now as she had earlier been with the woman’s husband. She half wanted to return to the conversation they’d been having before, but she knew she had to push forward. This woman was neither her mother nor her friend. _If I look back, I am lost._

“No. You asked what he wants from you. As in, what must you do for him to get him to do what you want. That is an entirely different question. A selfish one. And the only question I’ve heard far too often from all the would be kings and queens.”

“You’ve discussed this with a lot of them, have you?” Dany said, intending to mock her.

“Actually, yes. I spent a great deal of time with my son after he was crowned, and I was sent to treat with both Renly and Stannis Baratheon. I’ve watched men try to crown my husband and seen him refuse it. I know far too much of what Cersei Lannister has done in the name of a crown, and I am not yet grown too old and forgetful to remember the actions of Aerys, Rhaegar, Robert, and Tywin Lannister when last the Iron Throne was called into dispute.”

Dany thought perhaps this woman knew a lot of things that might be useful to her, but she did not forget Lord Tyrion’s warning about her. She was too clever and too dedicated to her family to be trusted yet. “Are you saying that all of these people acted to get what they could for themselves?”

“Yes,” Catelyn Stark said without hesitation. “At least in part. Oh, some of them had far more noble motivations as well, but at the end of it all, no one would compromise. No one would set aside even a bit of their own ambition in order to forge something that might be good for more people. First, everyone talks while no one listens. And then they ride out to kill each other. That has been my experience with kings and queens, Your Grace.”

Dany looked at her. “What do you want, Lady Stark?” she asked after a moment.

Lady Stark smiled. “I want my husband and children safe. I want my husband free to govern the north as the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. The titles have always belonged to Starks and there is no reason to change that. The people of the north want him as their lord as well, if that matters to you. I want the threat from beyond the Wall eliminated, and I want the deaths of good northmen at the hands of these Others to end. My husband and Jon Snow both believe your dragons may be of use there. I want peace in the Seven Kingdoms so that we can spend our efforts on surviving what looks to be the longest winter any of us have ever seen.”

“What of vengeance for your son, my lady?”

“I have had quite a bit of that already, Your Grace, particularly against the Freys and Boltons, and while I cannot say that I would grieve at any number of Lannister deaths, my current wants are far more peaceful and focused on the living who are here with me now.”

“You still have a rather long list of wants, my lady.”

“I did not ask you to hand me all of them, did I, Your Grace? Yet, if you would be my queen, you have to know what I want before you can evaluate whether, in your mind, I should have it, even if it is within your power to grant. Ruling must be about judgment as well as power, and a strong ruler must realize that compromise is not weakness.”

“I didn’t come here to be tutored in ruling my kingdom. I came to Winterfell because I want my dragon back, Lady Stark. And I admit I was curious about the Usurper’s Dog.”

“My husband is the Lord of Winterfell. I already told you he is no man’s dog, Your Grace. I would respectfully ask that you return the courtesy he has given you while you are a guest in his home.” The woman’s voice was steel.

“Will he bend the knee, Lady Stark?” Dany asked her. “Will he proclaim me the rightful queen or fight to put his bastard on my throne?”

“Jon Snow is the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He has no interest in thrones, and he gave up any title he might have had when he took his vows.”

“But will your husband bend the knee to me?”

The blue eyes never looked away from hers. “Ask him.”

“Will you bend the knee?” Dany asked her.

Catelyn Stark continued to look directly at her. “I will be at my lord husband’s side. That is my place, Your Grace.”

“Family, Duty, Honor. Those are the words of your House, are they not?” Dany asked her then.

“The Tully words, Your Grace. The House of my birth.”

Dany looked at this woman, scarred and yet still beautiful, physically weak and yet somehow remarkably strong, suckling a babe and speaking of duty to her husband as she offered political instruction to a queen. “I think they suit you, my lady,” she said. “I should not stay any longer. And I do not think you should attend any feasts this night. I will stay tonight and tomorrow night, and I will tell your lord husband he can delay his feast for I wish you to be able to attend. Another day's rest would be good for you.”

“And what do you plan to do tomorrow while I rest, Your Grace?”

“I believe your lord husband and I have a great deal more to talk about, my lady. You have given me much to think on. Your husband is a traitor, though. I cannot simply forget that. He must answer for it.”

Lady Stark removed the babe from her breast and laid him gently upon her shoulder. As she patted his back softly, she looked back up at Dany. “Fire and Blood,” she said. “Those are your words.”

“They are, Lady Stark,” she said. “And they suit me as well as yours suit you.”

Dany left Lady Stark and wandered throught the Great Keep, managing only one wrong turn before finding her way back to the lord’s solar. The door was partially ajar, but before she could go in, she heard a boy’s voice.

“But is she a bad lady?”

Dany peered cautiously into the room and saw Eddard Stark sitting in the chair she’d sat in earlier. She’d realized it was his, of course, and only sat there to see how he’d react. On his lap was the smallest of the boys she’d met in Lady Catelyn’s chambers--the one who’d said some nonsense about her smelling hot.

“Of course, she isn’t, Rickon. She’s a queen across the Narrow Sea, and once her family were the kings and queens here in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“But I heard the men saying that Targaryens are mad. Isn’t she a Targaryen?”

Eddard Stark sighed. “Her father, King Aerys, was most assuredly mad, son. And cruel and unjust and many other things that made him a poor king indeed. That is why we went to war against him.”

“I thought you went to war because he killed your father and your brother, and his son stole your sister.” Dany gritted her teeth as the boy obviously parroted words he had heard many times over.

“I fear it is not quite that simple, Rickon. Things seldom are. But in any event, I see no evidence that Daenerys is mad like her father. She is young, surely, but she does not appear to be mad.”

“But dragons and wolves don’t mix.”

“And is this more wisdom gleaned from listening to conversations around the stables or the guardhouses?”

“Well, I heard people say it.”

“Many people believe it, Rickon. Your Aunt Lyanna didn’t. Prince Rhaegar didn’t believe it, either. Then they behaved very foolishly, they acted on impulse and gave no thought to consequences. Do you understand what that means?”

“Consequences,” the boy said gravely. “It’s what I get when I hit or bite or when I take food from the kitchen without asking or let Shaggydog go places he’s not allowed. I don’t like consequences. Usually it means sitting in Mother’s room and not talking or not getting dinner.”

Dany had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at the child’s response. Lord Stark didn’t even try to supress his mirth. He chuckled. The man actually chuckled, and that shocked Dany more than anything she’d seen or heard. “That is precisely what consequences are, Rickon. Only for adults they are often worse than missing dinner. Things like war and death are often the consequences of adults’ foolish behavior.” Dany saw the man pull the little boy tighter against him and kiss the top of his head. “And you already know far too much of such things, my son.”

“I want her to go away,” the little boy said then. “I want her to take her dragons and go away.”

“I thought you wanted to see the dragons.”

The child shook his head vigorously causing his auburn curls to bounce around. “I don’t want another fire. Father, I remember after the fire, and I don’t want her dragons to burn us up.”

“Oh, Rickon,” Eddard Stark’s voice held more emotion than she’d ever heard. “Listen to me, son. No one is going to burn you up. I will not allow it. You must stop listening to gossip. What I wanted to tell you is that while Rhaegar and Lyanna behaved irresponsibly, it doesn’t mean they were wrong to believe that dragons and wolves can be friends.”

“Shaggydog didn’t like her hot smell.”

“Well, people who are called dragons and wolves can be friends then. Shaggydog may not ever be overly fond of actual dragons.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “That’s why Queen Daenerys is here, Rickon. She and I will talk together and see how we can become friends. All right?”

“And no fires?”

“No fires.”

“And I can see the dragons?”

“Well, if the queen is willing to . . .”

Dany rapped loudly on the partially open door, and stepped through it.

“Your Grace,” Lord Stark said, all icy courtesy once more.

“Your lady wife is resting now, Lord Stark. I do not believe she is up to a feast. Perhaps we could delay it until tomorrow night? I would very much like her to attend.”

“Certainly. We will still take our evening meal in the Great Hall, Your Grace. I would very much like you to join us.”

“I would like that,” Dany said. “But did I just hear your son ask to see the dragons?”

“You did. He’s been most anxious to see them, but I wished to speak to you about it first.”

“We can go up on the wall, my lord. I won’t call them close, but I can send them into the woods to hunt and the young man could see them fly.”

Rickon looked panicked. “Do they eat wolves? Shaggy and the others are in the godswood!”

“Your godswood is inside the castle walls, yes?” Dany asked, and the little boy nodded. “The dragons will not fly inside the castle if I tell them not to, so your pets will be quite safe.”

“Direwolves aren’t pets,” the boy said seriously, looking her right in the eyes and sounding remarkably like his mother had when she’d told Dany the same thing.

“No, I suppose not,” she told him. “Dragons aren’t, either.” She looked up at Lord Stark. “Will you and your son come with me to see Drogon and Viserion then?”

“Drogon and Viserion!” the boy said excitedly, latching onto their names quickly. “Let’s go, Father, please.”

“All right,” Lord Stark said. “Run, get your cloak. It’s cold outside.”

The boy dashed away before his father had finished the sentence. “Your cloak has been taken to your room, Your Grace. I can take you there, and then we can catch up to Rickon.”

As they walked through the corridor, they came upon a blackened scorch mark in the stone wall. Dany stopped and put a hand to it. “Is this from the fire your wife told me about? The one set by the Bastard of Bolton?”

Lord Stark nodded. “We have cleaned much, but the deeper scorches are hard to remove.”

“Were your children here when it happened?”

“Only Bran and Rickon. They were believed dead, but had run away and then hidden themselves in the crypt with two others. I was held in Pentos at the time, Catelyn was with Robb and his army, Sansa was held in King’s Landing, and gods only know where Arya was.”

He started to walk down the corridor again, and she reached out to grab his arm. “Lord Stark,” she said, when he turned toward her. “There is no honor in killing children.”

He nodded at her. “Thank you, Your Grace. We should likely go find your cloak before my son convinces a guard to let him climb the wall without us.”

She nodded then and continued to walk beside him. He was still a puzzle. She had never met anyone quite so difficult to read. She’d thought him so cold, but he was obviously not cold at all with his wife or his son. She still couldn’t quite bring herself to believe his tale of her brother’s secret son, but her conversation with Lady Stark had opened her mind to doubts. Fire and _Blood._ He had rebelled against her father. He had served the Usurper for years. He deserved to be punished. But whom would his punishment serve? She thought about the scars on Lady Stark’s face. That woman had obviously suffered a great deal, and yet she spoke of peace more than vengeance. _Fire and Blood._ The Seven Kingdoms were hers by right. Dany knew that, and she would have them. Precisely how she would go about claiming her throne, however, seemed to become less clear rather than more so.

 _The Usurper’s Dog._ As she studied the quiet man who walked beside her with a slight limp, she wondered what exactly she‘d been expecting. Whatever it had been, she found herself surprised by both Lord Stark and his Lady.


	56. A Measure of Suffering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first off . . . .I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's been unacceptably too long since I've updated this story. BUT, now that my ASOIAF fic for the Big Bang (On the Strength of Promises and Hope) is finished and posted, I shall return to a much more regular posting schedule, and I PROMISE not to start any other big projects until both this story and Vows, Kept and Broken are complete! :)

Ned Stark slammed his hand down on the desk and cursed loudly. Not feeling any better in the slightest, he did it again. As if he needed a reminder that this situation was not even remotely under his control, a loud, otherworldly shriek pierced the air outside.

 _The damned things are getting restless. She doesn’t control them as tightly as I thought._ That had become painfully obvious the night before.

Today marked the third day Daenerys Targaryen had spent within Winterfell, and the verbal sparring matches with her had become more than tiresome. Every time he’d thought they might be coming close to some sort of understanding of each other, the girl would suddenly turn on him, reminding him he was a traitor deserving of death, accusing him of lying to her, and demanding that he lead her to her dragon immediately. When he would insist that her third dragon was at Castle Black, she would shout that she had no more time to waste upon the lies of a usurper’s dog. Calmly and courteously informing her that she was free to fly north to the Wall and leave Winterfell behind her any time she wished was becoming more difficult almost hourly. Ned had never believed he could ever want to throttle a woman more than he had once wished to throttle Cersei Lannister. Now, he was not so sure.

Catelyn assured him the Targaryen girl was not mad. He was not sure about that, either, but he did acknowledge that she certainly seemed less volatile with his wife than with him. She seemed sincere in her assurances that she had no wish to harm his children as well, but the rage that he sometimes saw in her eyes so clearly directed at him made it impossible for him to trust any assurances she gave. Especially after last night.

He did not wish to remember anything about last night, and yet every time he closed his eyes, he saw it. Every time one of those monsters shrieked outside, he relived it. He had nearly lost them, and knowing that Daenerys Targaryen was likely the only reason his wife and daughter still lived today did not absolve her from the responsibility of putting them at risk in the first place.

He sat down and put his face in his hands. The feast had actually gone very well. After a day of debate, questions, and outright accusations, he and Daenerys Targaryen had sat on either side of Catelyn at the head table. Catelyn had requested that the girl sit beside her rather than on Ned’s other side, proclaiming that she had missed the girl and wanted a chance to converse with her all she could before she was inevitably locked away in her chambers again by her over-protective lord husband.

 _Over-protective, my arse,_ Ned thought even now. When he’d finally returned to Cat’s chambers on the day of Daenerys’s arrival after dragon-viewing with Rickon, dining with Daenerys and his children in the Great Hall, and answering any number of questions from the girl about this ‘threat from beyond the Wall which Lady Stark spoke of’, he had been alarmed at the pallor of his wife’s face as she lay sleeping on her bed, still fully dressed. He’d barely managed to get her undressed for the night and laid under the covers as little as she woke for him. She did not stir when he got in bed beside her and put his arm around her, nor later when Brien woke hungry. Furious at Catelyn for pushing herself much too far and at himself for allowing it, he’d gathered their youngest son in his arms, shrugged into a robe and left to find Letty. He’d known she would not be far away. While Cat almost always refused to let the woman feed Brien now, she was willing enough to accept her help with him in other ways.

He’d left the babe in the wetnurse’s arms and returned to his wife’s bed where he’d spent the night more keeping a vigil over her than sleeping himself. She’d not awakened until after dawn which, given how long the nights had become, was a very long sleep indeed. She had protested Brien’s absence, but hadn’t had the strength to truly argue with him about it, confirming in his mind he had done the right thing. They had spoken quietly about Daenerys Targaryen for nearly an hour during which time it seemed at least ten people had come to knock upon her chamber door.

Realizing he could stay with her no longer, Ned had left her confined to her bed with the promise of sending Letty and Brien to her (in return for her promise that she would let Letty do half of his feeds that day), and departed to deal with the day’s business. He had forbidden all visitors to her chambers save Samwell to force her to eat and drink what she needed. As banned visitors included the children and the Queen of Meereen, he’d dealt with disappointed faces all day long, and when his stubborn Tully wife had greeted him fully dressed for the queen’s feast that evening, he had reluctantly agreed to take her down to the Great Hall for a short time.

Watching Cat speak with the young queen at the High Table, he had been thoroughly impressed by the way his wife could reach the girl, getting thoughtful responses to her gentle questions rather than angry retorts. Watching Cat carefully watch him, however, he’d thought that her desire to sit between the young woman and himself likely had less to do with her own desire for conversation than with her concern that his own ability to deal calmly with the girl was waning quickly. Whatever her motives, her intercession served to keep the meal pleasant enough, and Ned doubted that anyone present had been overtly aware of the great tension between Daenerys and himself.

Catelyn had begun to tire, however. He had seen it in her face and the slight change of her posture. Although the festive atmosphere in the Hall had shown no signs of slowing down, he had insisted on taking her back to her chambers. She had acquiesced to going easily enough, again confirming his suspicions that she felt much worse than she let on, but refused to allow him to escort her.

“Sansa can walk with me, my lord,” she had told him. “I have seen little enough of the children today, and she is quite as tall as I am and a good bit stronger. You know she won’t allow me to stumble.”

“I wish to escort you myself, my lady.”

“I know what you wish,” she had whispered, leaning close to him. “But your place is here, Ned. Her Grace is enjoying the attention and honor she is receiving. Give her this night.”

When he’d stood to at least assist her from her chair, she had leaned right into him to whisper even more quietly, “And behave yourself, my love. This is a feast. Speak of nothing unpleasant when you have all of the morrow to do such things.” She’d smiled at him then, and he’d nodded.

Watching her walk away, arm in arm with the daughter who grew more to look like her every day, especially now that the hateful brown color was finally gone from her hair completely, Ned couldn’t help but smile at them.

“They look so lovely together,” Daenerys had whispered. “And so much alike. Ser Barristan told me I look something like my mother.”

Ned had looked down to see such a wistful expression on the girl’s face, he had actually smiled at her. “You do,” he’d said simply. “I only ever saw Queen Rhaella . . .”

Before he could finish his sentence, though, that unearthly shriek had filled the Hall followed by terrified screams, and his heart had left his body.

He had raced for the door out of the Great Hall, the one his wife and daughter had just left by, faster than he could remember moving since before his leg had been crushed in King’s Landing. He’d been vaguely aware that some of his men rose to follow him while others seemed to shrink back from the sound in terror.

The sight that met his eyes as he reached the courtyard was burned into his brain. The cream colored dragon stood before him, wings spread and head turned skyward shooting flame into the air which lit the entire yard with an eerie glow. Standing beneath that arc of flame, looking tiny and vulnerable, had been Catelyn and Sansa, arms around each other, each trying to protect the other from the heat and the fearsome monster that now turned its gaze down toward them as the flames faded.

“Viserion, no!” Ned had heard Daenerys Targaryen’s shouted command from behind him, but the dragon had ignored her. It had become much harder to see in the dark after the bright flame, but he had been able to make out that the monster crept toward his wife and daughter, extending its head toward them as it moved.

“Over here, you bastard!” he’d shouted. He’d been unarmed. He’d doubted he could do anything to the creature if he had been armed. His only thought had been to draw its attention away from Catelyn and Sansa long enough for them to seek some shelter. “Over here!” he’d shouted again, waving his arms wildly.

As the beast began to swivel its head toward him, he’d hissed “Run!” at the two women at the same time Catelyn had cried out, “Ned, don’t!”

That had seemed to confuse the dragon, and it had paused as if unsure which shouting little creature to pounce upon. Daenerys Targaryen had grabbed his arm then. “No, Lord Stark!” she’d cried desperately. “Do not antagonize him! Let me talk to him!”

Ned had pushed her rather roughly aside. That thing was still much too close to his wife and daughter. “Over here, beast!” he’d shouted, moving toward it.

It had turned toward him completely then, and he’d seen its eyes lock onto him even in the darkened courtyard. It had exhaled a long hot breath, and Ned felt the heat of it on his face. Had that been flame, he would have died instantly.

“Viserion!” Daenerys said sharply, and Ned watched the beast turn its eyes toward her even as smoke began to stream from its nostrils in greater amounts. Then she said a word he did not understand, and the dragon screamed back at her angrily, a hot blast of steam and even a small amount of flame escaping its mouth as it did so.

She’d seemed untroubled by it and repeated the word more loudly. This time the dragon had turned its head upward and screamed once more, fire again coming from its mouth as it leapt into the air, taking flight and disappearing over the castle wall into the night sky.

“Lady Stark! Are you all right?” Daenerys had cried then, rushing toward Catelyn and Sansa.

Ned had stopped her, though, grabbing her arm and holding her tightly. “Do not touch her,” he’d said in a voice like ice. “Do not speak to either of them.” He did not want this strange, dangerous girl or her beasts anywhere near his family.

She’d stared at him a moment, and then said, “Very well, Lord Stark. I do not think I wish to return to your feast, however. I shall go to my chambers now. Viserion will not return this night.” Ned had thought her voice sounded nearly as cold as his own. Realizing he still held her by the arm, he’d released her, and she’d turned to go without another word. Only later did he recall that the entire front of her gown had been singed, and that she’d been shaking.

At the time, he hadn’t given her another thought, he’d simply rushed to gather his wife and daughter into his arms, barely able to believe they were truly unhurt. How long they’d stood there in the courtyard, shaking in one another’s arms, he couldn’t say, but it had been long enough that the other children had rushed out and grabbed onto them as well. Even Bran had been there, carried in Ian’s arms, apparently willing to allow the young soldier to cart him outside rather than be left alone.

Catelyn had insisted on accompanying him to the children’s rooms, and they did not leave to finally go back to her chambers until all the terrified young people had finally been coaxed to sleep. Even then, she had been loath to go, sitting there first in the girls’ room and then in the boys’, watching them sleep as she had done when they were tiny.

He’d given orders that Daenerys Targaryen was not to be disturbed, but she was not to go anywhere unobserved and was not to leave the castle. As for the dragons, both had seemingly vanished in the skies over the wolfswood, but he ordered that the Targaryen girl was to be brought to him immediately upon their return. Then he had all but carried his wife to her room, and only once he held her tightly in her bed, did she finally cry, long and hard, trembling against him until exhaustion had finally claimed her.

Morning had brought the return of the dragons. Both had come and landed in the snow about a hundred yards outside the castle wall about an hour before dawn. They’d started the shrieking almost immediately, and after a few hours had begun taking short flights--toward the castle, around the castle, but never actually over it--continuing to shriek as calling out for their mother.

Mother of Dragons, Ned thought derisively. If she could control her children no better than this . . . He rubbed the tender skin of his forehead and nose. Catelyn had told him his face was red, as if he’d been too long in the southern sun. Daenerys’s skin was unmarked, though. He clearly recalled her singed dress now, and the way actual flame had been in the dragon’s breath when it turned toward her, but she was unburned. That caused him to shiver.

She’d been brought to his solar upon the dragon’s return, and he’d come from Catelyn’s chambers to speak to her. “I want them gone,” he’d said flatly. “I have told you where your third dragon is. It is time you left Winterfell to find it, and take these two beasts with you.”

“Who are you to give orders to a queen?” she’d responded defiantly. “I will go when you have told me all the truth. And my dragons will do as I say.”

“They will not do as you say!” he’d shouted at her. “You said they would remain outside the castle and yet the one nearly killed my wife and daughter last night!”

“Viserion did not harm them. He came into the castle to search for me and left it when I commanded him to do so.”

Ned still found himself shaking in fury at the girl’s absurd refusal to admit the dragon had been out of her control. Had the beast chosen to breathe fire at Catelyn and Sansa rather than into the air when it first landed, he would have nothing left of his wife or daughter now but ash and bone.

“I want the dragons gone, Your Grace.” He’d made himself say it quietly.

“I learned at a very young age that we seldom get what we want, my lord.”

At that moment, a dragon shriek had sounded clearly, and Ned had looked at her questioningly.

“Drogon,” she’d said simply. “He is reminding Viserion to remain outside your castle. He was not here last night when Viserion crossed the wall.”

It was the closest she had come to admitting that the cream colored dragon, at least, did not always obey her.

“They are like children, Lord Stark. They grow tired of being in one place, tired of my not being with them. Viserion is more easily bored than Drogon, that is all. Are all of your children the same?”

“My children do not incinerate innocent people when they are bored or restless, Your Grace,” Ned had said acidly. Unbidden, an image of Rickon’s direwolf ripping out the throat of the Frey man after Catelyn’s abduction came to his mind. “My children are not monsters,” he’d said firmly.

“Possibly not,” Daenerys had said quietly. “But I have discovered that people are frequently more monstrous than my dragons. The world is quite fortunate that people cannot breathe fire.”

He couldn’t truly disagree with her so he said nothing until another shriek rent the air.

“Whatever its cause, that noise is causing terror throughout the castle.”

Ned had thought painfully of Rickon clinging to Catelyn the night before, sobbing, “I don’t want the dragons to burn you up, Mama! Please make them go away!” He hadn’t called her Mama since before they’d all been separated, since sometime before his third name day. Ned didn’t want Rickon listening to dragon screams today.

“Can you make it stop?” he’d asked her.

“They might calm if I went to them, but apparently I am your prisoner. I was not allowed to go to them when I heard them return,” she’d said coldly.

He’d sighed. “You are not my prisoner, Your Grace. I wished to speak to you upon the dragons’ return. That is all. You are free to go to them, but I would have your assurance you do not intend to turn them toward Winterfell in violence.”

She’d gotten angry at that. “I am your guest, Lord Stark. I have eaten and drunk at your table. However much I may want your head, I will not take it here or now! I am a queen, not a criminal.” She’d looked at him levelly. “If you keep me here against my will for any long period of time, I cannot be responsible for what my dragons do then, however.”

He’d nodded wearily. What else could he do, really? He called for the man outside the door to come in and told him the queen was to be allowed out to her dragons.

“Go to your . . .children, Your Grace. Calm them if you can,” he’d said, looking back to her. She’d turned to leave the solar without another word. As she reached the doorway, he’d added. “Get on one of them and fly north if you wish to find the third. It is where I have told you it is.”

She’d hesitated then, almost turning back to say something, but then she’d simply left without speaking.

Now he sat at his desk wondering if he had acted rightly. Wondering if he could take any right action, or any action at all which could improve this situation. She’d been gone some time and still the dragons shrieked, sometimes obviously from the air. As frightened as he was of Daenerys Targaryen having complete control of the situation, the thought that she might have nearly as little control as he did frightened him even more.

The knock at his door was so quiet, he almost didn’t hear it. “Come in,” he called.

The door opened and he saw Dak, nearly pushed through the doorway by his daughter, Arya.

“What is it children?” he asked them.

Arya looked at Dak, and Dak looked at the floor. “Dak has something to tell you, Father,” Arya said finally.

Dak still looked at the floor, and Arya huffed impatiently. “Don’t be stupid, Dak,” she said. “Just tell him what you told me.”

“Dak?” Ned said cautiously. “Why don’t you and Arya come in and sit down, son?”

Dak mumbled, “Yes, milord,” under his breath and sat down in a chair in front of the desk. Arya remained standing where she was.

“Now what is it you have to tell me, young Dak?” Ned said encouragingly.

The boy looked up at him with a wary expression Ned had not seen on his face since long ago in Pentos. “What is it, son?”

“It’s . . .it’s the Dragon Queen, milord,” the boy blurted out.

“What about Queen Daenerys?”

“I . . .I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong, milord! I swear I didn’t it!” the boy exclaimed.

When he said nothing else, Arya came forward and said, “He’s been going to her room and talking with her! She told him she missed talking in Dothraki and the stupid idiot never even realized all she ever did was ask him questions.” Arya shook her head in frustration. “He doesn’t even remember what all he’s told her.”

Ned looked at his not quite thirteen year old daughter, sparing only a moment to lament how quickly she knew to recognize interrogation. Daenerys Targaryen had certainly been clever in this. He should have had her watched before last night.

“Dak,” he said softly. “I am not angry with you. I would, however, like to know what you and Queen Daenerys discussed.”

He shook his head helplessly. “It’s hard, milord. You see, she speaks the horselord tongue a lot better than I do, and sometimes I wasn’t sure exactly what she was asking, or I couldn’t quite answer it clearly. I tried to tell her that, but she wouldn’t ever let us use the Westerosi talk. She said it was fun for her and good practice for me. She kept telling me how much better I was getting at it.” He swallowed.

Arya rolled her eyes. “Of course, she wouldn’t let you speak the Common Tongue, stupid. She didn’t want anyone who heard to know what she was asking you!”

“Arya,” Ned reprimanded her gently. “That is quite enough. Sit down and be quiet or leave us.”

Dak looked up at her desperately as if the last thing he wanted was for her to leave him alone with Ned regardless of how many times she called him stupid.

“It is all right, Dak,” Ned told him. “I understand what happened. Just tell me what you can of her questions and your answers.”

“She asked a lot about Pentos,” he said. “About how you were kept there and how we got you out. Me and Donnell, I mean.”

Ned nodded. It was still difficult to speak about Donnell.

“She wanted to know who ordered you locked up there, and I . . .I told her about the Fat Man. I mean, I didn’t think he can find me here, right? But as soon as I said the Fat Man, she said his name.” The boy swallowed again. “She seemed kind of surprised. I forgot that she and her brother used to be with him. Before she married the Khal, I mean.”

Ned nodded. So Daenerys Targaryen knew that Illyrio Mopatis had been involved in his imprisonment, but apparently had not known that before learning it from Dak. He wondered if she were still involved with the man. She had said almost nothing of her time in Essos to Ned. Their conversations had been fairly limited to the troubles of Westeros, her missing dragon, and his status as a liar and a traitor, not necessarily in that order.

“What else, Dak?” Ned encouraged him. “What else did she ask you about?”

He looked down. “Your bastard mostly, milord. Him that’s Lord Commander.”

Realization began to dawn on Ned. “What did she ask you about Jon?”

Dak shook his head. “Nothing that made sense, really, milord. I’m not sure I understood her right. She asked silly things like how did I know he was your son, and if I ever met him, and how he looked.”

“And you told her what Jon looks like,” Ned said.

Dak nodded. “I said anyone could tell plain as day he’s your son, milord. That he looks and sounds just like you. Even more than Arya. And I said you’d never denied him.” He said that last with a sense of admiration that in other circumstances would have likely warmed Ned’s heart.

Dak didn’t know the truth. He and Catelyn had told only their children and Sam about Jon’s true parentage. This brave and bright boy of Essos who’d never known his own father and knew all too well what it was to have no name had sworn himself to Ned and believed in him with all his heart. He’d seen Ned’s bastard son welcomed into Winterfell by all there, greeted warmly by his brother and sisters and even without malice by Catelyn. That’s what he would have told Daenerys Targaryen, and his steadfast belief in what he said and in Ned himself would have given her more than enough cause to believe him. And that had given her cause to disbelieve Ned every time he told her Jon was not his son.

“Damn,” Ned swore softly.

“Milord?” Dak asked.

“Nothing,” Ned sighed. “You have done nothing wrong, Dak. But from now on, if the queen asks you to practice Dothraki with her, let her know that I am most interested in learning some Dothraki myself and would appreciate your holding your practice sessions in my presence.”

Dak grinned at him, but his expression rapidly changed to one of alarm as another dragon shriek came from somewhere in the skies around the castle. “I wish they would stop,” he said. “I am very glad Lady Catelyn and Lady Sansa weren’t hurt last night, milord.”

“I am, too, Dak,” Ned said gravely, noting that Arya’s face had gone a shade paler as well. “The queen was going out to calm the dragons when she left me. I fear she has had little luck.”

“Queen Daenerys?” Arya asked, puzzled. “She hasn’t gone outside, Father. We saw her on our way here. I wanted to stop and check on Mother, and she was there.”

“Danerys Targaryen?” Ned asked. “She was with your mother?”

Dak nodded. “She had just gotten there. Lady Catelyn told the man with her it was all right.”

“Father?” Arya said, looking at him with some concern. “Is it all right that we left her with Mother? I did leave Nymeria there, too.”

Ned smiled at his daughter’s protective instincts toward her mother in spite of his irritation at Daenerys Targaryen. “It is all right, Arya, but you children must excuse me now. I need to have a word with the queen and your mother.”

As he walked from the solar, leaving the two children staring after him, Ned no longer wondered whether or not he would like to throttle Daenerys Targaryen more than he ever had Cersei Lannister. He knew it for a certainty.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“What did you wish to speak to me about, Your Grace?” Catelyn asked when Dak and Arya had left.

“I . . .I wished to see for myself that you are quite recovered from your scare last night,” the young queen said. Catelyn forced herself not to smile at the girl’s voice--a mixture of genuine concern and an obvious desire to downplay what had occurred with the dragon.

“I am as recovered as I could hope to be,” she said, arching an eyebrow, “Considering that my daughter and I came within a breath of burning to death last night.” She was glad she’d gotten out of bed and dressed for the day in spite of Ned’s objections and his insistence that she remain in her room. She had no wish to face Daenerys Targaryen lying flat on her back after the events of the previous night. She knew perfectly well her stamina was far from normal, however, so she turned then and took a seat in a chair, motioning for her guest to seat herself as well.

“He would not have harmed you,” the young woman insisted as she sat down.

“Truly?” Catelyn asked her. “I’ve never really seen a dragon before, Your Grace, but I believe Viserion was quite agitated when he landed there in front of us. I do not share your conviction that we were not in any danger, and I sincerely hope you will keep him out of the castle for the remainder of your stay here.”

Daenerys looked at her for a moment before replying. “You called him by his name,” she said, sounding surprised.

Catelyn had expected some rebuke for daring to contradict the girl about the danger she and Sansa had been in, but she followed Daenerys’s lead. “Of course,” she said. “Why would I have asked you their names if I did not intend to use them?” Nymeria had been pacing slowly back and forth between the two chairs, and Catelyn called her then. “Nymeria. To me.” The wolf came quickly to stand beside her chair and after licking at Catelyn’s proffered hand, she lay down on the floor, keeping her eyes on Daenerys.

Daenerys looked back at her warily. “The wolves answer to you as they do to your children?” she asked.

Catelyn thought about her answer. “As they do my children? No. But they mind me in a general sort of way.” She laughed. “Rather like my children do. I suppose it is similar to the way your dragons mind you. You call them your children, do you not?”

“It is not the same thing!” Daenerys protested. “They are my children. I am the Mother of Dragons.”

“No,” Catelyn agreed. “It is not the same thing. I said similar, not same, Your Grace.” She smiled and reached down to scratch between Nymeria’s ears. “I have been called the Mother of Wolves, but that merely means I am the mother of Starks. The Starks have ever been closely associated with the animal on their sigil, more so than many Houses, I think; and if the Starks in the past had connections to direwolves like my children have, I understand why that came about. Your control over your dragons comes from your Targaryen blood. I know that well enough. But I am no Stark. My only connection to the wolves is through my children. Each of my sons or daughters controls their wolf as they control themselves. It is an instant and almost absolute sort of thing I can barely understand. The wolves respond to me as my children do, and they sometimes choose to disobey me as my children do. I think sometimes your dragons are not perfectly obedient children, either. That is all I meant.”

“You think my control over my dragons is weaker than that your children have over their wolves?” The young woman bristled. “Mayhaps, it is merely that direwolves are weaker animals, more easily commanded.”

Catelyn sighed and bit her lip. She couldn’t forget the very thing she kept reminding Ned. _Daenerys Targaryen is very young still. Do not wound her_ _pride if you can help it._ “Direwolves are certainly less powerful than dragons, Your Grace,” she conceded, “Although they are formidable creatures in their own right.” She wondered how much she should say. “Has my lord husband mentioned the children’s connection with their direwolves to you?”

Daenerys shrugged. “Only to say that they have one. And to say that he believes his bastard has such a connection with my dragon, Rhaegal.” Her voice was rather intentionally nonchalant, and Catelyn realized now why she bristled so easily. If Catelyn insinuated that the children’s control of their wolves was superior to Daenerys’ control of her dragons, by extension she was insinuating that Jon might have superior control of a dragon.

“It does not surprise me that he would not speak of it with you,” she said, deliberately attempting to direct the conversation away from any hint that Jon might actually be able to warg a dragon and wrest control of it completely away from Daenerys.

“Why is that?” the young woman asked, following where Catelyn led her.

“First of all, because he does not trust you,” she said, holding up her hand when Daenerys started to protest. “He has little reason to, Your Grace, as you have repeatedly told both of us he is a traitor deserving of death.”

When Daenerys remained silent after that, she continued, “Secondly, speaking of such things does not come easily to my husband. Until a very short time ago, he would have argued such things did not exist. Similarly, he would have said that while White Walkers and dragons once lived, they were gone from the world forever. He does not believe easily in magic or prophecies or signs and does not like things that defy explanation. You told me your child was murdered in your womb by a witch. I believe you easily. He would find it more difficult to do so.”

“He would name me liar?” she asked angrily.

 _Gods! Does the girl find insult in everything?_ “No,” Catelyn said carefully. “I did not say he would disbelieve you, Your Grace. I merely said he would find such a thing difficult to believe in the first place. My husband is a man who believes in what he can see and experience and explain for himself. Aside from his faith in the old gods, he never had any patience for things he could not rationally explain. He has had to learn to accept many things recently which have not been easy for him.”

“I am not here to make things easy for your husband,” Daenerys said imperiously. “He might make it easier for himself if he did not persist in fictions and lies. Or if he actually accepted the truth about the nature of things.”

Catelyn sighed. “I do not recall telling you my lord husband was stupid, Your Grace. While he does not belive easily in things he cannot understand, he certainly does not deny the truth he has seen with his own eyes. He knows well enough that dragons, White Walkers, wights, wargs, giants, and all sorts of creatures and powers he once doubted are moving about once more in the world. The fact that he does not like it will not prevent him from dealing with the reality of it.” The word ‘warg’ had slipped into her list, and she pressed on to her next point hoping that Daenerys did not pick it out. “As for fictions and lies, he hasn’t told you any.”

The younger woman actually laughed at that. “What is it about this man, that he can lie so easily and be believed? I do not believe you to be a stupid woman any more than you believe your husband to be a stupid man, my lady. Yet, you truly believe his lies, don’t you? Even though his bastard is the very image of him, you can somehow believe the man did not father him.”

Daenerys looked at her with something very like pity then, and Catelyn found it very difficult not to become angry. She’d had more than enough pity concerning Jon Snow to last a lifetime. “You have been spending your time here at Winterfell questioning the inhabitants on Jon Snow’s appearance, Your Grace? I would have thought a woman with an eye to conquering Westeros would have far more important issues on her mind.”

“It is important,” Daenerys hissed. “It proves the man’s ridiculous claims to be a lie. Everyone here knows the child to be the bastard of Eddard Stark, and everyone comments upon the fact that the young man looks remarkably like his father. Even more so than that daughter of yours who resembles him so closely.”

“Oh, Jon does look more like Ned than Arya does,” Catelyn said breezily, using the familiar form of her husband’s given name intentionally to show how little the fact concerned her. She couldn’t help but think on how that very fact had indeed concerned her greatly throughout nearly all of her marriage. “But Arya looks nothing like me. In fact, had you questioned any members of the household who recall her, they would tell you that my daughter looks uncannily like her aunt, Lyanna Stark. But that hardly makes Lyanna her mother, Your Grace. For one thing, she was dead long before Arya was born and for another, I recall giving birth to the child quite vividly.”

“You mock me, Lady Stark, and I do not find it amusing,” the queen told her.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I intend neither to mock or amuse you. I only wish to illustrate that Jon Snow’s close physical resemblance to his uncle, my husband, is no more remarkable than Arya’s resemblance to her aunt, and hardly definitive evidence of parenthood. Indeed, if my firstborn son still lived and you saw him beside my brother Edmure, you would undoubtedly remark upon their close resemblance. As I am neither a Lannister nor a Targaryen, I assure you that my brother did not father him.”

Daenerys Targaryen stood up at that. “I will not be insulted, Lady Stark!” she shouted. “I thought perhaps you might see reason. That you might be persuaded to help me find the truth here in order to protect your children. But you are either too stubborn or too foolish to see your husband for what he is!”

Catelyn stood as well. “No one has insulted you, Your Grace. You see insults when simple facts are spoken, and you hear lies when you are told the truth. I am more than tired of listening to my lord husband be insulted to his face and mine. Call him traitor if you like for he certainly went to war to remove your mad father from the throne. But do not call him liar. You have never heard a lie from his lips, and you have no right to call him that.” She hadn’t raised her voice, but she knew the younger woman could not mistake the fury in her tone. She knew she was being reckless, but she no longer had the energy to listen to this child vilify Ned.

Daenerys glared at her, but before she made any response, the direwolf at Catelyn’s feet rose and growled at her, baring her fangs. Daenerys looked terrified and took several steps backward. “Call it off!” she demanded as Nymeria slowly moved toward her.

Catelyn took a deep breath and forced herself to sit back down. “Nymeria,” she said. “To me.”

The direwolf hesitated, but with one last warning snarl in Daenerys’s direction she came to lie again in front of Catelyn’s chair. “She would not have harmed you,” Catelyn said calmly, echoing the younger woman’s from earlier.

“She could have killed me!” Daenerys said, her eyes still wide.

“You believe so?” Catelyn asked. “That is precisely how I felt last night, Your Grace.”

“You meant to threaten me?” the girl asked.

“No, Your Grace. No more than you meant to threaten Sansa and me. You and I were both angry just now and Nymeria reacted to that. A direwolf is not a pet. She is no match for a dragon, to be sure, but a formidable creature just the same.”

Any response Daenerys might have made to that was preempted by the chamber door bursting open with no warning knock and Ned’s entry into the room. He took one look at the young queen standing over his seated wife and Nymeria lying protectively between them and walked directly in front of Daenerys. “How dare you tell me you going out to calm your dragons and instead come here to badger my wife?” he demanded. “Hasn’t your monster done quite enough to her already?”

“My dragon did nothing to your wife!” Daenerys retorted. “As for badgering, your lady wife has an evil tongue! My Dothraki bloodriders would likely want to cut it out if they heard how she spoke to me.”

Catelyn watched in horror as Ned’s eyes went dark and stormy. This situation was rapidly approaching a place none of them could return from and she could not let that happen. “Ned!” she cried out, standing up. Nymeria stood with her, but did not move. She put her arms out to her husband, hoping he would come to her rather than go after Daenerys Targaryen.

He did. She must have looked quite distraught because the rage on his face was quickly replaced by concern. “Cat?” he said uncertainly as he reached for her. Nymeria let him come to her without interfering, and she nearly fell into his arms.

“Be still, Ned,” she whispered into his ear. “We are both behaving foolishly and it will gain us nothing, my love.”

She turned in Ned’s arms to face Daenerys whose violet eyes still flashed with anger. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I should not have lost my temper,” she said contritely. “I fear I was badly frightened last night, and I am still weak from Brien’s birth and . . .I am sorry, Your Grace.”

She could feel Ned practically vibrating with fury behind her, and she reached up to one of the arms that held her to squeeze his hand. “It is not easy for me to hear anyone speak ill of my lord husband,” she said softly to Daenerys. “But I should be able to respond without anger. You are not only a queen, but you are our guest, Your Grace, and I should not forget myself.”

Ned continued to hold on to her, but he did not lash out at the Targaryen girl when Catelyn finished speaking, and Catelyn hoped the girl would move on from discussing any possible maiming of herself and respond to what she’d said about speaking ill of Ned. She knew Ned well enough to know that he would tolerate any number of insults to himself before he’d allow the slightest to her.

“I did not mean to speak ill of your lord husband, Lady Stark,” Daenerys said stiffly, her fury seeming to abate, but the anger still audible in her voice. “But I stand by what I said. He is lying about his bastard. He must be.”

“You needn’t speak about me as if I am not here, Your Grace,” Ned said coldly at that point.

 _Good,_ Catelyn thought. _Cold is good. He is still angry, but in better control now._

“No, I needn’t,” the young woman said, looking over Catelyn’s shoulder at Ned. “To be clear, Lord Stark, I obtained your permission to leave the castle and see to my dragons. At no point did I tell you I intended to go and do that now. I realize you told me to go, but I do not take orders from you, my lord.”

“You have certainly made that clear,” he told her. Then he turned to Catelyn. “Catelyn, you are trembling. Let me get you into bed.”

“No,” she said firmly. She was not lying down with Daenerys Targaryen in her chambers. Not today. “But I would like to sit down once more,” she added. In truth, she didn’t know whether she trembled from fear, anger, or sheer exhaustion and weakness, but suspected it was some combination of all of them. As Ned helped her into her chair, she added, “I would like us all to sit down.”

Ned looked at her questioningly, and she gave him a slight nod. He pulled the stool from her dressing table closer to the two chairs and sat down upon it himself. Looking up at Daenerys, he said quite calmly, “Now, Your Grace, why don’t you have a seat and tell me what you might have said about me terrible enough to have upset Lady Catelyn so?”

Daenerys looked at him levelly. “Nothing I have not said to you, my lord, “ she replied evenly enough. “I told her that I tire of your persistence in your lie about this bastard of yours on the Wall.”

Catelyn sighed wearily. “When I spoke with Queen Daenerys on the day of her arrival, she seemed at least willing to consider that we told her the truth about Jon, however strange and unbelievable it sounded. Yet, she now refuses to listen to anything I say of it. I fear I became angry rather than asking her what specifically had changed her mind.”

“You mean who,” Ned said incomprehensibly.

“What?” she asked him.

“Who changed her mind.” It was a statement rather than a question. He turned toward the queen. “It was very kind of you, Your Grace, to give young Dak lessons to improve his Dothraki.”

Catelyn watched Daenerys Targaryen’s eyes widen when he said that.

“It was somewhat less kind,” he continued, “To use those lessons as an excuse to interrogate a boy of eleven or twelve on what he knows about me and my alleged bastard.”

“Dak?” Catelyn exclaimed, thoroughly flabbergasted. “But Dak knows absolutely nothing about Jon!”

Ned sighed. “Unfortunately, my lady, he believes he knows a great deal.”

Catelyn shook her head. “He can only know what he’s heard in the castle.” Catelyn turned toward Daenerys who had not responded to Ned’s comments about her questioning Dak. “I told you that my husband only told me the truth about Jon just over a year ago. He told Jon the first time he saw him after that. We only told our own children just prior to your arrival. No one else has been told the truth, Your Grace. Including Dak.”

“On the contrary, Lady Stark,” Daenerys said. “Young Dak speaks of the relationship between your husband and his bastard with far more authority than someone who only repeats kitchen gossip. He was with Lord Stark a long time in Pentos apparently.” She looked toward Ned. “You must have been quite lonely, Lord Stark to have shared as much as you did with that little boy. He knows you quite well, it seems, and admires you greatly. He finds the love and acceptance you’ve always shown your bastard quite inspiring.” She smiled rather coldly. “And he doesn’t even know you’re trying to make a prince of him.”

Catelyn looked at Ned. He looked almost guilty when he met her eyes, and she couldn’t figure out why. “Ned?” she asked hesitantly.

He looked at her sadly. “Dak knows nothing of the truth, but he has heard far more about Jon than you might think. I never told you of it because I did not wish to upset you.”

Catelyn had no idea what to think of this pronouncement. For a brief, sickening second, her initial irrational fear that Dak was Ned’s child crept into her mind, but she knew that wasn’t true. She didn’t know what to say so she remained silent.

Ned turned then to Daenerys Targaryen. “Your Grace,” he said. “The boy, Dak, did indeed hear about Jon Snow before he ever set foot in Winterfell, but not from me.”

Catelyn noted it was now Daenerys’s turn to look confused.

“Likely, his imperfect grasp of Dothraki caused your confusion about this,” he continued. “You see, I am not the only Stark Dak met across the Narrow Sea. Some time after my return to Westeros, he came across my daughter in Braavos.” At the young woman’s widened eyes, he waved his arms. “How they both came to be there is too long a tale. You may ask either about it, if you wish. You will likely get more information from Dak as Arya does not like to talk about it.”

He sighed. “Dak traveled with Arya from Braavos once she learned her mother and I lived. Arya confessed to me that he was somewhat concerned about what his reception here would be even though I had told him I would always welcome him when I left Pentos.” He glanced rather apologetically at Catelyn. “You see, Dak does not know who his father is. He worried that having no name might make acceptance here difficult. Arya told him about Jon Snow as a way to reassure him that I would see him treated well here.”

Now, things began to make sense. “Of course, she would have told him about Jon,” Catelyn said softly. “Arya has always loved Jon fiercely. She never tolerated any insult to him.”

Ned nodded at her. “That is true, my lady,” he said. “However, as she grew older and wiser in the ways of the world while she was away from us, our daughter began to understand better why Jon was an insult to you.” He looked at her directly, just as he always did when he had something difficult to say, but she could see pain in his eyes. It still bothered him, the years of hurt she’d suffered for his lie--for the bastard who wasn’t a bastard. “She came to me not long after they arrived here asking if Dak’s presence might hurt you by reminding you of Jon. I assured her it would not, and that seemed to satisfy her.”

“Poor Arya,” Catelyn whispered. “My sweet, sweet girl.” Her daughter had suffered far too much during her lost years. Catelyn knew a bit more of it than Ned, but even she didn’t know it all, and she hated being the cause of even a small concern for her daughter. Of course, he would have known she’d feel that way. No wonder he’d never told her any of this.

Looking at her husband, Catelyn knew he wanted to take her hand or touch her face and assure himself that she was all right, but he would not do that with Daenerys Targaryen sitting across from them. He had only held her earlier because he’d been afraid she was about to faint. Just speaking about this with the woman there was difficult enough, and Catelyn smiled at him to let him know she was fine.

Then she looked to Daenerys Targaryen who looked rather uncomfortable at being present. “Forgive us, Your Grace,” she said. “But as it was your interrogation of Dak that made this conversation necessary, my lord husband could not put it off. Certainly, you can now see why Dak would be so certain Jon Snow is my husband’s child. Arya told him. The two of them are quite close. He would take anything she said as truth. And Arya continues to love Jon Snow as her brother even knowing the truth now.” She looked at Ned and smiled at him reassuringly once more before turning back to they young woman. “And as a fatherless boy who sees Lord Eddard as the greatest man he’s ever known, of course he would find comfort in hearing that my lord would never leave a son like himself fatherless and abandoned.”

Daenerys regarded her silently for a moment. “You would defend him even if you believed the bastard to be truly his,” she finally said quietly. “Wouldn’t you?”

Catelyn thought about how to answer that and decided to simply tell her the truth. “Yes,” she said simply. “Eddard Stark is my husband. He is the father of my children, and he is a good and honorable man. These things would be true whether Jon Snow were his son or his sister’s. Yet, I know that Jon is the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. I have no doubt about it, Your Grace. But apparently I also have no means of eliminating your doubts. I would tell you any truth I know if I could only do that.”

Daenerys stared at her once more. Finally, she said, “What happened to your face, Lady Stark?”

Catelyn drew in her breath. Whatever she’d expected the girl to ask, it hadn’t been that. She never spoke about those scars, and no one at Winterfell ever asked her about them. She had no doubt that people whispered about them where she could not hear, but no one ever spoke of them to her.

Ned tensed. “My lady wife’s hurts have nothing to do with . . .”

“It’s all right, Ned,” she said, reaching out and touching his arm. She could feel the tension in his muscles through the fabric of his clothes. Turning toward Daenerys, she said, “My scars are many, Your Grace. These on my face are from the day my son was killed, as are others hidden beneath the cloth of my dress. There are scars from other days of violence as well. But I suspect you have seen your share of violent days. That is why I’d hoped you might listen to me. People will die when you move to take the Iron Throne. And those who live will bear scars--visible or not. You cannot avoid that. You can, however seek to reduce the numbers of the dead and the maimed and the suffering. But only if you are willing to listen to those you would rule. Even to those you believe you have reason to hate. Only if you are willing to lose some small thing you feel entitled to claim in order that someone else might feel they gain some small thing.”

When she finished speaking, Daenerys did not look away from her, but she said nothing. After a moment, Catelyn sighed. “But I told you this before. If you didn’t want to hear it then, I don’t suppose you want to hear it any more now.”

“I am neither your child nor your pupil, Lady Stark,” Daenery said finally. “You are only the wife of my enemy. I have my own advisors.”

“Yes, you’ve told me of your advisors. I doubt any of them could advise you any better, Your Grace,” Ned said softly. Catelyn turned to look at him and found him looking back at her, a kind of fierce pride in his grey eyes that made her heart lift in spite of the situation. She realized she still had her hand on his arm and started to draw it back. He grasped her hand momentarily, giving it a squeeze before releasing it. Then he turned to face Daenerys. “I would not be your enemy, Your Grace, if you would allow any other possibility. I cannot tell you what you wish to hear because the only thing you seem to want me to say is that Jon is not my nephew, is not your nephew, and does not have your dragon. But I can only tell you the truth. Lies would serve neither of us.”

“I cannot believe your truth, Lord Stark.” For once, Daenerys did not sound angry or imperious when speaking to Ned. She almost sounded sad. “I realize there are men throughout the Seven Kingdoms who would accept your word without question. But the fact remains that you conspired with Robert Baratheon to take everything that was once mine. That was once my family’s. My father, mother, and brothers are all dead now. I am alone. How am I to trust the word of a man who helped make that happen?”

Catelyn watched her husband closely as the girl spoke. His face did not move, and she doubted that Daenerys could read the pain and sadness in those grey eyes, but she could. She wanted badly to reach out to him again, but knew she could not. Not now.

“You cannot trust it,” he said after a moment. “Go to Castle Black, Your Grace. Not because you believe me, but because you cannot. It is but half the distance you traveled here. Barring storms, which I admit are quite possible in winter, your dragons should make the trip easily enough. Certainly they can travel as quickly as any raven I might send. Go and seek the truth for yourself. Meet with Jon. See him with your green dragon. Then decide what you believe.”

“You simply want my dragons gone from here,” she said, some of her usual accusatory tone returning to her voice.

“I do not deny that,” Ned said to her. “Whether you wish to admit it or not, my wife and daughter were in real peril last night. If that cream colored beast refuses to heed your commands even briefly, any one of my people who gets in its way might die, and I do not want that to happen. But what purpose does your remaining here serve? You cannot trust me. That is unlikely to change for I cannot alter who I am or what I have done in the past. There is nothing more for you to learn here. So, you can either return to Dragonstone without your third dragon or travel on to Castle Black to seek it. The choice is yours.”

“I could take your castle,” Daenerys told him. “You left out that choice.”

Catelyn tensed. Surely, the girl wasn’t that stupid.

“I could arrest you and strip you of your title,” she continued. “Then I could name a new Lord of Winterfell. Someone of my choice. My Ser Jorah, mayhaps. He is a northman, after all. If you resist, Winterfell burns. What do you say to that, Lord Stark?”

“I say that you must like death and suffering more than my lady wife seems to think you do, Your Grace. While I would submit in order to spare the lives of the people here, no one in the North would ever forget or forgive what you’d done. The North is vast, and your dragons cannot be everywhere at all times. Wherever they were not, there would be rebellions large and small. When you sent your dragons to put down those rebellions, more people would die, and even more people would hate you. As for that slaver you have taken into your service, you might make him lord in name, but no one here would ever see him so, not even his own kin. His father died beyond the Wall serving honorably as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, fighting the Others. His cousin died at my son’s side, fighting for her king. His aunt died fighting the White Walkers and wights that now threaten us south of the Wall. If you think his cousin, Alysane, the current Lady of Bear Island, would ever bend her knee to that honorless craven, you have never met a true Mormont.”

“How dare you speak of my knight in such a manner?” Daenerys demanded, violet eyes darkened with anger. “You know nothing of him! Nothing of what he has done for me!”

Catelyn was proud to see that Ned did not raise his voice in return. “No,” he said. “I know nothing of the man since he fled from justice years ago. I have only his past actions by which to judge him. Those are not in dispute. Surely, you do not fault me for judging the man by the same standard you use to judge me, Your Grace.”

Daenerys bit her lip, seeming unsure of herself. Then she stood suddenly and walked several paces away before turning back. “I don’t even want your castle, Lord Stark!” she flung at him, sounding to Catelyn rather like Sansa or Arya did when they had some ridiculous argument with each other. _She is so young,_ Catelyn reminded herself.

“I will fly to the Wall and see this bastard for myself,” she said. “I had intended to wait for Lord Tyrion’s arrival, but you are correct, Lord Stark. I gain nothing by remaining here.”

Catelyn’s initial surprised joy at the girl’s first sentence gave way to shock at her second, and she saw the muscle of Ned’s jaw tighten. “What do you mean, Lord Tyrion’s arrival?” he said in a low growling voice.

“My advisors were not entirely pleased with my coming here alone,” Daenerys said. “Even with Drogon and Viserion. They wanted me to ride with a company of men. I insisted on riding Drogon for speed. I did, however, concede that they might send a company after me, as we knew not how long I might be.”

“And this company includes Tyrion Lannister?” Ned’s voice was dangerously low now.

Daenerys did not seem to hear what Catelyn did. “Yes, my lord,” she said simply. “He seemed the best choice, having traveled to Winterfell before. Given Jorah Mormont’s history with you, Lord Stark, I did not think it wise to send him. Having heard you just now, I believe I was correct.”

“You expect me to open my gates to Tyrion Lannister?” Ned growled through gritted teeth.

Daenerys Targaryen finally seemed to realize that something was very wrong, but she could not possibly have chosen a worse way to deal with it. “I will command you to open your gates to anyone I choose, Lord Stark!” she proclaimed imperiously.

“No Lannister will set foot in Winterfell!” Ned shouted at her, rising from the stool. “I will see every lion in hell before I allow one of them past my gate!”

“He’s only a little lion.”

The softly spoken words filled the stunned silence after Ned’s outburst, and Catelyn looked toward the open door to her chamber and saw her eldest daughter standing there, face pale with a faraway expression.

“Sansa,” she gasped.

Sansa hadn’t been looking at any of them, rather staring at something that wasn’t there. Now, she brought her eyes to her mother’s. “I . . .I’m sorry, Mother,” she said. “The door was open. Sam sent me to find Father and . . .” She turned to look at her father, who stood rigid with anger. “Is Lord Tyrion truly coming here, Father?” She sounded young and vulnerable.

“I will never allow him near you, Sansa,” Ned told her, again speaking through gritted teeth. “He has no claim on you, and he cannot harm you.”

“He means me no harm,” she said, in that same quiet faraway voice with which she had first spoken.

“What?” Ned asked.

Sansa shook her head. “Nothing. It’s only something he told me when he first came to King’s Landing. After you were . . .after I thought you were . . .He compared me to a deer surrounded by wolves, and I said lions. He told me he was only a little lion, and that he meant me no harm.” She’d looked down as she spoke, but now she looked up first at her father and then at Catelyn. “I didn’t believe him then.”

Catelyn rose and went to her daughter, taking her hands in her own. “Sansa,” she said firmly. “He cannot take you. No one will take you from us.”

Sansa nodded. “I don’t think he would try, Mother. I didn’t believe him then, but . . .he never did hurt me. Even when he could have.” Catelyn saw her daughter’s eyes fill with tears. “But I still don’t want to see him,” she whispered. “I don’t want to think about King’s Landing. I don’t want to remember any of it, but I do.”

Catelyn wrapped her daughter in her arms. “Shh, sweetling,” she whispered. “You’re all right. I’ve got you. I won’t let you go.”

At that point, Daenerys Targaryen, who’d been watching them in puzzled silence burst out, “What is this about? Why would Lord Tyrion take or hurt your daughter?”

It dawned on Catelyn that Daenerys must not know of the marriage between Sansa and the dwarf. Apparently, the Lannister Imp hadn’t felt that bit of information important enough to share with his new queen. “It would appear there are things you have not been told, Your Grace,” she said softly.

“Well, tell me then, Lady . . .”

Catelyn held up one hand for silence, and remarkably, Daenerys complied.

Turning her attention back to Sansa, Catelyn asked gently, “You said something about Sam sending you for your father?”

Sansa nodded. “There’s been a raven,” she said. “From Ser Perwyn.”

“Perwyn?” Ned said, coming to stand with Catelyn and Sansa, effectively forming a little circle which excluded Daenerys. “At the Wall?”

Sansa shook her head. “Sam said he’s with the men at Last Hearth. Jon sent him out. Sam wouldn’t tell me any more, Father. But . . .he didn’t look very happy.”

Catelyn’s heart fell. She didn’t know how much more bad news from the north she could stand. They had quite enough to deal with right here. “Sansa,” she said. “Go with your Father to see Sam.”

“Cat . . .” Ned started.

“I need to speak with Queen Daenerys,” she told him. “There are things she needs to hear. And you need to know what’s in that letter, my lord.”

Ned nodded. “But Sansa . . .” he started to say.

“She should go with you,” Catelyn said firmly. “We’ve kept nothing from her, and she’s been a great help to us. Whatever dark words have come on these wings, she will be facing it with us.”

Sansa stood straighter then, pleased by her mother’s praise. Ned noticed it, and nodded to Catelyn, giving her a look that let her know he understood. Whatever grave tidings had come by raven, Sansa would be better hearing that than going back to King’s Landing in her mind. Since they’d found her in the Eyrie, they’d endeavored to always give her some sense of control over her life. Having discovered what an extremely capable young woman she’d become, Catelyn sometimes feared they relied on her too much. Yet, that was far better than ever letting her feel trapped and powerless as she had been in King’s Landing. Catelyn knew far too well how easy it was to fall back into a pit like that, and she would not have her daughter suffer it.

Ned turned to Daenerys, who had actually walked a little further away from them to look out a window, seeming to understand that whatever was taking place among the three Starks did not need her participation. “Your Grace,” he said, causing her to turn toward him. “I fear must excuse myself. If young Samwell felt this letter important enough to send my daughter after me, I need to see it right away.”

Daenerys nodded. “Of course, my lord,” she said.

“Come with me, Sansa, and we shall see what Ser Perwyn has to say.” He held out his arm, and Sansa took it. “My lady,” Ned said then, taking Catelyn’s hand with his free hand.

She smiled at him. “Go, my lord. The queen and I shall do fine here.”

He raised his brow at her, and she nodded. “I am fine, Ned,” she assured him.

At that, he and Sansa left, and Catelyn turned back to look at Daenerys Targaryen who still stood patiently by the window waiting to see what she would say. Suddenly, Catelyn felt unbelievably tired, wishing she could collapse onto her bed instead of returning to the chair. She hadn’t even noticed that Nymeria had followed her when she’d walked to Sansa, but now she gratefully put her hand in the thick fur behind the direwolf’s head, using her for support as she started to walk slowly and carefully back toward her chair. Just as she reached it, Brien, who’d slept through everything that had gone on, began to cry.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

As Dany watched Lady Stark walk back across the room leaning on that enormous wolf, she thought the woman’s face looked the palest she’d yet seen it, the red marks on her her cheeks and beside her eyes standing out in sharper contrast. When the baby began to cry, the woman closed her eyes and turned her face upward as if in supplication.

“Sit down, Lady Stark,” she said quickly, “And I’ll get him for you.”

She was still angry at the woman and her husband for the way they had spoken to her. They had no right. But she couldn’t help but feel for Lady Stark as she sank into the chair, looking exhausted. Dany retrieved the crying infant from his cradle and carried him to his mother. With his blue eyes squeezed tightly closed as he cried, he looked entirely like his father.

Lady Stark already had the front of her gown undone, and she reached up to take her son with more strength in her arms than Dany had expected. Once she settled the child to her teat, she looked up at Dany levelly. “You would like me to tell you what Tyrion Lannister has not,” she said, her voice sounding steady enough.

“Lord Tyrion has never refused to answer my questions,” she said defensively, thinking that the dwarf had barely hesitated when telling her that not only did he know for certain Tywin Lannister was dead, but that he had taken his father’s life himself.

“Then it appears you did not question him very closely about his association with my family.”

“He was convinced your family were nearly all dead,” Dany said flatly. “I asked him not long after he came to me about the North and who held power there, and he told me his father had given Winterfell to some Northman and his bastard after they turned against the Starks for him.”

“That’s true enough,” Lady Stark said bitterly. “That particular Northman and his bastard are both dead now,” she added with a certain grim satisfaction, sounding almost as if she had rid the world of them herself.

“I did ask if there were any Starks to challenge his father’s man, and he told me all the Starks were dead except possibly your eldest daughter, and that she had disappeared from King’s Landing after Joffrey Baratheon’s death. He didn’t think she killed him, although he had hoped her flight might remove some of the suspicion from him. It didn’t. His sister was convinced of his guilt.”

“Neither Tyrion Lannister nor my daughter killed Joffrey the bastard.”

The woman stated that flatly as an indisputable fact, and Dany wondered if she had some knowledge about who precisely had killed Joffrey. Tyrion had told her plainly that he didn’t know. When she spoke no more, Dany added, “The rumors of your husband’s survival and yours had reached Essos even before Lord Tyrion joined me, but I had little reason to give them much thought as I was occupied with my own pursuits there, and Tyrion gave them no credence for a very long time. He was quite convinced that you were both dead, and he remains convinced that both his sister and father sincerely believed that you were.”

“He is correct in that,” Lady Stark said simply, offering no more.

“Lady Stark,” Dany said then, with an exasperated sigh. “I thought you were to tell me something that Lord Tyrion did not. You seem to be merely confirming what he did tell me.”

“He said no more of my daughter?”

“Once we accepted the truth of your husband’s survival, my lady, I knew which Stark I would be dealing with in the North. I asked nothing more about your children as I cared far more what Lord Tyrion and my other advisors could tell me of Eddard Stark. I was not even aware you had so many or that somehow they had all managed to survive save your eldest son until I came here.”

“So Tyrion Lannister never found it necessary to mention to you that he had wed my daughter, Sansa.”

Dany stared at the woman stupidly. She must have repeated Lady Stark’s words in her mind three times before their meaning sank in. “Wed?” she finally said. “Lord Tyrion married you daughter?”

“Not long after my younger sons were reported murdered,” the older woman said bitterly. “Tywin Lannister never intended my Robb to live, and once he was dead, Sansa was heir to Winterfell. Lord Tywin meant to claim it by tying my little girl to his vile son.”

So Tyrion had a claim to Winterfell through his wife. And he had never breathed a word of it to her. She had already confirmed to him he would have Casterly Rock. Had Winterfell and the North meant little to him after that? Of course, with the Usurper’s Dog now seeming to have an entire assortment of live sons, the girl’s claim was a faint one, at best, but Dany still could not imagine why he had not told her of this. She had every right to take the girl from her parents and return her to her rightful husband. That was power over them in itself.

Almost as if she could read Dany’s mind, Lady Stark said, “The marriage was never legal. Now that we know for certain that Tyrion Lannister still lives, we shall have the High Septon annul it as soon as there is some stability in King’s Landing.”

“Not . . .legal? What do you mean, Lady Stark?” Dany asked her.

“I mean it was never consummated, Your Grace, and that the Imp has no claim on my daughter.”

Dany was well enough aware of the dwarf’s fondness for whores, particularly pretty ones, and the Stark girl was very lovely. She gave Lady Stark a look of frank disbelief. “I am fairly certain Lord Tyrion is quite capable of consummating a marriage, my lady,” she said.

“However you may come by that knowledge, Your Grace,” the infuriating woman said then, “His capability is not the question. Vile, he may be, but apparently not so vile as to force himself upon a terrified child who did not want him.”

“Child?” Dany spluttered, recalling the stunning young woman who had just left the room with Eddard Stark.

“Child,” Lady Stark repeated firmly. “My daughter is certainly a young woman now, closer to her fifteenth name day than her fourteenth. But she was only twelve when the Lannisters forced her to wed the Imp. “Twelve years old and forced to wed a grotesque little man! To be chained to the very House that murdered her father!” Lady Stark’s careful control slipped as the anger bubbled to the surface, and the babe came off her nipple with a cry. Dany realized the woman was shaking.

 _She was even younger than I,_ thought Dany. She swallowed, remembering the early nights in her marriage to Drogo when the Khal would repeatedly take her forcefully from behind, and she’d thought she might split in two. She didn’t like remembering that part of her life with her Sun and Stars, but she couldn’t deny the pain and terror of it. If Lady Catelyn spoke truly, Tyrion Lannister had spared the Stark girl that.

“Why have you told me this?” she asked.

Catelyn Stark had risen from her chair and now walked back and forth patting her son’s back as she held him to her shoulder. Dany was uncertain if the woman were trying to calm the babe or herself. She stopped and looked at Dany. “You would have learned it in any event,” she said. “I would prefer you hear it from me and not in my daughter’s presence. I would not have her hear any vulgar questions or insinuations you feel it necessary to make. She has suffered more than enough.”

Dany decided she had had enough herself. “Truly, Lady Stark?” she asked. “Your daughter has suffered enough?” She stood up as well. “What has she lost, my lady? I see her here with two parents, both ready to tear out the heart of any who would harm her! Where are my parents? I see her in her home, the home of Starks for thousands of years. I have never even seen the Red Keep! I have never set foot in King’s Landing! You shake with outrage over her being forced to wed a Lannister, but then you tell me he never touched her! I was but three and ten when Khal Drogo took me as he wanted every night until I could barely sit my horse in the day! _She_ has not suffered enough? I had everything taken away from me. Everything! And your husband is one of the men who took it. You Starks have not begun to suffer enough!”

Dany realized she was shaking herself. She felt oddly ashamed, as if she were a child who had just thrown a tantrum without really understanding the cause of it. _Why does this woman make me feel and act like a child?_ That thought made her angrier. “I will go to your Wall and find my dragon,” she declared, “but I believe I shall wait here until Lord Tyrion arrives. His wife may have been too young for him to bed at twelve, but she is not too young now, and I will see that he has her. He is the Lord of Casterly Rock, and he has waited long enough to take what is his. All that is his.”

She waited for the woman to shout at her, to tell her that she would never hand over her precious daughter, to threaten violence of some sort. But Catelyn Stark simply stood there and stared at her. Then, slowly, she walked to the cradle and bent down to place her son in it. The baby wasn’t asleep, but he was quiet. Dany could see those big blue eyes, so like his mother’s, staring up at her as he was laid down.

Then Lady Stark stood up straight and came to stand in front of her.

“Loss,” she said softly. “Suffering. Yes, Your Grace, you have seen too much of it, and at far too young an age. I will never say differently. I will never presume to tell you I can know the depth of your suffering.” She took a step toward Dany then, the damned direwolf moving with her, and her voice hardened and lowered in pitch just slightly. “But don’t you ever presume to tell me what I or my family have suffered or lost because you have no idea.”

The direwolf actually growled then, and Dany jumped back. “Nymeria, stay. Be still,” Lady Stark said, and the beast retreated slightly, settling down on the floor but continuing to keep its eyes on Dany.

“My lady,” Dany started.

“You have said quite enough, Your Grace,” the older woman interrupted. “You said quite correctly that Winterfell has been the home of Starks for thousands of years. Well I am a Stark and the Lady of Winterfell, and it is _my_ turn to speak in _my_ home.”

Dany continued to meet her eyes and nodded very slightly.

“Loss,” Lady Stark said again. “You asked about the scars on my face. I told you where I received them, but not how. By the time, I took these wounds I had lost everything there is to lose, Your Grace. I am well aware that I have regained a great deal, and I thank the gods for it, but that makes the loss no less real when it happened. I lost my husband, the center of my life. Then two of my sons. I feared my my younger daughter killed as well. She had been missing far too long. Then my father died. I learned my last daughter, the one I’d hoped to save, had been given to the Lannister dwarf. My son, the king, removed her as his heir to keep the Lannisters from having anything of ours. He cut off his own sister for hatred of his father’s murderers.” The woman’s eyes were far away, and Dany could see the immense pain in them.

“He had made mistakes. He was young. Of course, he made mistakes. Gods know I made mistakes as well, without youth as an excuse. He was trying. I tried to help him, but he didn’t always want my help. He knew I didn’t always agree with him and he resented the thought that I might be right sometimes. But I would never turn away from him. He was all I had left.” She swallowed. “And when Lord Walder agreed to wed Edmure to one of his daughters, I hoped . . .” She shook her head. “It was a fool’s hope, and I knew it. I knew it even then, I think, but I had nothing else left.”

She’d been looking away as she spoke, but now she looked directly at Dany. “And at that wedding, I did everything I could think of to save my son. My last son. I did desperate things, terrible things. I would not have hesitated to do anything that could have saved him. Anything. Yet, I watched him die. I watched his own bannerman run him through with a sword. I saw him fall. And I kept a terrible promise.”

She stopped speaking, and Dany said softly, “You had lost everything then?”

Lady Stark looked at her carefully and slowly shook her head. “No. I had one thing left to lose, child. And I did. I lost my wits.” She touched her face. “I looked at the death around me, the blood on my own hands. And I clawed at my own face, Your Grace, badly enough to leave these scars. I dug my nails into my own flesh, and I laughed while I did it.”

Dany looked at her, horrified. The woman hadn’t seemed the least bit mad to her. Infuriating, but not mad. She had feared Viserys mad at times, and Catelyn Stark reminded her nothing of him.

Lady Stark took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “That’s when they cut my throat. I woke up several days later, a prisoner in the Twins, and sadly enough, no longer mad.” She smiled at Dany, but it was the saddest expression Dany had ever seen. “It seemed I had recovered the one thing I would have done better without. Surely, what was done to me in the subsequent days would have been easier to bear had I no wits at all.”

Dany couldn’t stop looking at the marks on her face, imagining what kind of pain it would take to cause a person to do that to herself. “But Lord Stark was not dead,” she said finally. “And he found you there.”

“And we found our children again, all save Robb,” she said quietly. “And now I do thank the gods that I am not mad. But we will never be the same as we were, Your Grace. Not one of us. I have told you my story. The stories of my husband and my children are not mine to share with you, but each of them has suffered and lost at least as much as I have. So, judge us, if you wish. Declare my husband a traitor and refuse to see the man he is for the harm you feel he has done you in the past. That is your right. But never again in my presence say that the Starks have not suffered enough.”

Catelyn Stark still looked exhausted. She was still far too pale. But Dany no longer thought she looked weak. _I am the Mother of Dragons,_ she told herself. _The blood of Valyria, and the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The Starks and Tullys were traitors to the crown. I owe this woman nothing_.

Yet when she finally spoke, she only said, “Forgive me, my lady. I should not have spoken so.”

The tired smile the Lady of Winterfell gave her then was warmer. “Thank you for listening, Your Grace.” She went to sit down in her seat once more, and the direwolf came and licked her hand, almost as if trying to comfort her. “What do you intend to do now, Queen Daenerys?” she said, looking back up at Dany.

“I will do as I told Lord Stark I would do. I will go to the Wall and seek out the truth of this Jon Snow and my dragon, Rhaegal. I will leave in the morning.”

Lady Stark nodded. “Sit down, please, Your Grace.”

Dany sat.

“You should learn what tidings that letter brought my husband before you make your plans,” Lady Stark continued. “I know you feel invincible on those dragons, and having met the one face to face, I cannot say I blame you. Still, it is only prudent to know if you can expect some new peril on your way to Castle Black.”

Dany nodded. She wanted to know what was in the letter anyway.

“And what would you have us tell Lord Tyrion upon his arrival?”

“Do you mean what shall you shout down to him from behind the gates your husband has barred against him?” Dany said, smiling slightly.

Lady Stark returned the smile. “My lord husband knows that Tyrion Lannister chose to protect my daughter when he could have harmed her. He also knows that the man is likely not guilty of things we once had reason to suspect him of. If he will swear he intends to make no claim on Sansa, Lord Eddard will likely allow him to enter the gates.”

“I will leave a letter for him,” Dany said. “Lord Eddard will want to read it before giving it to him, I know. I do not intend to tell him any of the claims you make about the parentage of this Jon Snow. You may decide what you wish to say about that. I will simply tell him where I have gone, and that I have reason to believe Rhaegal is at the Wall. I intend to instruct him to wait upon my return here and to send whatever communication to Dragonstone he feels is necessary.” She hesitated. “I will also inform him that I will support the annulment of his marriage to your daughter if he wishes it.” She looked directly at the other woman. “I have as much reason to hate Lannisters as you do, Lady Stark. But this particular Lannister has been of great service to me. I will not force him to agree to the annulment if he does not wish it.”

The other woman nodded. “Let us go and find my husband, then.” She started to rise from the chair, leaning heavily on her arms as she did so.

“Stay, Lady Stark,” Dany said quickly, hating that it sounded like a royal command. “Your lord husband would go to his solar to see the letter, would he not? I know my way there well enough.”

“I intend to see the letter as well, Your Grace,” Lady Stark replied.

“Of course you do. But I don’t think you will be able to read it very well if you collapse in the corridor. Allow me to go and bring your husband here.” She hesitated. “Please, my lady.”

Catelyn Stark smiled once more. “Very well.”

By the time, Dany reached the doorway of the chamber, the older woman had leaned her head back on the chair, and her eyes were closed. She would probably do well to simply sleep and see the letter at a later time. Yet, Dany would not go back on her word. She had promised to bring Lord Stark right back here with it, and she would. She may not yet trust Lord and Lady Stark. She certainly still had misgivings about this bastard of indeterminate Stark or Targaryen parentage. Yet, she could not deny that Lady Catelyn Stark tended to mean what she said, and Dany decided that, at least, she could return that courtesy.

She heard Viserion cry out, but his voice was still well outside the walls, and it was followed immediately by Drogon’s warning cry. _Patience, my_ _children,_ she thought. _Watch over him, Drogon. Tomorrow, we shall fly. And soon we shall find your brother._


	57. Increasing Dangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've had another chapter get so long I've had to split in two! (Of course, if you've read this far, you know this is not terribly unusual for me) This particular chapter now essentially sets everything in motion for the events that occur in the next one. And we revisit some POVs we haven't heard from in a little while. :)

Samwell Tarly stared at the offending parchment lying on Lord Stark’s desk. He hadn’t expected the Lord of Winterfell to react well to the news, and he certainly hadn’t. He’d read Ser Perwyn’s letter silently, and Sam had watched the color drain from the man’s face and the muscle of his jaw contract tightly. When he’d finished, he’d simply laid it down on the desk and walked to the window to stare out at the snow which had begun falling softly.

“Father?” Lady Sansa had asked tentatively.

“Read it if you wish, child,” Lord Stark had said in a dull, distant voice, “But it is grim news, I fear.”

At that moment, a dragon had screeched loudly somewhere outside, and Lord Stark had clenched both of his fists. “We do not need this now!” he said through clenched teeth. “Gods! What am I to do?”

Lady Sansa had picked up the letter and begun reading as Lord Stark turned back to look at Sam; pain, anger, and something like desperation showing in the grey eyes that Sam was learning to read at least a bit. “I cannot simply do nothing, Sam. I cannot.” He shook his head. “And the damned Targaryen girl is here with her beasts terrorizing my castle, and now the Lannister Imp approaches! What, by all the gods, am I supposed to do?”

 _The Lannister Imp? Tyrion Lannister?_ This was the first Sam had heard of this. He’d swallowed. “Lord Tyrion Lannister is coming here, my lord?” he’d said.

Lord Stark had nodded absently. “I told you the girl had found him somewhere in Essos and added him to her little collection of Westerosi nobles along with Ser Barristan and Jeor Mormont’s slave-selling son.”

“Her advisors,” Sam had murmured. “But he’s coming here?”

Lord Stark had sighed. “Apparently,” he’d said.

Before he could say anything else, Lady Sansa had gasped, “Oh, Father, is this really true?” she’d cried, looking up from the letter.

“Ser Perwyn has no reason to lie, sweetling,” the man had said softly, calling her by the endearment Sam more commonly heard from Lady Stark’s lips. “I fear we are in trouble, Sansa. All of us in the North.”

“And Lord Umber. And Lord Royce,” the girl had said haltingly. “Are they . . .”

Lord Stark had shaken his head. “Ser Perwyn does not name them among the dead, child. I pray that they are both still alive and fighting.”

“He doesn’t mention Jon, either,” Lady Sansa had whispered.

“Jon is at the Wall,” Lord Stark had said firmly. “Likely receiving a similar letter.”

“You can be certain of that, my lord,” Samwell had said. “Perhaps you would like to send a letter to Jon, yourself?”

Lord Stark had sighed even more deeply. “With luck, Queen Daenerys will have the sense to go to Jon herself. We have no ravens that can match the speed of her monsters.”

“You will share the contents of the letter with her, my lord?”

Lord Stark had had looked at him tiredly. “We can hardly ask her to lend her dragons to our cause if we do not inform her of our peril, Sam.” He’d absently stroked his beard a moment in thought. “Sansa,” he’d said then, turning toward his daughter. “Go to your brothers and sister. Speak nothing of this letter to them yet, and see to it they remain in the Keep. I want none of you outdoors until the dragons are gone from here. Do you understand?”

“But,” Sansa had started.

“Do you understand?” Lord Stark had repeated firmly in what Lady Stark always called his Lord’s voice.

“Yes, Father,” Lady Sansa had answered. “Do you want me to go now?”

Lord Stark had merely nodded, looking away from her as if thinking about something. Lady Sansa had looked very much as if she wanted to say something more, but after a moment, she simply laid the parchment back on the desk, turned, and left the solar.

When Lord Stark had been silent for a long while, Sam had ventured cautiously, “Shall I send for her Grace, my lord?”

“No.” It was little more than a whisper, and it had sounded strained. Still looking away, Lord Stark had added, “I must speak to Catelyn first. I will not have her hear it from anyone but me.” Slowly, he’d turned to look Sam in the eyes. “I only wish I knew what to tell her.”

Sam wasn’t certain how to respond to that, so he’d remained silent.

Lord Stark’s eyes had turned back toward the parchment on the desk. “Keep it safe, Sam. I would have no one else read it until I have returned.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Lord Stark had then turned away and walked from the solar himself, moving much more slowly than usual, and looking to Sam as if he carried a heavy weight on his shoulders.

Now, Sam stood staring at that parchment and wondering what to do with it. His thoughts were interrupted by a demanding voice.

“I have come to see Lord Stark. Where is he?”

Sam jumped, startled to see the petite young woman with the silver hair and purple eyes in the doorway. Daenerys Targaryen terrified him. She seemed forever angry at the Starks and dismissive of everyone else in the castle. The only time he’d seen her almost seem pleasant was at the feast--until her dragon tried to kill Lady Catelyn and Lady Sansa. He’d gotten outside the Great Hall just in time to see the dragon breathe fire at the young queen as she stood her ground and shouted something at it. She had no fear of those monsters at all, and that made Sam that much more afraid of her.

“He is not here, Your Grace,” he stammered.

“I can see that,” she snapped. “Where has he gone?”

“I . . .am not sure, Your Grace.”

“Did you give him his letter?”

Sam’s eyes went involuntarily to the parchment on the desk. When he quickly looked back up at Queen Daenerys, he saw that her eyes had followed his gaze, and she now regarded the parchment carefully, taking a step toward the desk.

In spite of his fear, Sam scooped the letter up into his hand. He remembered well enough what Lord Stark had asked of him, and he had no intention of letting him down. “He said he needed to speak with Lady Catelyn,” he said more firmly. “Mayhaps he has gone to her chambers.”

“He has not,” the young woman said, continuing to walk forward until she stood right in front of Sam. She was a tiny thing and had to tilt her head back to look up at his face from such close range, but still Sam felt somehow small in her gaze. “I just came from Lady Catelyn’s chambers. Did you show him his letter? The one from the Black Brother?”

“Ser Perwyn Frey,” Sam said. “Yes. Yes, I showed it to him.”

“Frey?” the queen asked, looking shocked. “I thought your lord killed all the Freys.”

“Most of them, Your Grace,” Sam acknowledged. “Ser Perwyn was sent to the Wall. He had actually helped in the rescue of Lady Catelyn from the Twins.”

She seemed to take a moment to process that information. “I would see Ser Perwyn’s letter.”

“Lord Stark said he intends to speak with you about it,” Sam said evenly. He didn’t think his voice shook too badly. He hoped it didn’t.

“Lord Stark, as you pointed out, is not here,” She frowned at him. “His lady wife would like to see the letter as well. Give it to me, and I will take it to Lady Catelyn.”

Sam actually backed up a step then, feeling rather foolish as he did so. “I . . .I am sorry, Your Grace. Lord Stark told me to give the letter to no one until his return.”

He saw a flash of something in those odd purple eyes. Whether it was anger, impatience, annoyance, or something else, he couldn’t be sure. Her face was as expressive as Lord Stark’s was expressionless, and yet the emotions expressed by that face were just as difficult for Sam to interpret as Lord Stark’s were for him to see, and often her emotions seemed to change too quickly to be comprehended.

“Very well,” she sighed. “I wouldn’t have you disobey the Lord of Winterfell.” She put a rather unnecessary emphasis on the title, but otherwise did not sound overly cross with him. “I suppose I shall go and seek out Lord Stark.”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode purposefully from the solar. Where she intended to go, Sam had no idea. But she certainly moved with more speed and certainty than Lord Stark had when he left. Sam looked down at the parchment in his hands and wondered miserably what Jon was thinking if he had received his letter from Perwyn Frey. He wished Jon were here. He had come to care about the Starks, all of them, more than he would have thought possible, but he missed his friend. Of course, since becoming Lord Commander, Jon had been more his superior than his friend, but Sam understood better now why he’d done the things he had. He hoped to see him again, and to talk with him about a great many things.

He’d found it easier to breathe when Daenerys Targaryen left the room, but now, looking at the letter rolled up in his hands, he felt a chill, and his breath caught again. _Gods help all of us find a way through this,_ he thought.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Lady Stark was still seated in the chair with her eyes closed when Dany returned to her room. The older woman opened those blue eyes, though, as Dany closed the door of the chamber behind her.

“Where is my lord husband?” she asked.

“Not in his solar,” Dany told her. “Your maester, that fat boy, didn’t seem to know where he was. He said that Lord Stark intended to come and speak with you. Did he come here in my absence?”

Lady Stark shook her head. “He has not been here,” she said quietly. “What else did Sam say?”

It took Dany a moment to realize that Sam was the fat maester’s name. “Nothing much. He refused to give me the letter even to bring to you. He informed me that Lord Stark had instructed him to give it to no one until his return.”

Lady Stark looked troubled. “His return . . .” she repeated softly. “Was Sansa not there, either?”

“No. I did not see her.” When the older woman did not respond, and instead simply gazed away as if lost in though, Dany continued, “I need to know what is in that letter, Lady Stark. You said as much yourself. Do you know where your husband might have gone?”

The blue eyes looked back to hers. “I do. But you would not easily find him there on your own. And he likely would not welcome you.”

Before Dany could question her further, Lady Stark rose from her chair and walked across the room, stopping to look into the cradle where it appeared the infant was now sleeping soundly. Then she retrieved a heavy fur cloak from a peg on the wall and pulled it onto her shoulders.

“What are you doing?” Dany asked her.

“I am going to my husband, Your Grace. If you would be so kind as to assist me.”

“But . . .” Dany said somewhat helplessly.

Lady Stark had fastened the cloak and now reached for a pair of gloves lying on her dressing table. “I can walk, Your Grace. Not quickly, perhaps, but if I go slowly enough, and you are willing to help me on the stairs . . .”

“My lady, I do not believe Lord Stark would . . .”

“I am not asking Lord Stark, Your Grace. I am asking you. Will you help me go to my lord husband?”

Catelyn Stark’s blue eyes did not waver from hers for a moment, and Dany found herself nodding. “I take it you believe he is outside the Great Keep?” she asked the older woman, indicating the cloak and gloves.

“He’s in the godswood,” Lady Stark replied. “Letty will likely be in the small room two doors past this one. If you could go there and have her come sit with Brien, I will wait for you at the top of the stairs. Is your cloak in your room?”

Dany nodded.

“There are usually any number of serving maids about. Letty can send someone to fetch it and meet us at the door. Gods know we won’t be able to move very quickly.”

Thinking that an outdoors excursion was likely the last thing Lady Stark needed to undertake at the moment, Dany nevertheless nodded once more and went to do as the older woman bid and soon found herself haltingly making her way down the stone staircase with the Lady of Winterfell leaning heavily on her arm. The enormous she-wolf stood at the bottom of the staircase glowering up at her as if to warn her not to let her lady fall.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Dany was dismayed to see two other enormous wolved approaching them in the corridor. Behind them ran the little Stark boy called Rickon.

“Mother!” he shouted. “You’re out of your room! Are you all better? The dragon really didn’t hurt you? You aren’t burned at all?” The questions tumbled from his lips in rapid succession, making Dany almost dizzy.

Lady Stark simply dropped down to her knee and opened her arms to him. The child nearly tackled his mother as he leapt into them, and Dany kept a firm grip on the older woman to keep her from falling.

“I am quite well, Rickon. I told you so last night, remember?” Lady Stark said to her son.

The boy looked up at Dany and narrowed his eyes. “If your dragon tries to hurt my mother again, my father will kill you,” he said.

“Rickon!” Lady Stark exclaimed. “Apologize to Queen Daenerys at once!”

The little boy’s blue-grey eyes regarded Dany coldly, and while his hair was closer in color to his mother’s, the expression on his young face was entirely Eddard Stark’s.

“Rickon!” Lady Stark admonished again.

Behind the boy, the black wolf gave a menacing growl, drawing Dany’s attention from the child.

“That is quite enough, young man. Your father will hear of this behavior, and he will not be pleased.” Lady Stark continued to speak to the child, seeming to ignore the threat of the wolf behind him.

“I am sorry if I gave you offense, Your Grace,” the boy mumbled. “But I do not want your dragons to hurt my mother or my sister or anyone.”

Dany couldn’t quite tear her eyes away from the big, black wolf as its bright green eyes continued to stare at her, but she did manage to respond. “The dragons will not harm anyone. I am sorry they frightened you. I will be taking them away on the morrow.”

“Then I can go outside again?” the boy asked.

The wolf seemed to relax behind him, and Dany was able to look away from it and back toward Lady Stark and her son.

“What do you mean, sweetling?” Lady Stark asked.

“Sansa told us none of us are allowed out of the Keep as long as the dragons are here,” the boy said. “ Father commanded it. Only Shaggy and Summer are tired of being cooped up, and I was going to ask if I could at least take them outside for a little while.”

“I think you should stay inside, Rickon,” Lady Stark said, “But I will take the wolves to the godswood.”

“Father says you can go outside?” the boy asked, surprised.

“I can go outside for a little while,” his mother responded, and Dany had to stifle a laugh as she noticed that Lady Stark made no mention of whether or not she had Lord Stark‘s permission. “You run along back to Bran and the girls, and I’ll see that three wolves get to the godswood, sweetling.”

“Okay,” he said. Before turning to go, he looked back up at Dany suspiciously. “Be careful, Mother,” he said.

“I will,” his mother said with a smile.

“Guard Mother, Shaggy,” Rickon said then, looking first at the black wolf and then meaningfully back at Dany. Then before Dany could reply, he took off down the corridor in the direction from which he’d come, leaving the two women and three direwolves at the bottom of the staircase.

“Could you help me up, please, Your Grace?” Catelyn Stark said wearily. “I fear that kneeling down is far easier than rising.”

Wordlessly, Dany took her arms and assisted her to rise. “The black one is the little boy’s wolf, isn’t it?” she said when they were both standing again.

“Yes. Shaggydog is Rickon’s.”

When they reached the door of the Keep, a girl was waiting with Dany’s cloak and gloves. Lady Stark thanked her by name, and then the two women went out into the snow. Large flakes were falling nearly straight down as there was happily little wind at the moment. Dany noticed that the big, black wolf stayed directly at Lady Stark’s side, and that in fact she frequently rested her free hand upon its shoulders--the hand that wasn’t gripping Dany’s arm tightly.

“The wolf certainly seems to have understood the order to guard you, Lady Stark,” she said.

Lady Stark actually laughed. “Oh, that was for your benefit, Your Grace,” she said. “Shaggy would have done this in any event because he knows what Rickon wants without words. I am afraid my son wished to be certain that you knew I was well guarded.” She stopped walking and turned to face Dany directly. “Please do not be angry with him. He is only a frightened child, and fear makes him angry. He is as fierce as a wolf himself, but he has suffered much, and having lost me once already, he would not lose me again.”

Dany looked at her a moment. “I am not angry with him,” she said. She noticed that Lady Stark was breathing quite heavily. “Are you certain you should be doing this, my lady?”

“We are closer now to our destination than to my chambers, Your Grace. We should keep going.”

It didn’t escape Dany’s attention that Lady Stark hadn’t actually answered her question, but she allowed the woman to direct her to a gate in a high stone wall. When they stepped through it, Dany felt almost as if she’d entered another world. A much older world. There were trees everywhere, tall sturdy, northern trees, some of which looked as if they’d been standing here longer than the castle had. And there was a silence--a sense of watchfulness that pervaded the very air around them. She shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

“It is rather overwhelming when you aren’t used to it,” Lady Stark said softly, and Dany turned to see the woman watching her closely with an odd expression on her face. “I felt an outsider here for years after Winterfell became my home.”

One of the wolves made a sound, and Lady Stark turned her attention to them. “Go on,” she said. “You’ve earned a romp.” The she-wolf and the grey male took off at once, but the big, black wolf only looked back and forth between Dany and Lady Stark. Lady Stark stroked the fur between the beast’s ears as one might do with a puppy. “You, too, Shaggydog. I am quite safe here. No harm will befall me.”

The direwolf continued to look up at her for a few brief seconds. Then it turned its green eyes on Dany and gave a short low warning sort of growl before sauntering off after its brother and sister. “That is remarkable,” Dany said as she watched it go.

“Says the queen who commands dragons,” Lady Stark said with amusement. “This way, Your Grace. My husband will be at the heart tree.”

They said nothing else as they walked deeper into the godswood of Winterfell. Dany thought it likely that Lady Stark did not have enough breath for both walking and conversation, and the place simply lent itself to silence in any event. After a bit, Lady Stark stopped her.

“He is there,” she said in a whisper.

Dany looked where the older woman indicated. In a clearing just past the next thick grove of trees, she could see a pool of still water, the surface looking like black glass. It shocked her at first that it wasn’t snow-covered ice, but then she remembered the water here was somehow heated by the earth itself. On the opposite side of the pool was the strangest tree she had ever seen--huge with bark nearly the color of the snow itself. Before that tree, kneeling on the ground with head bowed, was the Lord of Winterfell, easily recognized as his head was uncovered. Reflexively, Dany pulled her own hood tighter around her face and wondered if the man ever got cold.

She started to walk toward him, but Lady Stark grabbed her arm, and she turned around. “No,” Lady Stark said softly. “I should go to him alone.”

Dany started to protest, but Lady Stark kept speaking. “He is troubled, Your Grace. Whatever tidings that raven brought, they are not welcome.” She looked at the man kneeling in the snow a moment before looking back to Dany. “You would not be welcome. Not here. Not now.”

“You brought me . . .”

“I could not have come on my own,” she said. “And I will bring him to you, and you will know what is in the letter. But please, Your Grace, return to the Keep and allow me to go to my husband alone.”

Dany had nearly shouted in anger when the woman had said she would not be welcome, but there was nothing unkind or even demanding in Lady Stark’s demeanor. Her words were a request, almost a plea. Dany did feel unwelcome in this place, and thought she would likely feel that way here even if Lady Catelyn had begged her to remain.

“You will be all right?” she asked quietly.

Lady Stark smiled. “Ned will no doubt scold me,” she said. “But he will not allow me to come to any harm, Your Grace.”

“Very well,” Dany said. “I shall go to see my dragons, and then I will be in my room.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Lady Stark said, and her gratitude seemed genuine.

Dany stayed to watch as Lady Stark turned and walked through the trees into the clearing where her husband knelt because she was honestly concerned about the woman’s ability to walk the short distance on her own. Once she reached the clearing, Lady Stark called softly, “Ned.”

Lord Stark startled at the sound of her voice, turning around and standing up almost in one motion. “Catelyn!” he cried. “What are you doing here?” On his normally impassive face, Dany could see fear and concern even at this distance, but not the anger she’d expected. More quickly than she’d have thought possible, Lord Stark came around the pool and placed his hands on his wife’s arms. “How have you come all this way, my lady?” he asked. “And why would you risk yourself so? You are not strong enough.”

“I am fine, Ned. And I did not come alone. Daenerys Targaryen helped me walk here, and I had three direwolves for protection.”

“Daenerys Targaryen?” Lord Stark looked around as if expecting Dany to appear suddenly. Instead, she moved further behind one of the larger trees so that he could not see her.

“I sent her back to the Great Keep,” Lady Stark told him. “I wished to speak with you alone, and she respected that.”

Dany felt guilty then, realizing that she was actually eavesdropping on a private conversation. Yet, somehow, she couldn’t quite bring herself to leave.

“You should not have done this, Cat,” Lord Stark said, sounding disapproving, but still more concerned than angry. “I would have come to you.”

“Yes, I know,” Lady Stark responded. “But you might have stayed here for hours first. It is cold here, my lord, even for a Stark. And you are troubled. I would not have you be cold, troubled, and alone until the sun sets.”

He made a sound that Dany might have thought was a chuckle had he been anyone other than this humorless man. “And you knew to find me here. You’ve spoken with Sansa, then?”

“No. I do not know what Perwyn’s letter said, my love. I only knew that you left the Great Keep after reading it without coming first to me.” Dany couldn’t really see Lady Stark’s face, but she could hear the smile in her voice as she continued. “I have been your wife for more than half my life now, Eddard Stark. Of course, I knew to find you here.”

“Cat,” he whispered, and then he put one hand beneath her chin and turned her hooded face up to his.

The kiss he pressed to her lips was tender and almost chaste, yet Dany felt as if she were witnessing something as intimate as anything that might occur in a bedchamber. Guiltily, she turned away from them to find her way back to the gate and was startled to see the enormous black wolf only a few feet away from her, staring at her with those green eyes.

“I’m leaving, wolf,” she hissed at it, feeling slightly ridiculous at the impulse to justify herself to an animal. It only continued to stare at her silently until she took a few steps back away from the clearing with the big white tree and the black pool. Then it padded along silently beside her, sometimes slightly ahead. Whenever she hesitated, unsure of the direction, it moved ahead of her, and she followed without questioning why she did so. Soon she saw the gate ahead of her.

Smiling, she turned to thank her four-legged guide only to see that the wolf was already gone. She looked back toward the silent trees for a moment, and then went to see to her children.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

She allowed him to lead her to the large stone and seat her there on it, but he did not like the way she shivered in spite of her fur cloak. He sat close beside her and put his arms tightly around her, willing her to be warm.

“Where are the children?” he asked her.

She looked up at him and smiled. “In the Great Keep, of course, as you have forbidden them to leave it, my lord.”

He snorted then. “It is good to know that my children heed my words better than their mother does.” He looked at her wryly. “Of course, I cannot imagine that either Rickon or Arya will stand for being confined for any great length of time.”

“No,” she said, “But they will not have to. Daenerys and her dragons are leaving for the Wall in the morning.”

He raised a brow. “Truly, my lady? Or do you think she will change her mind several times before the morrow?”

“She will not,” Catelyn said confidently. “She is young, my love, and very angry. But she is not a fool. Traveling on to the Wall is the best move for her now. Refusing to make that move simply because it is also what we wish her to do makes no sense.”

Ned snorted again. “Decisions made in anger often deny sense, my lady.”

“A lesson we have both learned too well, my lord,” she replied. “But the young dragon queen did not make this decision in anger. She will not go back on it.”

“That is one thing to the good then,” he sighed. “Cat,” he said, not truly wanting to tell her, but knowing he must, “The news from Ser Perwyn is ill indeed.”

“The Karhold?” she asked him. “Have Lady Alys and her people been taken by the Others?”

He shook his head. “In truth, I do not know. There has been no word from the Karhold for some time. Perwyn has sent riders there, but they have not yet returned. He is with the men at Last Hearth.”

“Last Hearth?” Catelyn asked, breathlessly.

Ned nodded. “I fear there has been another massive attack, and the lines were broken. Both Lord Royce and Lord Umber lost many men. Their forces have fallen back further, to the very walls of Last Hearth.”

“Is Lord Stannis there yet?”

“Not when the letter was sent. Depending on the weather, he could still be some days away, and it is very unlikely Lord Jason has yet reached the Karhold.”

“Is there more?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“If another attack of the same magnitude is launched against Last Hearth, Perwyn says they do not have the strength to hold out,” he told her, keeping his own voice steady by sheer force of will. “And it isn’t only the Karhold that has been silent of late. Lord Umber has not heard from any of the companies forming the line to the east of him. Prior to the attack on his own forces, he had sent several riders east, but none has returned.”

“Oh, Ned. So the riders Perwyn has sent . . .”

“I do not know, Cat. Mayhaps they have returned already with word. Mayhaps they are lost as well.” He clenched his jaw. “It may be that Jason Mallister and the men riding east with him are all that stand between an army of Others and Winterfell. And they cannot know what they are riding into.”

She shivered in his arms, and he did not think it was only the cold that caused it. “What of the Dreadfort? And Hornwood? They both lie to the east.”

“The Dreadfort is largely deserted at the moment as its infant lord and his mother in Barrowton and nearly all of Bolton’s men are killed or captured. As for Hornwood, it lies a good bit further south, but I shall send word there that they might prepare as best they can.”

“And where shall you go, my lord?” she asked him, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I would not leave Winterfell undefended,” he said said desperately. “I know not how quickly these Others can travel or what their plan is. I know not what the Lannister dwarf may want with my daughter. I know not what Stannis will discover when he reaches Last Hearth!” He let go of her then and stood up, unable to remain still suddenly. He walked back and forth and then turned to her. “I feel as if I’m floundering in the dark, Cat. I see no good decision. No right course of action.”

“There are no good decisions,” she said softly, and he saw that tears had come to her eyes. “But there is only one right course of action, and you know what it is, Ned. I don’t like it any more than you do, but . . .”

Her voice broke then, and he went back to hold her again.

“I do not want to leave you,” he said.

“I know that. Do you think I want you to go?” she said desperately. “But you are the Warden of the North, my love. You cannot protect the North if you don’t even know what’s happening. And you cannot know what’s happening as long as you remain at Winterfell.” She looked at him. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you haven’t already decided to go.”

He looked at the face he loved above all others, the blue eyes terrified, sad, but determined all the same. “You are not wrong,” he sighed. “I wish you were, but you are not. I intend to ride for Last Hearth. I must speak with Stannis, Perwyn, the Greatjon, and Lord Royce. Yet, I fear that as I ride northward, Others could easily sweep eastward to the south of my passage, coming here. I fear Lord Mallister and his men are not enough, my love.”

“If they are not, then the addition of whatever small number you ride with would make no difference,” she said flatly. “Winterfell is strong. We have archers and dragonglass arrows. We can defend ourselves, my love. We will be far safer here than you will be.”

“For how long? How long can any of us hope to hold out against these things?” Ned shook his head. “I have often thought that their actions made no sense. I could not see their logic or their plan, and so I thought mayhaps they did not have any. Mayhaps they were simply beasts of a sort, albeit magical ones, killing without thought.”

“But you don’t believe that now, do you?” she said.

“I don’t know that I ever truly believed it,” he told her. “Hoped it, I suppose. As a pack of unintelligent magical beasts seems at least more defeatable than a host of intelligent magical beings with a goal.”

“What goal?”

“Would that I knew,” he sighed. “I still cannot say. But I believe I may understand their actions better now.” He looked at her, preparing to put into words his theories about the strange occurrences in the world of late. “I do not know what has caused this . . .magic . . .to wake in the world. Others and wights, dragons, wargs, shadows that kill, and priests that revive men from the dead. I do not understand any of it, Cat. But I cannot but believe that whatever has awakened it, has awakened all of it together.”

She nodded thoughtfully and waited for him to continue.

“If the Others are intelligent, they may know that whatever has brought them power again would also bring power to the magic that might oppose them. If it is dragons, mayhaps they have been looking for them. Mayhaps they have attacked again and again in such small numbers as a test. To see if we have the power to truly vanquish them. Then when it seems clear we do not, they attack in force.”

She nodded once more. “You believe the dragons truly can defeat them, my lord?”

“Gods, Cat. I hope so. If they cannot . . .”

“You must tell her all of this, my love. Daenerys, I mean. You must tell her what the letter said, and that we need her help in this.”

“I will,” he said. “She’ll hear the same from Jon. He is certain the dragons hold the key to victory. I don’t know whether he’s attempted to fight the White Walkers with the one he’s got or if he’s waiting for the Targaryen girl to bring hers, but I do know he intends to set all three against them.”

“If she agrees,” Catelyn murmured wearily. “She must agree, Ned.”

“I doubt she will commit to anything before she finds her other dragon, my love. Then it will be Jon’s place to convince her.”

Catelyn frowned. “Hopefully, the boy can be more diplomatic with her than you have been.”

Ned smiled at that in spite of his worries. “Would that he had you beside him when he has to face her.”

She smiled back, but only briefly. “Well, I shall have my own diplomatic concerns when Tyrion Lannister arrives,” she said darkly.

That erased any hint of mirth from Ned’s face. “I do not like leaving you here to deal with him alone, Cat.”

“I can handle the Imp, my love. I will not underestimate him. You needn’t fear that I’ll allow him to gain any advantage.”

She actually yawned then, and Ned pulled her to her feet, dismayed to find her rather unsteady even after sitting for some time. “Forgive me, my love. I should have taken you directly back to your room.”

She shook her head even as she leaned against him for support. “No. We needed to speak freely, and I’ve found that you speak more freely here than anywhere else. It is well worth a little fatigue on my part.”

“Fatigue? Gods, Catelyn, you are beyond exhausted and half frozen now to boot! We’re both fools, I’m afraid. You for coming here and me for keeping you here so long.” Furious now with her and himself, but even more frightened for her wellbeing, he slid one arm down beneath her hips and swung her up into his arms as he often did Bran.

“Ned! Your leg! Put me down.”

“My leg be damned,” he said shortly, walking in the direction of the gate. “You are no more difficult to carry than Bran.”

“You shouldn’t be carrying Bran, either,” she protested, but she had laid her head on his shoulder, and Ned knew she truly wasn’t certain she could walk back to the Keep. He had no intention of letting her attempt it in any event. His leg did hurt, but damned if he’d let her know that.

When they reached the gate, he had to have her open it, but he got them through it without putting her down. She began to protest more earnestly as he carried her through the courtyard, not wanting to be seen as an invalid by the people about, but he paid no attention. While his leg and now his back ached, she was as weak as a kitten, and in no position to argue with him. His face must have looked sufficiently grim because no one approached them.

Inside the Keep, he feared for a moment that he might not be able to manage the stairs, but he made it up all of them without falling or dropping her. Only when he leaned against the wall at the top of them did he realize that she had actually fallen asleep as he’d carried her up. _Damn you, Cat! How am I to keep you from killing yourself?_ he thought desperately. _How am I to leave you in such condition?_

She stirred when he kicked the door of her chamber with his boot and opened her eyes when a startled Letty cried out, “Oh, milady! What has happened?” after opening the door to the two of them.

“I am fine, Letty,” Catelyn said in a drowsy voice as Ned carried her past the wetnurse.

“She is not fine,” Ned said grimly as he laid her on her bed. “Help me get the cloak off her, Letty.”

With Letty’s help, he not only removed her cloak, but her boots and dress as well, leaving her only in her shift and stockings before covering her with furs. He was angry at her and angrier at himself, but as she didn’t protest once, he became more alarmed for her than anything else.

“Letty,” he said, once he had her settled. “Go and get Sam for me, would you please? He’s likely in my solar. If he isn’t there, I’m afraid you’ll have to check the maester’s turret.”

“Yes, milord,” Letty said.

“I don’t need Sam, Ned,” came Catelyn’s tired voice. “I’ve only overdone it a bit. Sleep is all I need.”

“Possibly,” he said grimly. “Bring Sam anyway, Letty.” She left quickly then, not waiting to be told a third time.

Catelyn looked up at him. “You look tired yourself, my love. You should not have carried me all that way. Lie down with me.”

Truthfully, there was nothing he’d rather do at the moment, but Ned was afraid if he even sat down, he’d not get up again, and he had to speak with Daenerys Targaryen. He had to have Sam send a letter to Hornwood. He needed to write a letter for Jon that he’d send with the dragon queen. She’d read it, more than likely, but he needed to send it anyway.

“Close your eyes, Cat,” he said, unable to stay angry with her. “I must speak with young Daenerys and then with Samwell after he’s seen you. I should go and speak more with Sansa as well, as she has seen the letter, and I know she is worried. The other children need to be told something as well, as I will leave as soon as possible.”

“Mmm,” she said vaguely, her eyes now closed.

“Letty will stay with you until I return. You are not to leave this bed under any circumstances. Do you understand me, my lady?”

She didn’t respond, and he realized she was asleep. He bent to kiss her forehead and touch her bright hair. He didn’t fear she couldn’t handle Tyrion Lannister or any other crisis that arose in his absence. The thought of Others approaching Winterfell while he was away made his gut clench, but what truly terrified him was her complete lack of concern for her own wellbeing.

He had to go. They both knew that. He thought perhaps he’d leave orders that she was not to be allowed to leave the bed until the dwarf’s party was actually sighted outside the castle gates. She’d be furious with him, of course, but he couldn’t trust her not to push herself too far. He’d rather risk her wrath than her health.

He looked down at the beautiful, sleeping face of his impossibly brave and stubborn wife, and sighed. He leaned a bit against the wall at the head of her bed, taking his weight off the bad leg, prepared to stand vigil over her until Sam arrived. He had to go, but he would guard her as well as he could, as long as he could.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The loud cry piercing the sky signaled the return of the Green. Looking around at the men training or simply walking about bundled against the bitter cold, Jon noted that they barely glanced skyward at the sound. That was good, he supposed. They’d accepted that he did control the dragon as he did Ghost, and that the beast was not a threat to them. On the other hand, he’d rather them not grow too complacent about any man or beast approaching Castle Black given the current situation.

He was returning to his quarters from his meeting with Selyse Baratheon. She knew her husband had ridden out from Winterfell to join the men fighting the Others, and Jon felt it only right that she be made aware of the contents of Perwyn’s latest letter. He changed course now, though, walking instead toward the large open area where the Green would land--as far from the stables as possible. The dragon understood well enough that the horses of the Night’s Watch were not prey, but that didn’t keep it from smelling their blood and feeling the urge to devour one when hungry enough, so Jon had taught it to keep well away from both men and horses. He hoped the dragon’s hunt had been successful because it was far easier for the Green to ignore the animals here when its stomach was full.

Briefly, he allowed his mind to reach out to the dragon’s and felt its contentment at returning. Good. It had fed well then. He allowed it to know he would soon come to it, and then pulled his entire consciousness back to his immediate surroundings. Satin approached him from the direction of his quarters, carrying a large mug of some liquid that steamed in the cold air.

“I heard the dragon, my lord,” he said as he approached. “I thought you might go directly to see it rather than returning, but you’ve had little to eat or drink, and it’s bitter cold, so I brought you this.”

Jon smiled tiredly at his steward. “You’re a good man, Satin,” he said, reaching out to take the mug. It felt warm on his hands through his gloves, and the hot ale warmed his throat and belly.

“How did the queen take the news?”

“Such news can hardly be taken well,” Jon said softly. “Perwyn’s raven brought evil tidings.”

In truth, the woman hadn’t reacted much at all to the news of the losses near Last Hearth. Since the loss of Melisandre, Selyse Baratheon had seemed to fade somehow, often appearing to Jon to be as much a shadow as a flesh and blood woman. “Does Ser Perwyn’s letter mention the king specifically?” she’d asked him quietly. He’d told her the letter read as if Stannis had not yet reached them when it was sent, and she’d nodded to herself. “He will put it to rights when he arrives,” she’d whispered. “He is Azor Ahai. She saw it in the flames.”

She hadn’t really seemed interested in hearing any more after that, and Jon had left her there, telling himself that his duty had been carried out, but feeling that he should be doing more somehow. He felt that particularly when he caught a glimpse of the blue eyed little girl peeking out at him from another room and realized that the little princess had likely heard the entire conversation.

Selyse kept her daughter largely hidden away which Jon thought was likely a good thing, as the wildlings in Castle Black were petrified of the girl’s greyscale scarred face. Many of them made no secret of it, and he didn’t want the child to suffer abuse or unkind words. Yet, being forever alone except for the company of her distant mother could not be good either. For Shireen’s sake, he often wished the queen had elected to go to Winterfell. He was certain the younger Starks would have made her far better companions.

“My lord?”

Startled, Jon realized Satin had asked him something else, and he hadn’t even heard him. Satin was rather used to that, of course, although the reason for his lapses was far more often his traveling with the Green or Ghost than simply getting lost in his own depressing thoughts.

“I’m sorry, Satin. You were saying?”

“I asked if the dragon had seen any more of the Others or knew any more of Lord Umber and the men there with him.”

Jon sighed again. He had never specifically told Satin or anyone at Castle Black what he did with the wolf or the dragon, but given the large numbers of wildlings now integrated among the Night’s Watch, talk of wargs was hardly uncommon, and most of the free folk could guess pretty readily that the Lord Commander must be one.

“No,” he said simply. “The Green saw no Others while it was gone, but it hunted mostly to the south of us, and not too far east. The lines closest to us remain unbreached, but I know nothing of the forces further east. Nothing of Stannis Baratheon. Nothing of Lord Umber and Last Hearth. Nothing of Lady Alys at the Karhold.”

His voice had gotten louder and angrier each time he said the word ‘nothing,’ and when he finished speaking, he realized his hands which were clenched tightly around the mug shook so badly that small splashes of ale spilled from its brim, dripping over his gloves and staining the snow below.

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow._ He wondered if he would ever stop hearing Ygritte tell him that. He wondered if she would feel satisfaction or pity at the depth of his current ignorance. He shook his head as if to physically banish her from it. He had no time for memory or regret at the moment.

“Here,” he said, handing the mug to Satin. They had drawn near enough to the Green’s resting place to see the great dragon landing and drawing in its massive wings. Jon was convinced it had grown even in the short time since its arrival here and wondered vaguely just how big it would get.

“You’ve barely drunk any,” Satin protested.

Jon had little appetite or thirst these days. “I’ll eat and drink after I’ve seen to the Green. I promise.”

Satin looked at him a moment. “Could you send it to Lord Umber?” he asked. “Could it go that far and you still . . .know it?”

Jon swallowed. “I could know what it saw and felt,” he said honestly enough. “Whether it would heed my direction as well as it does when I am close . . .” He shrugged. That was about as much as he was comfortable saying about his relationship with the dragon. “It matters little, however,” he said then. “I cannot have the dragon gone from here when Daenerys Targaryen arrives.”

“You are certain she will come?” Satin asked.

“Yes,” he said. _She has to,_ he thought. _I fear we are all lost if she does not._

He had not received any word from Winterfell yet, but he had no doubt she had at least arrived there by now. What she would do there was anyone’s guess, and the thought of what the other two dragons could do to his family and his home terrified him. He’d been tempted to send the Green there every day, but he feared she might somehow coax it back to her if it drew close to her while he was far away, and he had to have her come here. He had to make her see.

The Green raised his head and cried out sharply in Jon’s direction.

“I think somebody wants you, Lord Snow,” Satin chuckled.

Jon smiled thinly. “I’ll see you in my quarters after awhile, Satin.” Then he walked to the dragon.

It immediately lowered its head so that Jon could run a hand along its long, scaled neck. The heat emanating from the Green made the earlier warmth he’d felt from the mug seem cool. The big bronze eyes gazed into his with recognition and something which felt remarkably like affection, and Jon smiled a genuine smile for the first time since Perwyn’s last letter had reached him.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he murmured. “Do you miss your siblings, I wonder?”

The dragon nudged his chest with its snout and snorted, its hot breath washing over him and banishing the chill from the air for a moment. It looked at him as if it wanted to speak, and Jon realized he’d never actually tried to find the other two dragons by using the Green’s thoughts. It couldn’t understand his words, he knew, but it often knew what he wanted or needed just as Ghost did. Ghost could feel his brothers and sister, and by sharing his mind, Jon could feel the other wolves as well. He wondered now if he could do the same with the Green to find the other dragons.

Laying his head against his dragon’s warm scales, Jon let his mind go, slipping his skin as easily now with the Green as he did with Ghost. He thought of his own brothers and sisters, those that he would forever hold in his heart as brothers and sisters anyway, and let the dragon feel what he felt. The dragon recognized the emotion. Almost instantly, Jon could feel the dragon’s own emotions and thoughts which were remarkably similar, although perhaps even more similar to Ghost’s when he thought of his pack. _You do feel your siblings,_ he thought. _You miss them._

His head ached with the effort to reason as a man while allowing himself to feel completely what the dragon felt. As he let himself slip deeper into the Green’s mind, he became aware of another attachment, another longing--similar to what the dragon felt for its siblings, but not the same. Jon couldn’t name it. Yet he felt within the dragon’s longing a certainty that all would be well soon, that its need, whatever it was, would be met.

He pulled himself back into his own skin then and stepped back from the dragon, looking at it closely. It was still, calm in a way that it hadn’t been since arriving at the Wall. It was generally happy here with Jon, but it had been restless, anxious somehow, and now it seemed to feel safe---at peace. Looking into the bronze eyes which gazed up at him, Jon suddenly recognized what it was feeling and realized with a pang why he hadn’t recognized it from within.

Ned Stark’s motherless bastard had never felt any such emotion, but Jon had seen it often enough in his siblings. Whenever they were hurt, scared, hungry, or simply out of sorts, they’d always wanted Lady Stark. Others could comfort, entertain, or distract them, but ultimately she was the one they wanted. Once they knew with certainty that Lady Catelyn had been summoned and was on her way to them, they became more content--confident that her arrival would shortly bring whatever succor they needed. The huge, fearsome dragon lying curled upon itself in the snow reminded him of nothing so much right now as of Rickon at three, curled up in his bed after being dragged forcibly from the Great Hall at night, finally having quieted upon the promise that Robb was getting their mother RIGHT NOW to sing that song he always liked.

_Mother. The Green is waiting for its mother, and it knows she’s coming._

Jon patted the dragon fondly, and then turned back toward his quarters. He would eat and drink as he had promised Satin. Then he had preparation to make. Daenerys Targaryen was on her way here.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Arya Stark scrubbed at the bedding viciously, as if conquering the stains could somehow conquer the many threats her family faced at the moment. It wasn’t doing any good, though. The spots didn’t seem to be getting any less apparent, and she began to think that she was as useless at this task as she was at keeping the people she loved safe.

She’d been happy enough to see the dragon queen and her beasts leave the castle. She didn’t think she’d ever forget how her mother and sister had looked that night in the courtyard with that horrible monster towering over them. She’d been terrified. Her father had rushed forward, willing to take on a dragon unarmed, but she had stood frozen in place as if rooted to the ground. She’d been a stupid, scared little girl, no use to Mother or Sansa at all. She hoped that Jon would stand up to Daenerys Targaryen better than she had. He was brave like Father. He wouldn’t fail Father in this.

With a start, she realized that the stupid dragon queen was as much Jon’s family as she was. _She is not! Jon belongs to us._ But Daenerys was his aunt, and Father was only his uncle now and not his father. She didn’t know if she were angrier at Father for lying to all of them or for not actually being Jon’s father. She hadn’t spoken to him much since that morning in Mother’s room, right before the Targaryen queen arrived. And now he was gone, too.

As glad as the queen’s departure had made her, Father’s had made her that miserable and then some. Now she was angry at him for going away and putting himself in danger as much as she was about the whole thing with Jon. And she hated being angry at him when she was also terrified for him and already missing him so badly. She had told him farewell in the courtyard yesterday with the rest of her siblings, but she hadn’t said very much. She’d been too afraid that she’d say something hateful, and however she felt about anything he’d done, she couldn’t let him ride away thinking she hated him. Since then, however, she’d thought of at least a hundred things she wished she’d said.

Mother missed him desperately, too. Arya knew that. She’d almost gone to Mother’s room last night, thinking to climb in bed with her after everyone else was asleep. Of course, she was very glad she hadn’t done that now. She jabbed angrily at the hateful stains, and the angry tears she’d been holding back began falling.

“Arya! What on earth are you doing?”

Sansa’s voice made her jump. She scrambled up from where she’d been kneeling on the bedding spread out on the floor and nearly overturned the bucket of water. “Nothing, Stupid! What are you doing here? I thought you were sewing with Jeyne and Kella!” She wiped her face with her sleeve, but Sansa obviously knew she was crying.

“Arya, what’s wrong?” her sister asked, her voice full of concern.

“Nothing. Just . . .go away.”

Sansa ignored that request, instead coming toward Arya, obviously worried and trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Her eyes went briefly to Arya’s bed, stripped to the mattress, and then back to the bedding on the floor that her sister had been kneeling over with a bucket of water.

“Oh, Arya!” she said, realization dawning. “You’ve flowered! You don’t have to clean up any of this. Why didn’t you say something? We need to tell Mother and . . .”

“No!” Arya shouted the word, and Sansa stopped speaking and stared at her.

“Arya,” she said carefully. “There’s nothing to be upset about. I mean, I know it’s startling and . . .”

“I’m not startled and I’m not upset about it,” Arya said through gritted teeth. “It’s just blood. It isn’t important. I just want to get it cleaned up before everyone starts making a big deal about it and acting as stupid as you are now.”

“Arya . . .it is important. It’s . . .”

“There were dragons here, Sansa! One nearly killed you and Mother, and now they’re off to find Jon. Father has gone off to fight monsters that are killing men all over the North! A godforsaken Lannister is coming here now! And you think this is important?” She was shaking with anger, appalled to realized tears were running down her cheeks again.

“Arya, Mother will want to know about it. You have to tell her,” Sansa insisted.

“No. She doesn’t need to worry about me. She’s already worried enough. And she can barely stand up for more than a few minutes.” She bit her lip. “And . . .I just . . . Well, I know you heard them, Sansa,” she finished helplessly.

Sansa sighed. “Yes, I heard them arguing, and I know you did, too.”

Arya frowned at the memory. “Everyone within five leagues of Mother’s room likely heard them,” she said bitterly, and Sansa nodded.

“I know you went to Rickon while it was going on,” she said softly. “That was good of you, Arya.” Sansa sat down on her bed and motioned Arya to join her.

Reluctantly, Arya walked across the room and sat beside her sister. “He was crying. He was scared. I told him it was okay. That they weren’t really angry--they were just . . .worried about each other too much.”

Arya didn’t want to think about her parents shouting at each other two nights ago, the night before Father left. They never shouted at each other. Never. The sound of it had frightened her as much or more than anything ever had, and given the things she’d seen and done in her life, that was stupid. She knew it was stupid, but she couldn’t help it.

Mother wanted Father to take more men. Father wanted to leave more men at Winterfell. Father got his way, of course, and Mother had said all kinds of terrible things to him about asking for his own death, and Father had shouted that he wouldn’t leave his family and castle undefended, and Mother had shouted that she’d have him as well defended, and Father had asked if she thought him so weak or craven a man that he could not defend himself, and it just went on.

“You were right,” Sansa said softly. “They care more for each other than they do themselves, and they both care more about us than anything else. I suppose that’s part of being a husband or a wife. Or being parents.”

Normally, Arya got annoyed when Sansa talked like she was a million years older, but it didn’t bother her so much now. She thought about her sister’s words. “Not all husbands and wives and parents,” she said softly. When Sansa nodded agreement, Arya wondered if she, too, was thinking of fat King Robert and his horrible family.

“I know they made up,” Arya said after a moment. “But Mother doesn’t need anything else to worry about. That’s all.”

Sansa looked thoughtful, but shook her head. “You’re wrong about that. Mother doesn’t need anything else to be frightened about or any more crises to deal with. Flowering is just a normal part of growing up. It’s something mothers are supposed to help their daughters through.”

Now, Sansa’s overly adult attitude was annoying. “I don’t need any help,” Arya stated flatly.

“Well, you obviously need help with your laundry,” Sansa said, almost laughing. “But more importantly, Mother needs to help you.” Before Arya could protest, she kept talking. “She wasn’t with me when I flowered in King’s Landing. Everything was wrong then. And she feels like she let me down. That’s ridiculous, I know, but she feels badly about it. She told me as much in the Eyrie. Let her just be a mother for little bit, Arya. Please.”

Arya swallowed. As much as she hated Sansa being right about things, she thought she just might have a point in this. “Okay,” she mumbled. “I’ll go talk to Mother.”

“I’ll get someone to see to this mess,” Sansa said. “Unless you want me to come with you?”

Arya shook her head. When Sansa looked at her suspiciously, she said, “I’ll go straight to Mother’s room. I might as well if you get the maids in here because they’ll tell her for sure.”

She was as good as her word, and when she reached her lady mother’s chambers, Arya quickly knocked on the door before she could change her mind.

“Come in,” came her mother’s voice.

She pushed the door open, and shuffled into the room. “Arya!” she heard, and the warmth and absolute joy at her presence that she heard in Mother’s voice then gave her courage. She looked up.

“Sansa said I should come talk to you,” she said. Mother was sitting up in a chair, dressed for the day with her hair neatly pulled back away from her face. She didn’t look nearly as pale as she had the day before when she’d insisted on standing in the courtyard with them when Father rode out.

“Is something wrong, sweetling?” she asked. A brief expression of guilt crossed her face, and she stood up and walked to her bed, sitting on the edge of it. “Come sit beside me, Arya,” she said, patting the place beside her.

Arya almost smiled, thinking how similar that was to what Sansa had done in their room just a little while ago.

“Arya,” her mother said, once she was seated, “Rickon asked me last evening if worry makes people shout at each other. He said you had told him it does.”

“Oh . . .no. I mean, I did tell him that, but that’s not what . . .”

“Arya,” Mother interrupted her. “I am very sorry you heard your father and me. You were right, though, in what you told Rickon, and I want you to know that I am not angry with your father, and he is not angry with me.”

“I know that.”

“I don’t know why people so often lash out at those they love best and wish to hold safe above all else, but we do. It isn’t right, but we don’t always do what’s right, I fear.”

“You and Father do what’s right better than most people,” Arya said in a small voice. “That’s why it was awful.”

“Oh, sweetling,” her mother said, putting her arms around her and squeezing her tightly. “I am sorry it was awful. But are you all right now?”

Arya nodded. “I’m all right. It’s just that I . . .I got my moonblood, and Sansa thought I should tell you.”

Her mother gave a sort of wordless exclamation and hugged her again. “Oh, Arya! I can’t believe . . I mean you are nearly three and ten, of course, but I can’t help thinking of you as my little girl.”

Arya rolled her eyes. Her mother didn’t know everything she’d done in the years away from her, but she certainly knew enough that it struck her as funny that her mother could still consider her a little girl. She actually kind of liked it, though.

“Is your belly cramping at all, sweetling? Did Sansa show you what to do?”

“My belly hurt this morning,” she told her. “That’s what woke me up. At first I though I was sick. I didn’t feel like getting out of bed, so I stayed there when Sansa and Jeyne left, but then I figured out what had happened.” She shrugged. “I’ve shared a room with Sansa and Jeyne long enough that I didn’t need anybody to show me anything. I knew where Sansa kept the cloths so I got one and stuffed it in my smallclothes.” She smiled a little. “I kind of made a mess of the bedding, but Sansa said she’d take care of it.”

“My independent wolf-cub,” Mother said, brushing Arya’s hair back out of her eyes. It had grown long enough to become very unruly. “I am hardly surprised that you simply took everything upon yourself, but you should have come to me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“This is not a worry, sweetling. This is a joy. This is my beautiful daughter growing up before my eyes, and while I may lament the loss of the babe you once were, I am proud of the maiden you’ve become. Do not shut me out for fear’s sake, Arya.”

“I won’t, Mother. I promise.” She bit her lip.

“What are you thinking about, Arya?” When she didn’t answer, Mother smiled at her. “I know that look, child. What worries you?”

“Nothing worries me.” She decided to share one more secret with her mother. Something she hadn’t told Sansa. “If I tell you something, do you promise not to be angry?”

Her lady mother tilted her head and raised one brow. “Now how can I promise not to be angry when I don’t know what it is. If you tell me you’ve punched your sister in the face, I shall certainly be angry.”

Arya laughed out loud at that, and Mother joined the laughter. “It’s nothing like that,” she assured her. “It’s only . . .well, the thing we do with our wolves? The warging?” She looked up at Mother who nodded and waited for her to continue. “Well, I can see what Nymeria sees from really far away. I could see through her eyes in my dreams when I was in Braavos and she was in the Riverlands with her pack of little wolves.”

Her mother’s eyes widened. “And were you . . .controlling Nymeria from Braavos?”

Arya shook her head. “No. I didn’t understand it then. And I’m not sure I ever control her really. She just knows what I want when I’m with her, and she generally wants the same thing then.”

“All right . . .” Mother said, sensing there was more to be said.

“Well . . .what you said to Father about not having enough men . . .”

“Arya, your father will be very careful. I told you I shouldn’t have gotten so angry with him over that and . . .”

“No,” Arya interrupted. “You were right about that. I mean, he will be careful, and he is brave, and a good soldier and all that, but I thought he could use more help.”

“More help . . .” her mother repeated.

Arya nodded. “So I sent Nymeria after him,” she said very quickly. “She won’t let him know she’s there until he’s too far from Winterfell to do anything about it. And if she’s with him, then I’ll be able to see him and know he’s all right, and if he does get into trouble, she can help. She’s better protection than a dozen men. She truly is.” The words had tumbled out of her mouth in rapid succession. “So . . .are you angry?”

“Angry?” her mother exclaimed. “Arya, sweetling, I think you are brilliant!” She hugged her tightly again. Then she suddenly pulled back. “If Nymeria is in danger, there is no chance of harm to you, is there?”

Arya didn’t think so, but she knew that wouldn’t satisfy her mother, so she said, “No. None at all. I’m here safe with you.”

Her mother smiled the biggest smile she had seen on her face in a long time. “And when you look through Nymeria’s eyes and see your father . . .”

“I will always tell you,” Arya said. “So that you can know he is safe as well.”

She stayed with her mother for some time after that, talking of little things, until her mother asked her to bring Bran to her. She needed to speak with Bran about the plans for Tyrion Lannister’s arrival. Why she needed to discuss those specifically with Bran, Mother didn’t say, but simply knowing Mother had a plan gave her more confidence about what might happen.

As she left the room, Mother called out to her to say once more that she was proud to have her as a daughter, and Arya’s heart felt warm. She knew perfectly well that Mother wasn’t talking about the stupid red flower. She never would have believed it possible when she was younger, but she and Mother understood each other very well.


	58. Uncomfortable Alliances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that the action is taking place in more than one place and the POVs jump between locations, I would like to point out that events aren't necessarily happening at the exact same time chronologically in the different locales, but are occurring in the same general time period.
> 
> I'll also take the time to acknowledge once again that all these remarkable characters are the inventions and property of GRRM. I'm just playing with them. :)

She’d only thought she’d been cold while flying to Winterfell. As Drogon cut through the frigid air now, Dany found herself more often than not lying flat down against him to take in the heat from his body. Oddly enough, he seemed to know what direction to fly so guiding him was far less necessary than it had been on their journey from Dragonstone to Winterfell. That was a good thing, as the deep snow made the Kingsroad nearly impossible to discern from the surrounding terrain ever since they had left the immense deep woods behind. There, she had been at least able to make out the cut of the road through the trees, but now there was endless white plain in all directions. Initially, she had made the dragon land frequently to be certain they still followed the road, but as he had proved to be unerring in his direction every time, she had taken to flying onward, trusting in his judgment. Mayhaps that would prove folly, but she wanted speed, and something about the dragon’s apparent certainty gave her confidence.

Even Viserion disappeared less frequently, remaining closer to Drogon’s side than was his usual habit. Dany was uncertain whether the cream colored dragon was simply overjoyed to be away from the enforced boredom of Winterfell or whether he, too, felt whatever seemed to pull Drogon northward. Viserion remained temperamental. The only time they had seen any humans on this journey--two men and a horse pulling some sort of cart with long flat wooden pieces on the bottom instead of wheels--he’d dived down at them, preparing to breathe fire. Only by flying Drogon directly into his side and knocking him off course had Dany been able to get his attention and prevent him from burning and devouring the men and the beast. She prayed he would not create problems at Castle Black.

Lord Stark had told her she would likely see no one until she neared the Wall, and with the exception of those two men, he had been correct. This was a desolate stretch of land beneath them now, and he had said about three quarters of her journey would be complete once she passed the northern extreme of what he called the wolfswood. She hoped he was correct about that, too, for she had left the trees behind some time ago and hoped to see the Wall rising ahead of her soon.

Lord Stark had actually given her the letter from Perwyn Frey to read for herself which had surprised her. He’d then answered her questions about the men and places mentioned within it without hesitation and told her he intended to ride for the castle known as Last Hearth within a day or two of her departure. He did make a point of telling her that he was leaving Winterfell well manned and that if Tyrion Lannister attempted any sort of treachery or even discourtesy, he had instructed Lady Stark to have the dwarf imprisoned. She had struggled to keep her temper in check at that, but she didn’t need to fight with the man as she prepared to leave, so she had simply given him the letter she intended to leave behind for Tyrion, bidding him read her instructions to the dwarf if he wished. He did, of course, and then handed it to his fat maester without comment.

Knowing Tyrion’s penchant for sharp remarks, Dany was rather grateful that Lady Stark seemed to have more patience with small insults than her husband did. She didn’t need her man imprisoned at Winterfell while she tried to determine her next move here. While she remained unconvinced about this bastard/not bastard of Eddard Stark’s at the Wall, these things killing people throughout the North seemed real enough. She couldn’t get Lady Stark’s words out of her head. The woman had spoken about discovering the needs of the people you would rule, and it seemed fairly clear that the people of the North needed deliverance from these monsters. The Usurper’s brother had answered their call for aid, although Dany thought both Starks seemed rather doubtful about his chances of success. Could she do any less if she hoped to have them willingly accept her as their queen?

Raising her head up to look around Drogon’s neck, she exclaimed aloud at what met her eyes. What she saw rising in the distance could only be the famed Wall of the North. It was the same color as everything else, but it stood out in spite of that because of the sheer immenseness of it. It stood impossibly tall and stretched to the east and west as far as she could see even from this height.

Drogon seemed to pick up speed as it came into view, flying with more energy than he should have had after all the hours they’d already spent in the air since waking. Suddenly, he and Viserion both gave loud, joyous screeches, and before she could attempt to discern the reason, another high pitched cry sounded out from somewhere ahead.

Dany’s heart leapt as she spotted Rhaegal flying toward them from the direction of the Wall as quickly as his green wings could carry him. She had to hold on for dear life then as the three dragons came together in the sky in some wild sort of mixture of a dance, an aerial battle, and a spirited game of tag. Rhaegal looked well. He had grown since she had seen him last. The other two had grown as well, of course, but Rhaegal’s growth seemed more startling to her as she hadn’t seen him in so long.

It occurred to her that she had all three of her dragons now, and she could simply turn and fly wherever she wished to go with them. If Rhaegal had been somehow captured by Stark’s bastard, the man certainly hadn’t kept him locked up very securely. Of course, she was unsure how anyone would go about securing one of her children without meeting a fiery end. As she considered the possible benefits and risks of continuing on to meet with the bastard Lord Commander versus simply returning to Winterfell to await Tyrion’s arrival and advice, Drogon suddenly gave a very sharp cry--the same sort of commanding sound he’d made when attempting to keep Viserion from entering the walls of Winterfell.

She looked up and realized that Rhaegal had broken away from the dragons’ aerial play, and was now flying as purposefully back toward the Wall as he’d flown toward them only moments before. She shouted after him in Old Valyrian, but he ignored her as he had Drogon. She could feel Drogon tensing himself to pursue and engage his wayward brother, but Dany held him back. She decided she would rather follow Rhaegal than attempt to stop him. She needed to know what, if any, hold this Jon Snow had over her dragon.

At her command, Drogon followed Rhaegal, keeping a short distance between them. Viserion more or less followed as well, although he seemed even more agitated than usual, changing course frequently and almost flying in circles around the other two at times. The buildings which made up Castle Black were clearly visible against the Wall now, and Dany prayed that the cream colored dragon would not do anything violent upon arriving there.

Rhaegal actually appeared to be making for a large open area a small distance (likely a greater distance by foot, she reminded herself) from any of the buildings. As they drew nearer, Dany could clearly make out a solitary figure standing there waiting. To her astonishment, Rhaegal landed right beside this person, lowering his head to him as he did for no one save her. Angrily, she directed Drogon to land in front of them.

Viserion did not land, instead flying back and forth overhead, occasionally screeching as if in some distress. Drogon hissed at Rhaegal as he touched down, but otherwise remained still at Dany’s direction. Rhaegal, beside the young man dressed all in black, was perfectly still and silent.

“Your Grace,” the young man said, dropping to one knee respectfully.

“You acknowledge me as your queen, dragon thief?” she asked him from her perch on Drogon. Above her, Viserion screeched again.

“I am no thief,” the bastard said, rising. Surely, he was the bastard for as he turned his face up to her, Dany actually drew in her breath. She was gazing upon a younger Eddard Stark. How dare the Usurper’s Dog claim this man was not his son! “The green dragon came to me of its own accord,” the bastard continued. “And stayed of its own accord as well. You can see I do not have it chained or caged. I am Jon Snow, Your Grace. Lord Commander of the Night‘s Watch.”

At that moment, Viserion dove from the sky and nipped at Rhaegal’s neck. Rhaegal turned to snap at him, but then stilled himself and looked back at Stark’s bastard. The man had not said a word to him. Drogon, however jumped forward, ignoring Dany’s command to stay, and Viserion leapt back into the sky to avoid Drogon’s bite.

Dany did manage to keep Drogon from taking off after him, and then circled him around, coming back to face Rhaegal and the bastard. “What have you done to him?” she demanded. “Why does he remain by you?”

“The answer to that question has several parts, Your Grace. It is not a simple thing. But I assure you I do not compel it to remain here.”

This infuriating person even talked like Eddard Stark, all cold courtesy with proper words which told her nothing at all. Viserion screeched again, from higher in the sky, and Drogon tossed his head and answered. Rhaegal again remained still and silent.

“When did they last hunt, Your Grace?”

“What?” she asked him, distracted by worries about what Viserion might do.

“I asked when they last hunted. We have a substantial number of horses here and they can smell them. If they are hungry, it is difficult for them not to go after them.”

Dany was startled by the tone of the man’s voice. He seemed as genuinely concerned about the dragons as he was about the horses.

“They . . .they have not eaten at all today,” she said. “We have not stopped.”

He nodded. “Will the three of them stay together if they go? And will the black and the pale one follow the green back here?”

“They generally stay fairly near one another,” she answered carefully. “And if I am here, this where they will all return after they hunt,” she finished imperiously.

“All children are drawn to their mother,” he said with a sad sort of smile, and again she was startled by his understanding of her dragons. “If you would dismount, Your Grace, and we remove your saddle and bags from the black dragon, the green can take them hunting. It seems to have learned all the best places to go.”

Dany hesitated. “Why should I separate myself from the protection of my dragons?” she asked him. “I know not why you want me here.”

“You do know, Your Grace. I am certain Lord Stark has told you of our peril and our need. I would like to discuss that more with you.”

“I have no wish to discuss anything with you unless you intend to offer me more truth than your lying father, bastard!” Dany snapped at him.

For the first time, she saw his cool reserve break, his grey eyes darkening with anger. “My father is not a . . .” He closed his mouth tightly and drew in a large breath through his nose before speaking again. When he did speak, his voice was once more a cool echo of Eddard Stark’s. “Actually, I know little of my father. He may well have been a liar, but as he died before either of us was born, I can’t imagine you know any more of him than I do. As for the man who has been a father to me, Lord Eddard Stark is no liar. To my knowledge, the only untruth he has ever told is the one he crafted to save my life.”

“I see you will insist upon spouting the same . . .”

Her angry retort was interrupted by another loud screech from Viserion who now flew rather rapidly in the direction of some outbuildings. The bastard looked at Rhaegal again, actually laying a hand on his neck, and the green dragon leapt into the air after his brother.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he said to her as Rhaegal flew in front of Viserion, effectively causing him to change course, “But I could not allow the pale dragon to kill or damage anyone or anything here. Surely, you understand that.”

Dany didn’t understand anything. She didn’t understand how this Stark bastard was doing whatever he was doing to Rhaegal. But she did understand that he was right about Viserion. She commanded Drogon to lie flat, and then dismounted. Immediately, he took off after the other two.

“Your saddle, Your Grace,” the bastard said.

“It does not bother him,” she said. “I can remove it later. Rhaegal cannot control Viserion as well as Drogon does. Drogon has always been bigger and stronger than his brothers.”

The two of them watched the dragons silently for a moment. Drogon and Rhaegal both seemed to fly around and nip at Viserion until he turned southward. Then Rhaegal sped up and flew toward the southwest, followed by the other two.

“You know where Rhaegal is leading them?” she asked the man who stood beside her.

“Rhaegal?” he asked quizzically.

“Rhaegal. That’s his name. The dragon you stole.”

This time the man did not react to being called a thief. He simply stared up at the dragons growing smaller in the sky. “Rhaegal,” he whispered, an odd half-smile on his face.

Dany shivered. Without Drogon beneath her, she felt the full force of the unrelenting cold of this place for the first time. The bastard noticed.

“Come, Your Grace,” he said. “We should get inside. No one can stand to be outdoors here for very long, and your cloak isn’t near heavy enough for this place.”

She couldn’t disagree with the man, so she merely nodded. He offered her his arm, just as his father had done upon her arrival to Winterfell. She was no more pleased to accept the arm now than she had been then, but she did. As they began the long walk toward the buildings, he put his fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly. Dany started to ask him what that was about, but before she could form the words, a streak of white came bounding toward them, barely visible above the white snow. As it reached the man’s side, she recognized it for what it was.

“A white one?” she asked in some surprise. “The ones at Winterfell are grey or black.”

“Ghost is different,” the man said quietly. “Like me.”

“A bastard wolf for a bastard son?” Dany asked.

“I am not Lord Stark’s bastard,” the man said somewhat bitterly. “Whether I’m Rhaegar Targaryen’s bastard or not, I cannot honestly say. Lord Stark believes me to be the man’s trueborn son. He says the prince married my mother as a second wife.” The man stopped walking then and turned to look at her with those grey Stark eyes. “I don’t really care, although for my mother’s sake, I hope the man had the decency to try to do right by her. But I know that Rhaegar Targaryen was my father just as I know that Lyanna Stark was my mother. That is the truth, Your Grace, although it was no easier for me to believe than it is for you.”

Without waiting for her to reply, the man started walking again. Dany started to say something, and realized that she hadn’t once addressed him by any name or title in spite of the fact that he had repeatedly given her the courtesy of her title. She honestly didn’t know what to call him, and that irritated her. “What do they call you here?” she snapped.

He seemed mildly amused at the question. “Lord Commander is my title, Your Grace, and the only one I ever wish to hold. The men here call me that or occasionally ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord Snow.’"

“Lord Snow?” she asked mockingly. “A bastard’s name hardly goes with a title.”

“No,” he agreed. “And it was not meant to honor me when it was first used. Most who speak it here now, though, do so without malice. I do not mind it.” He looked at her oddly. “My family calls me Jon.”

She wondered why he had told her that and realized that both he and Eddard Stark would make the claim that she was family to him. “Lord Commander will do,” she said formally.

They walked in silence for several more minutes, and the white wolf padded silently at his side. It seemed less hostile toward her, less volatile somehow than the direwolves in Winterfell, and Dany wondered if this were its natural demeanor or if it somehow reflected Jon Snow. The Starks certainly seemed to believe that their trueborn children’s wolves reflected their children’s moods. She thought uncomfortably that Rhaegal had seemed remarkably calm and silent as he sat beside this man, not unlike the white wolf seemed now. She had never seen Rhaegal behave that way before. He was not as erratic as Viserion, but he had always been the quickest tempered of the three. She wondered if he were somehow reflecting the demeanor of this Jon Snow. She didn’t like that line of thought so she pushed it away.

“Have you heard from the man you sent out? The Frey?” she asked him.

Jon Snow nodded. “I have. My fa . . .Lord Stark also received a letter?”

“He did. He showed it to me before I left Winterfell. The situation sounds rather grim.”

“It is.” He stopped once more to face her. “I have fought these things, Your Grace. I have seen them kill. One of them is deadly. A small group of them, terrifying. An army of them? I don’t know that any weapons we have could defeat that. Not even the dragonglass weapons.” He paused. “Do you you know of dragonglass and Valyrian steel, and its use against the Others?”

She nodded now. “Your father told me.”

“He is not my father,” the bastard said shortly, turning away and walking again.

They had reached the buildings now, and several men hailed him as they passed. At the sight of her, they bowed their heads respectfully, but her escort did not stop to make any introductions. He led her to a door in the castle.

“My quarters,” he said briefly, opening the door.

She could feel the heat as the door swung open and found herself ushered into a sparsely furnished but comfortable appearing room with a fire roaring in the hearth. She walked immediately toward the fire, eagerly letting the warmth spread over her.

“Lord Commander,” she heard a soft male voice say from somewhere behind her. She turned to see a young man who was attractive to the point of prettiness entering from another room. He carried a tray upon which were two plates of food and two mugs. When she turned to face him, the young man looked flustered, but he hastily set the tray down on a table and dropped to a knee.

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing his head.

She raised her eyebrows. He was the first person other than the bastard to actually speak to her since she had arrived here, and she was rather surprised at his courtesy.

“And you are?” she asked him.

“Satin, Your Grace,” the man said without raising his head.

“My steward,” the bastard elaborated. “Oh, get up, Satin. Her Grace would no doubt be better served by your taking her cloak than by your remaining immobile on your knees.”

Dany noticed that Snow was already unfastening his own cloak and turning to hang it on a peg behind him. In truth, she was already becoming overly warm in her cloak before the fire, but it irritated her that he had told the man to rise. That was her place. The man obeyed his Lord Commander, however, rising and coming toward her.

“May I, Your Grace?” he asked shyly, indicating her cloak.

She nodded and he assisted her in removing it and then took it to hang beside Lord Snow’s.

“Please sit down, Your Grace,” Snow said then. “You must be famished. If your dragons have not eaten today, I doubt you have either.”

That was true, and the fare the steward had brought, while plain, had an appetizing aroma that made her stomach rumble. She walked to the table, and the steward held out a chair for her.

She smiled at Jon Snow as he took the seat opposite her. “I did not expect such courtly manners at the Wall.”

He laughed. “That is good, Your Grace, for with the exception of Satin here, you are unlikely to find them.” Turning up to look at the steward, he said, “Thank you , Satin. That will be all for now.”

The young man nodded and left by the door which he had entered. It occurred to Dany that she was likely younger than the steward, yet she felt immensely older. She knew that Jon Snow was no more than a year older than herself, but he seemed to her somehow much older than that. She broke off a piece of bread, delighted to find it warm, and stuffed it into her mouth while she decided what to say next. Likely, not a very regal sort of thing to do, but she was hungry.

Jon Snow watched her carefully. “You asked what I have done to the green . . .to Rhaegal,” he said, after a moment. “I dreamed of him.”

“You dreamed of him,” Dany repeated flatly, indicating that she was less than impressed by this explanation.

Snow only nodded. “I was north of the Wall the first time. I dreamed I was flying. I was flying, and I had great, green wings. I began to dream of him frequently. I saw the pyramids of Meereen although I didn’t know that was what they were. I saw the other two dragons. Finally, I even saw you riding upon the big, black dragon.”

Dany slowly began to understand what the man was saying. “You dreamed you were Rhaegal?” she asked, incredulously.

He nodded again. “At first. Then I began to realize that it was like with Ghost. I wasn’t the dragon, but I was with him. Just as I can be with Ghost.”

Dany stared at him, unsure of what to say.

“I am a Stark by blood. You acknowledge that much, do you not, Your Grace?”

She snorted derisively. “More than you do, it would seem. You are certainly Eddard Stark’s blood, although not his lady wife’s, bastard.”

She saw the almost imperceptible clenching of his jaw. Mayhaps the hours spent trying to read Eddard Stark’s unreadable face had taught her more than she thought. The bastard didn’t respond, though, except to say, “All of Lord Stark’s children can slip into the skins, the minds, of their wolves. All except Sansa, for her wolf was killed before it ever grew to maturity. There have long been stories told in the North of men who can do this. The word for such a person is warg.”

“Warg,” Dany repeated. “And you would claim to be one?”

“I am one,” Snow said simply. “As are Lord Eddard’s children. It must be something in the Stark blood. Something long forgotten that has come back again. Our direwolves are the first seen south of the Wall in generations, Your Grace, save on the sigil of House Stark.”

“What has this to do with dragons?” Dany asked impatiently.

“The ability to share the mind of another creature and my affinity for the direwolf, I believe I acquired through my Stark blood . . .my mother’s blood.” Before Dany could protest the manner of inheritance of his Stark blood, he continued. “My affinity for the green dragon comes from my father’s blood.” He hesitated a fraction of a second, and said the next words as if they left a nasty taste in his mouth. “My Targaryen blood.”

“You have no Targaryen blood!” she spat at him.

“Do I not?” He began to speak of her crossing from Essos, the landing at Dragonstone, and the dragons’ forays onto the mainland of Westeros. He spoke of things he could not possibly know had he not seen them with his own eyes. With Rhaegal’s eyes.

“This is a trick!” she cried when she could stand to hear no more, standing up and walking away from the table. _What treason is_ _this?_ she wondered wildly. So often, she had tried to identify the three treasons she’d been warned of in the House of the Undying. She’d also spent more hours than she cared to remember attempting to make sense of Quaithe’s words to her. She shook her head. Surely, this was some form of treachery, but it did not fit any of the prophecies she had been given.

“It is not a trick,” the man insisted, standing up himself. “It is only the truth, Your Grace. I don’t know why I exist except that your godsforsaken brother took a fancy to northern girl, crowned her with blue roses, and took her away with him. But I do exist. And I can share the mind of your green dragon. And you can ride your black one. He obeys your commands. I believe we can drive these Others from the North. I believe we have to, Your Grace! I know nothing else to do!”

Jon Snow’s face was not impassive now. He looked sincere, desperate, and even wild. Dany stared at him and wondered if Eddard Stark had ever shown that much fire in his life. Fire. She pushed that thought away. It couldn’t be true. The man was using some sort of magic to control Rhaegal, that was it. Dany believed in magic. Gods knew, she had good reason to.

He walked toward her. “Your Grace, I do not want your crown. I don’t even want to be a Targaryen.” His voice was softer now, but still held a quiet desperation. “I am the sword in the darkness. The watcher on the Wall.” He shook his head. “It was never the wildlings that the Wall was meant to protect us from. I know that now. It’s the Others. And the Wall has failed. They have crossed. They will take all the North, and I see no reason to believe they will stop there. If you value this kingdom, you must help me stop them.”

She turned away from him, unable to think clearly under the gaze of those pleading, demanding grey eyes. Staring into the flames in the hearth, she mulled over his words. Suddenly, two of those words leapt out at her--a detail she had nearly missed in his tirade.

“Blue roses,” she murmured. “Why do you speak of blue roses?”

“What?” he asked, confused by her question.

She turned around to face him. “You said ‘he crowned her with blue roses.’ What do you mean by that?”

He looked at her as if he couldn’t fathom why she would ask such a thing, but he answered her anyway. “Mayhaps you have heard the tale of the tournament at Harrenhal. Rhaegar won, and rather than crowning his wife, Princess Elia, the Queen of Love and Beauty, he crowned Lyanna Stark, my mother. The crown was made of northern blooms. Blue roses.”

“Blue roses,” Dany whispered, and she turned back toward the fire, but saw only a blue rose growing from a chink in a wall of ice.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“That’s enough, Sam. I shall be quite able to stand and walk about without much discomfort now.”

“Yes, my lady,” Samwell Tarly replied, removing his hands from the small of her back and standing up. “But I think it wisest if you continue to remain in the Great Keep for now. The cold does your back no favors.”

 _Does he think I don’t realize that? I’ve lived with this wound long enough now._ Catelyn Stark rolled over onto her back. Sam’s massage of her lower back around the old crossbow injury had eased the muscle spasm somewhat, but she missed Ned’s touch desperately. His rough, callused hands on her bare skin brought her far more relief than Sam’s overly polite ministrations through the cloth of her nightshift. In spite of having delivered her son, the boy remained obsessed with maintaining a respectful propriety with her.

 _I need you here, Ned_ , she thought almost angrily. Immediately she felt remorseful. She had Sam here to see to her needs. Who was massaging Ned’s bad leg when the bitter cold caused it to pain him? She always saw to that, just as Ned always saw to her back. She knew well enough that no one would be tending to that task as he rode northward over the frozen land. _Be safe, my love._

“I will remain indoors, Sam,” she said, rising from her bed and trying to hide her smile as he averted his eyes. Apparently, tending to her ailments while she lay in bed in her shift was acceptable, but looking at her as she stood before him in the shift was not. For his sake, she walked across the room to retrieve her robe. She would dress once he left. “I see you’ve already had food sent in.”

“Yes, my lady.” He hesitated, and Catelyn realized he was deciding whether or not to speak to her of something.

“What is it, Sam?” she asked him. “You obviously have something to tell me, so out with it.” When he didn’t respond immediately, she sighed. “I won’t break, Sam. You’ve said yourself that I’m much stronger now. The pain in my back is an old problem and only bothersome because I went too long without having it massaged after I was out in the godswood." _Because Ned is not here. Because we wasted his last night here screaming at each other to no purpose._

“We’ve had word from our riders to the south, Lady Stark,” Sam said hesitantly.

 _Oh, Tyrion Lannister then. Gods! Does the boy think I dread word of the dwarf? I know he’s coming here. I only dread word_ _from the North--any word of harm to my husband._ “The Imp’s party approaches? How many men are with him? Will he arrive today?”

“Not more than a reasonable travel escort, my lady. Certainly not enough to attempt to take the castle by force. And likely they will not arrive today, but they should be here by midday tomorrow.”

Catelyn nodded. “You won’t neglect to give me any other news as soon as you receive it, will you, Sam?” she said meaningfully. “I am in charge of Winterfell, for all I’ve agreed to heed your instructions regarding my health.”

He smiled at her. “Yes, my lady. I will bring you all the news I have.”

“Very well. If you would excuse me then, Sam. I shall eat, feed Brien, and then go to Ned’s solar. If you could send my maid to help me dress?”

“Yes, my lady,” Sam said.

After he left, Catelyn shrugged off the robe which was actually too warm even for her in her cozy room. She sat at her dressing table in her shift, took down the braid she had worn to sleep, and began brushing her hair out. It was far less tangled in the mornings since Ned had gone. Although they hadn’t made love since before Brien’s birth, he always twisted her hair around his fingers when he held her at night, and so she’d continued to leave it loose for him. Six nights now, she had carefully braided it before retiring to bed. Six mornings she had encountered no difficult tangles to work through, and she longed desperately to have those tangles to fight.

He had been safe as of yesterday, she knew. Arya had told her that the weather, while frigid, remained relatively fair and that Ned’s party appeared to be making good time. It was hard for her to assess the distance they’d traveled, as wolves apparently did not measure journeys in leagues. It was hard for her to know precisely what was being said in the camp as well, as she told her mother that trying to hear through Nymeria’s ears and yet comprehend the words with her own mind was difficult in ways that she found hard to explain. Nymeria was aware of ‘big water’ close to them, though, and that could only be Long Lake, meaning that Ned and his men had traveled over half the distance to Last Hearth already. The wolf had made her presence known to them, and Arya had assured her that she never strayed far from Ned now except to hunt for her food. That comforted Catelyn greatly, and she hoped Ned realized it meant that his daughter was watching him as closely as her wolf was--that he was not alone.

The terrible things she’d said to him that last night still haunted her. They had both apologized in the end, of course, but things had still been less than easy between them, and she hated that. You would think after so many years that they would have said everything that needed to be said, and yet when he’d held her briefly in the courtyard before riding out, she’d felt the weight of a thousand unspoken words on her heart. She’d wanted to say words of love and comfort and courage to wash away the angry words of the night before, but she’d been unable to speak. He’d seemed as lost for words as she, and so he’d only held her tightly, pressed his lips against hers for the briefest of moments, and turned to mount his horse. _Come home to me, Ned,_ she thought now. _Come home safely to all of us_.

A soft knock at her door alerted her to the arrival of her maid. Sighing, the Lady of Winterfell pulled her mind away from the wilds of the North where her husband rode toward a dangerous foe, and she focused her attention on the business of the day.

Her children, along with Dak and Jeyne, joined her in the solar for the midday meal, and she passed a pleasant hour with all of them. Arya smiled widely at her upon entering so she knew that nothing evil had occurred with Ned during the night. Bran and Rickon had realized where Nymeria was quickly, of course, through their own wolves, and naturally wanted to send Summer and Shaggy after Ned as well. Catelyn had forbidden that, however, reminding the boys that if they sent all the wolves out of Winterfell their father would be far more furious than grateful. Looking at her oldest living son, she’d said gravely, “You are the Stark in Winterfell in your father’s absence, Bran, and it is your duty to keep the people here as safe as possible. Do you think sending Summer away would serve that duty?”

Her son had looked up at her with his blue eyes just slightly darker than her own and shaken his head gravely. While not quite eleven years old, Bran understood duty far better than some men she knew. It didn’t make it easier to put the task on him that she had in regard to Tyrion Lannister, however. When the other children left the solar after the meal, she asked Bran to stay behind.

“Lord Tyrion arrives on the morrow,” she said when they were alone. “Are you certain you feel prepared to do this? If you do not . . .”

“I can do it, Mother,” he said firmly. “We’ve found a suitable horse, and I’ve been practicing with him. I wouldn’t trust him without the other horses around us to keep him steady, but Ian and Deryk ride on either side of me, and he behaves quite well.”

Catelyn sighed. Bran had his own horse, to be specially trained for his voice and rein commands, but that horse was still too young to be ridden. While the craftsmen of the castle had been put to the task of quickly making his specialized saddle, the horse could not be commanded to more quickly grow. So Bran had been trying out various mounts in the stable under the watchful eye of men she trusted in search of one which would do for this short excursion. In truth, even as she’d devised this plan, she’d hoped she’d be strong enough to ride out from Winterfell herself, but she did not need Sam to tell her that she was not. She hated her weakness, but she could not deny it.

“Bran,” she said. “I ask a great deal of you in this. I wish that there was another way, but . . .”

“Mother!” he interrupted. “I can do this. I am glad to do it. Sansa can’t. She just . . .can’t. Not with Lord Tyrion. And Arya would probably threaten to stab him or something, and Rickon’s a baby. And you . . . well, you’re just starting to get better. We can’t risk you.”

Catelyn almost smiled at her son’s using the words so close to those Ned so often used about her, in spite of how guilty she felt at putting him in such a position. _He will be safe,_ she told herself. _I am not sending him out alone._

“You have become a fine young man, Bran. I have always been proud of you, but you simply make me more proud all the time. You will be a good lord one day.”

She’d meant to praise him, but his expression darkened. “I am not a lord,” he said. “I am not meant to be one.”

“Your father felt the same,” she told him. “Have you ever known a better lord than Eddard Stark?”

“No.”

“You are his son, Bran. I can see him in you so much. You are far too young to have suffered what you have, my sweetling, and yet it has not defeated you. It has only made you wiser than your years.”

“And broken,” he whispered, breaking her heart with the words. A fierce stab of hatred for Jaime Lannister sliced through that broken heart.

“No,” she said fiercely. “You are wounded. Your legs are crippled, Bran, but not your mind. Not your spirit. You are not broken, my son. No evil, honorless wretch could ever truly break you.”

He looked at her. “What if I’m supposed to be something else, though, Mother?”

She felt a chill then. Ned had told her some of what Bran had said of his time north of the Wall, but she didn’t really want to hear it. He was her son. He belonged at Winterfell. He was now the heir to Winterfell, and it mattered nothing that he didn’t have use of his legs. He would have Rickon and now Brien beside him. If he couldn’t have sons of his own, they could. Bran would have heirs aplenty. No magic man in a weirwood tree would take her son’s birthright from him.

Looking at the eyes that gazed up at her now, though, Catelyn didn’t think that was what Bran wanted or needed to hear from her at the moment. “You are supposed to be Brandon Stark,” she said. “It’s an old and powerful name that has belonged to many great Starks throughout the centuries. And now it is yours.” She reached out and ran her hand through her son’s auburn hair. “Whatever you do, my sweet son, I know you will wear your name as well as or better than any Brandon Stark who’s come before.”

He smiled at her then, and she shifted the conversation toward the plans for the morrow. They’d gone over it all before, but Catelyn Stark believed in being prepared. _Gods help him,_ she prayed, when Ian finally came to take him from the solar to practice with the horse again. _He’s brave, and good, and intelligent, but he is only a little boy. Please help him._

Then she slowly got to her feet. She needed to go to her chambers and feed her babe. Then she needed to speak with Sansa. The girl was adamant that she didn’t truly believe Tyrion Lannister wished her any harm, and yet she trembled at the thought of seeing him. Her daughter had developed a remarkable control over her emotions during her time at the Eyrie, a skill which had no doubt kept her sane as well as safer than she would have otherwise been as Petyr Baelish attempted to make her into a creature of his own design. Yet, her time in Kings Landing had been nothing short of physical and mental torture, and she’d been a true child then, without the defenses learned from Littlefinger.

Catelyn understood her daughter’s fears well enough. Olyvar Frey was Lord of the Crossing now. Sweet Olyvar who’d served Robb faithfully and helped with her own escape from the Twins. He would welcome her warmly should she ever visit him. Yet, she would never set foot in the Twins again. Nothing could compel her to pass its gates. And while she truly loved her goodsister, and had a great deal of affection and respect for Olyvar and Perwyn, it had taken her a long time before she could look at any of them and not see Lord Walder. Not see that wedding. Not see her son dying before her eyes.

No, Sansa would not have to lay eyes on Tyrion Lannister unless she chose to do so. Winterfell was her home, and Catelyn would not have her feel unsafe or even uncomfortable here if she could help it. Yet, she could not prevent the dwarf from coming. Sighing, she rubbed the spot on her back that reminded her of her husband’s absence with its every ache, and left the solar for her chambers. She would have Sansa come there to speak to her. Her first born daughter had always been comfortable in her room, and she would give the child all the comfort she could now.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

 _Blue roses? Why had she looked so stricken when I told her of the blue roses?_ Jon didn’t understand this girl, _my aunt,_ at all. She was angry and defensive and yet she asked him questions and seemed to genuinely listen to his responses. She was determined to believe he was Lord Stark’s son, but then he couldn’t really blame her for that. He’d prefer not to believe it himself. In spite of her anger and obvious mistrust of his words, he’d thought they were at least communicating until she’d gone nearly catatonic at the story of the blue roses.

He watched her stare into the fire for what seemed like a long time. Finally, he could not remain silent any longer. “Your Grace?” he asked tentatively. She did not answer at first, and he started to speak to her a second time, but she turned toward him before he could.

“In a land far from here, I was once shown many visions in a terrifying place. I could understand almost none of them. One of the things I saw was a blue rose growing from a wall of ice. It certainly wasn’t the most frightening thing I saw, but it was one of the most puzzling. What possible meaning could it have?” She spoke quietly and seemed to expect some answer from him.

“I do not know, Your Grace,” Jon told her.

“Was I looking at you, Jon Snow? Are you the blue rose on this Wall?”

Jon sighed. “I have not seen a blue rose since I left Winterfell. They grew in the glass gardens there. My sister Sansa was fond of them, and my fath . . .Lord Eddard . . . would put them on his sister’s tomb in the crypt. I asked him why he did that once, when I was a little boy. I’d forgotten about that.”

“What did he say?”

“He said his sister had always loved flowers.” Jon felt his breath catch as he remembered what his father had said after that, his grey looking away as if he saw something in the distance that Jon could not. “And then he said, ‘The blue roses remind me of a promise I must keep.’ I didn’t know what he meant then.” Father had looked back at him then for a long time, and Jon thought he had more to say, but in the end, he’d just reached out a hand to ruffle his hair and told him to go and play. _Gods! I was seven, maybe eight then. I wonder if he considered telling me all of it that day. I wonder how many times he made himself keep silent._

Jon realized he was the one who’d gone silent then, and he looked up to see Daenerys Targaryen staring at him, one brow raised quizzically. She was a tiny thing. She looked nothing like his sister Arya, with that silver hair and those haunting violet eyes, and yet she reminded him of her as she stood there--looking small enough to be blown over by the wind and yet somehow fierce and strong and defiant. “I don’t know anything else about blue roses, Your Grace. I certainly don’t think I am one.”

She actually laughed then. “You don’t look like one,” she said. She stared at him for another long minute, and Jon had the uncomfortable feeling he was being appraised. “Your father says you have the wife of the Usurper’s brother here,” she said suddenly. “Is that true?”

 _The wife of_ . . . It took him a moment to realize she meant Selyse Baratheon. Instead of answering, he sighed. “Lord Stark is not my father.”

“So you say,” the little queen said curtly. “Yet you have started to call him so more than once since we’ve been talking, and you refer to his children as your brothers and sisters.” Jon started to say something, but she cut him off with an impatient wave of her hand. “You have also said you don’t care whether or not you are a trueborn Targaryen. So why don’t we forget the topic of who is or isn’t Eddard Stark’s bastard for the moment. Then if we must speak of the damned man, we can simply use whatever terms we prefer and not place any significance on them.”

“I would have you speak of Lord Stark with respect, Your Grace. I assure you he deserves that,” Jon said stiffly.

The infuriating girl laughed again. “You remind me of Lady Stark,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t belong to her after all?”

That stunned Jon into speechlessness. No one had ever had the nerve to liken him to Lady Catelyn Stark in any way whatsoever. He couldn’t help feeling the woman would be mortified if she’d heard Daenerys’s words.

Daenerys shook her head and frowned. “You defend him reflexively. So does she. I don’t think either of you even thinks about it before you do it. It’s remarkable, really, given the magnitude of the lie you both claim he’s told you for years.”

Jon remembered Lady Stark coming to him in the godswood at Winterfell. She didn’t like him. She didn’t pretend to like him. But she’d come to defend Eddard Stark to him in spite of that. This girl was wrong about the not thinking part of it, though. Lady Stark had thought long and hard about her lord husband’s lie and her response to it. Jon had, too. To Daenerys Targaryen, he said simply, “Lady Stark will defend her lord husband because she knows he is worthy of it. I suppose we are alike in that one thing.”

“The Baratheon woman. Is she here?” Daenerys asked, suddenly shifting the conversation back to her original question.

“Queen Selyse and her daughter are staying at Castle Black for their own safety while her husband has gone to fight the Others.”

“He goes to fight the Others now,” she snapped. “But he started out fighting the Lannisters and their allies for the Iron Throne. For my throne! You called his wife queen! Have you declared for Stannis Baratheon, bastard?”

Jon could have sworn he saw actual flames in the depth of those violet eyes now. He took several deep breaths in an effort to remain calm. “The Night’s Watch takes no part,” he said finally. “The battles over the Iron Throne do not concern us. They cannot. Whichever of you takes it I will wish well. But my task is the defense of the realm against the threat from beyond the Wall and I will accept whatever help I am offered. Stannis Baratheon has already come to our aid and is now prepared to do so again. I do at least owe him my gratitude, Your Grace, and for that I will keep his wife and daughter as safe as I might. And if the woman prefers to be called Your Grace, that costs me nothing and concerns me little.”

“Costs nothing and concerns you little? So you feel the same when you offer me my title, then! You give no true respect. You make a mockery of me!”

She was becoming angry nearly to the point of hysteria, and Jon wondered desperately how he could rein that anger back in. “I would never mock you, Your Grace. Selyse Baratheon is a frightened woman who put all her faith in the words of a red priestess who is likely dead, and who has now locked herself away from the world while demanding titles she holds only by virtue of marriage, if by that. You are descended from kings, have made yourself a queen in Meereen, and have come here on dragonback to meet with me. You are not a woman to be mocked.”

She stared at him, and while anger still smoldered in those purple eyes, he thought he had mollified her a bit at least. “You want me to take my dragons and fight your demons beside Stannis Baratheon? I doubt he would welcome me.”

“Likely, he will not. Yet, he cannot defeat the Others without your dragons. None of us can, Your Grace.”

He spoke the words simply and sincerely because they were true. He could only hope she could accept that truth more easily than she could his parentage. And then hope that she cared.

“They are truly as fearsome as Lord Stark led me to believe, these Others?”

“They are like nothing I have ever known,” Jon said gravely. “You were cold, were you not, Your Grace? When you stood outside in this place?” He swallowed. “I tell you that you will long to be as warm as you were then when you stand in the presence of the Others. They are the essence of cold itself. They are cold, and fear, and death. And they are loose in the North. If they are not stopped here, they will sweep southward, and I do not know what will be left of the kingdoms that you desire to rule.”

She looked at him a long time, and he thought that she believed him at least in this.

“You would come with me, I take it?” she asked after a moment.

“With you? I have no horse that can travel as fast as the dragons, Your Grace,” he said. “But I will be with the Green. I can see through its eyes, and even influence its movements by sharing my thoughts with it.”

“Why do you keep calling him that?” she snapped in sudden irritation.

“The Green? I am sorry. It is only what I called it before I knew its name. It knows its name, of course--the name you have given it. But as it doesn’t speak the tongue of men even in thought, it had no way to tell me.”

“No! It!! Why do you persist in calling Rhaegal ‘it’ as if he is some sort of thing? I understood it from the Starks who view my dragons only as monsters, but you seem to understand that they are so much more. So why?”

That shocked him. He’d never thought about it. He only thought of the dragon in the terms that it thought of itself. “Why do you call it ‘him’, Your Grace?” he responded. “I certainly don’t see the Green . . .Rhaegal . . .as a thing, but it sees itself only as a dragon--not as a male or a female that I can determine. I don’t know why that is, only that it is. Ghost is a male direwolf, thinks of himself as a male direwolf, and so I think of him the same way. Rhaegal is just . . .Rhaegal. I don’t know how better to explain it.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I’ve always thought of them as boys,” she said softly then. “I don’t even know why. I just have.”

Jon smiled at her. “I think that is only natural, Your Grace. Dragons are the fiercest and deadliest of all creatures. We consider such traits as belonging to men rather than women.” Images of Ygritte, Arya, this silver queen, and even, oddly enough, Lady Stark sprang into his mind. “I think perhaps that is a mistake, however.”

She stared at him some more. “You must come with me if I go, Jon Snow. You may speak as many pretty words about joining together to fight a common foe as you wish. But should I descend upon Stannis Baratheon or any of your Northmen with my three dragons, I will be met with arrows rather than gratitude. You know this to be true.”

“Do you think arrows would harm the dragons?” Jon asked her.

“They live, my lord. Of course they can be hurt, although I do not believe they would take serious harm. They would defend themselves, however. Would you have half your Northmen burned to death by angry dragons? Mayhaps you believe your hold over Rhaegal strong enough to prevent him from retaliating against an attack, but I assure you, I could not do the same with Drogon or Viserion. If they are attacked, they will fight back.”

“I . . .I am not a dragonrider,” Jon said hesitantly. He didn’t want to be a dragonrider. He still thought of himself as a Stark in all but name. Warging the dragon was one thing. Climbing upon it to take bodily to the skies was something else entirely--something that proclaimed his kinship to Aegon the Conqueror and all the Targaryens after him far too boldly for Jon’s liking.

“I will not go without you,” Daenerys Targaryen said, in a voice which indicated she would not be moved on this. “I see no way of avoiding bloodshed if I go alone, and while I may not be able to avoid eventual war with Stannis Baratheon, I would choose not to rain down fire and blood upon Lord Stark’s bannermen so soon after being a guest in his castle. I am not at war with the North, Jon Snow, and if given a choice, I think I shall choose never to be. If you cannot come with me, I shall take my dragons south, for I have no hesitation about warring against the forces of the bastard boy in King’s Landing. There is also the matter of the man who calls himself Aegon Targyen in the Stormlands. I would find the truth of that, if I could. There is much for me to do, and I can easily leave you to fend for yourselves here.”

Jon looked at this aunt of his--this young woman who seemed one moment a vulnerable girl and the next moment a conquering queen. He had no doubt she meant every word she said. She had not mentioned before the man who had come from Essos with Jon Connington to invade the Stormlands claiming to be Rhaegar Targaryen’s son Aegon. He wondered if she’d spoken of him with his father during her time at Winterfell. Neither he nor Lord Stark had heard much of the man since he’d laid seige to Storm’s End. King’s Landing was in chaos, of course, with the Lannisters all but destroyed and Tommen Baratheon dependent upon the loyalty of other Houses, particularly House Tyrell, to maintain his tenuous hold on the Iron Throne.

She was correct that she could use the dragons to her advantage in either of these situations. While the battle against the Others was the only battle concerning him, all of these battles mattered to Daenerys Targaryen. He thought the Green might stay with him, regardless, but he didn’t know if one dragon was enough. He didn’t even truly know if the Green would stay. The dragon felt the bond between them as strongly as Jon did, but Jon had been able to feel the beast’s joy at being reunited with Daenerys. _The Green is her child, and she is its mother. It will not like being parted from her again._

“I do not know how to ride a dragon,” he said then, and he was surprised to hear her laugh.

“Neither did I the first time I did it,” she said. “And you will at least have me to help you.” She looked at him with a challenge in her violet eyes. “If you are only the get of Eddard Stark on some poor serving wench, you will not be able to ride, whatever else your cursed Northern blood allows you to do. Dragonriders have always been the blood of Valyria. But if you are who you and the Starks say you are, then ride with me. If you can ride Rhaegal, we will go together and rain fire and blood upon these icy monsters of yours, Jon Snow. If you are who you say you are, I will fight your battle first.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

As the walls of Winterfell rose up before him, Tyrion Lannister couldn’t help but remember the last time he’d seen this castle. He’d been traveling south then, returning from his visit to the Wall, and he’d designed a saddle for the Stark cripple out of some sense of kindness toward the Stark bastard. He’d been met with open hostility during that visit by the oldest Stark son--the red-headed boy with his mother’s looks--and he’d nearly been savaged by the direwolves of the three Starks in residence in at the time. In retrospect, he supposed the Starks had some justification for the hositility toward House Lannister, although gods knew the Northmen had been wrong about any number of things.

He wondered how many Starks were in residence now. The Young Wolf was dead. That seemed certain enough--as certain as the surprising resurrection of both his parents. He still found the survival of Lord and Lady Stark quite unbelievable and hoped during this visit to learn how it came about simply to satisfy his curiosity. There’d been rumors about their various children as well, and he wondered if the elder Starks knew the whereabouts of his one-time wife. He had alternated between despising the girl for fleeing and leaving him to take all the blame and admiring her for having pulled off her escape.

He still wondered if she’d had anything to do with Joffrey’s death. Gods knew the girl had reason to kill Cersei’s wretched son. He couldn’t quite convince himself she’d done it, though. Of all the people he had known in his life, Sansa Stark was the only one who had truly been as innocent as she seemed. _And Tysha, she was innocent, too,_ came the unwanted voice in his head. He silenced it immediately. Whatever had befallen Tysha after his father’s cruel deception, she was lost to him now. She must despise him if she lived, and yet he hoped she lived anyway.

He realized then that a fairly large party of riders had left the castle and were coming toward him although he was still a fair distance from Winterfell’s gates. He looked skyward and saw none of Daenerys’s dragons. Surely, she wouldn’t allow Stark to attack or arrest him. Still, as he counted the riders approaching and compared it to the number of his own guard, he realized the numbers were fairly even, and he called his party to a halt. These Stark riders could greet him out of range of any archers from Winterfell’s walls. He’d give them no advantage.

As the riders neared, he realized that two of what he’d thought horses at a distance were not horses at all. _Gods!_ he thought. _Those things are twice the size they were when last I saw them._ He looked skyward again, but still saw no great winged beasts. _Wonderful. Direwolves but no dragons._ He didn’t recall Lord and Lady Stark having any wolves of their own and wondered if these two beasts meant that at least two of their brood had survived and returned home. Sansa’s wolf had been killed long ago, of course, so that left the wild younger girl and the two little boys supposedly murdered by Theon Greyjoy. On his last visit here, he had quipped to young Robb that Starks were apparently hard to kill. Mayhaps, he had spoken more truly than he knew.

“We are going to await them here, my lord?” the captain of his guard asked him.

“Yes. Stay close by me. I do not expect outright violence, but the Starks have little reason to love me. I suspect this large ‘welcoming party’ means the queen has told them who is coming to visit.”

The riders drew near enough for Tyrion to make out some details of the various men. He thought that they were all men. Daenerys Targaryen was certainly not among them. He didn’t see anyone resembling Eddard Stark either, and that rather surprised him. From previous experience with the man, he’d have expected him to ride out and meet a potentially hostile guest himself.

In the center of the front line, three men rode very close together. Looking at them more carefully, Tyrion realized the rider in the center wasn’t a man at all, but a boy. He was taller than Tyrion remembered, but the saddle was unmistakable, as was the way his legs hung limply on the sides of the horse. He was being met by Brandon Stark, the cripple of Winterfell.

For the briefest instant, Tyrion got angry. Sending a cripple to meet a dwarf--now there’s an insult that his own father might have authored. Then he realized that however much they might hate him, the Starks were not like Tywin Lannister. If they chose to insult him, they would never do so at the expense of one of their own children. Thinking rationally about the situation, he realized that as Robb Stark was dead, this boy was the eldest son of Winterfell. His presence in the greeting party could mean only one thing. Eddard Stark was not at Winterfell.

“Lord Lannister!” Bran Stark cried out. It was a boy’s voice, still untouched by any impending maturity into manhood. “I welcome you to Winterfell in the name of my father, Lord Eddard Stark!”

Tyrion didn’t reply until the boy and his escorts (all armed, Tyrion didn’t fail to notice) drew close enough that he didn’t have to shout. “Do you indeed, young Brandon? It appears more likely that you are considering barring my way. I am gratified to see that the saddle worked well, at least.”

The boy’s cheeks reddened slightly. He had his mother’s coloring, and undoubtedly he flushed easily. “You will be made welcome,” the child replied, “provided you agree to a single condition.” The boy stopped his horse a short distance from Tyrion’s and both direwolves moved in front of his horse, stretching out on the ground between them, and keeping their eyes on Tyrion without so much as blinking.

Tyrion raised his brow. “A condition, you say? Since when does the Lord of Winterfell send children out to set conditions for his guests? Guests, I might add, that are here at the specific instruction of Her Grace, Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Queen of Meereen.”

The color in the boys’ cheeks at that comment was due to anger, Tyrion thought. “I am no child,” he said. “I am the heir to Winterfell, and as my lord father is not in residence at present, I expect you to give me the courtesy due the Stark in Winterfell, my lord.”

“And I would expect you to give me the courtesy due a guest, little lordling. Yet you have met me outside your castle with an armed escort. Mayhaps we both must alter our expectations.”

The boy looked grim, and it almost made Tyrion laugh to see an expression so reminiscent of Eddard Stark on such an obviously Tully face. “What does Her Grace have to say about this welcome you’ve set me, young Brandon?”

“She is not here. She left Winterfell several days ago.”

Now that gave Tyrion pause. Where had the girl gone? She could be rash to the point of stupidity at times. Had she wandered off somewhere with Eddard Stark, not waiting for him to arrive and give her counsel? _Damn the girl!_ While he’d begun to develop a genuine fondness for Daenerys Targaryen, and it was certainly in his best interests to help her succeed in her goals, he sometimes found it nearly impossible to make her see reason or act responsibly.

“And where, pray tell, have Queen Daenerys and your lord father wandered off to?” he asked the Stark boy.

“My lady mother awaits you, my lord. She will tell you all of it, and give you the letter of instruction Her Grace left for you. Once you have agreed to our condition.”

His first thought was, _It would be she-wolf I’m forced to treat with, of all people._ His second was that the Catelyn Stark he had known would never have sent her child out of the castle while she sat safely behind its walls. He remembered her hands well enough, sliced nearly to the bone by that accursed knife in defense of this very child. Something was wrong here.

“Your lady mother awaits me within the castle?” he asked disbelievingly.

“She does. She . . .” He seemed about to tell him something, but then thought better of it. “She won’t allow you to enter though until you’ve agreed.”

Tyrion sighed. He was cold. He was tired. He could use a comfortable chair and full plate of food. He could use a full cup of ale or wine even more. “What is your condition, my lord?” he asked the child with exaggerated courtesy.

“You will give up any claim to my sister Sansa. You will write the High Septon yourself, explain that the marriage was never consummated, and that it should be annulled immediately. Furthermore, you will make no threats toward my sister or even attempt to speak to her while you are at Winterfell unless she wishes to speak to you.”

“Sansa,” he said stupidly. “Sansa is here? In Winterfell?”

“She is,” Brandon Stark said coldly. “It is her home, my lord. Where else should she be?”

Still stunned at the confirmation that Sansa had not only survived, but was in fact right here at Winterfell, Tyrion actually laughed at the boy’s words. “Of course,” he said. “No doubt all your brothers and sisters are here. Where else would they be?” he said mockingly.

“Of course they are,” Bran Stark said, smiling at him somewhat gloatingly. Tyrion’s face must have shown his shock because the boy’s smile hardened somewhat. “We Starks are hard to kill, my lord. You told my brother that yourself. Remember?”

Tyrion nodded his head in acknowledgement. “I remember. Fortunately, I have no desire to kill any Starks. As for the Lady Sansa, that marriage was my father’s doing. Never my own. I have no wish to have a wife who doesn’t want me. Your sister indeed remained a maiden while she was with me, and I will not hesitate to say so. To the High Septon or anyone else who asks.”

“You swear it?”

The boy was certainly thorough. “I do. I swear I will join the Lady Sansa in seeking an annulment of our marriage on the grounds it was never a true marriage at all. Is that good enough for you, my lordling?”

The boy ignored the japing title and merely nodded grimly, again putting Tyrion in mind of his father. He then called out, “Summer! Shaggy! Home!”

The two direwolves rose and bounded toward the gate without hesitation.

“Come, my lord,” Brandon Stark said then. “There is food prepared for you in my lord father’s solar so that you may speak with my lady mother there. My men will see to your horses, and your men will find food and ale in the Great Hall.”

“I hope I shall also find ale,” Tyrion responded with a smile, and Bran Stark actually laughed, seeming to relax a bit now that he had accomplished his mission. He looked far more like his mother than his father when he laughed, although Tyrion had seen little enough laughter from Catelyn Stark since that long ago feast in Winterfell before his dear brother had tossed this little boy from a tower.

Jaime was a prisoner at Riverrun, Tyrion knew. He had discovered that through reliable sources. The she-wolf would never free him, and Tyrion honestly wasn’t certain how he felt about that. He knew he both loved and hated his brother, but on any given day he wasn’t certain which he felt more. In any event, Jaime had killed Daenerys’s father. However much the little queen had come to believe her father had indeed been mad, she would never accept anything except death for the man who had killed him. For that reason, he had not told his queen what he had learned. He was under no illusion that Ser Barristan or that disagreeable Northman wouldn’t discover the truth in time. Mayhaps, one of the Starks had already told Daenerys where her father’s murderer was held. But he would not be the one who handed his brother to the executioner. Whatever Jaime had done, Tyrion could not do that.

“Lord Lannister?” He heard the boy’s voice and realized he had been lost in his own thoughts even as he’d begun riding again toward the gates of Winterfell. He looked toward Bran Stark, awaiting whatever he had to say.

“The saddle does work well,” the boy said with something akin to actual warmth in it for the first time. “I am in your debt.”

“No,” he said softly, looking at the boy’s useless legs. “You owe no debts to any Lannister.”

The boy looked at him strangely. Whether he had ever remembered or been told what had truly happened to him, Tyrion did not know. Yet, Bran Stark’s eyes seemed to see more than any young boy’s should as he gazed at him then, and Tyrion found himself compelled to look away.

He had been within the walls of Winterfell only a very short time when one of the men who’d ridden by Bran Stark informed him he would escort him to Lady Stark now. Much to Tyrion’s dismay, Bran Stark, who was being lifted from his saddle by a rather large, muscular soldier who’d also been beside him, called to one of the wolves.

“Summer! To Mother. Guard.” He looked at Tyrion and smiled. “You needn’t worry, my lord. Summer minds my lady mother very well. He will simply lie by her chair and keep her feet warm if she tells him to.”

He did not say, _Or he’ll rip open your belly and eat your entrails if she tells him to,_ but Tyrion heard it all the same. He forced a smile at this boy who seemed to be far more clever than any boy his age should be, and said, “I have met your lady mother, remember? I have no doubt that a direwolf would no more seek to defy her than I would.”

In truth, he was more insulted by the boy’s setting the animal to guard his mother from him than threatened by it. If Lady Catelyn could indeed control the wolf, he didn’t fear any harm to himself. The lady’s abduction of him at the Crossroads Inn notwithstanding, he’d never seen her go against her ridiculously overactive sense of honor. She’d prevented her mad sister from summarily executing him, and had at least seemed interested in hearing what evidence he could give in spite of her predisposition to disbelieve any words he spoke.

He supposed that even her abduction of him had been provoked, although he had not been the one responsible for the provocation. He certainly did not intend to provoke her now, and he did his best to convey a sense of good will toward the damned wolf as the captain led him through the corridors of the Great Keep.

“The children are all somewhat protective of their lady mother,” the man said to him as they walked. “Lady Catelyn did not ask for the wolf, but she is rarely without one by her side these days.”

“The children? All?” Tyrion asked, thinking of Bran Stark‘s words outside the gate. “Just how many . . .”

“Here we are, my lord,” the captain said, stopping to knock on a door.

A feminine voice which Tyrion remembered all too well called out, “Come in!”

“Tyrion Lannister, my lady,” the man said as he opened the door and walked in ahead of Tyrion. “He has agreed to the terms set, and young Lord Brandon has sent him to you.”

“Along with Summer, I see,” the woman seated behind the desk said with an amused smile. “Thank you, Deryk. You may go now.”

As the man called Deryk left the solar, closing the door behind him, the damned wolf did not move from directly in front of Tyrion, effectively preventing him from moving further into the room.

The damned Stark woman actually laughed. “To me, Summer,” she said, and the wolf trotted around the desk to her, lying at her feet just as the boy had said it would.

“Lady Stark,” Tyrion said, advancing a few paces into the room. “I certainly did not expect to ever have the pleasure of your company again.”

“I imagine not. Dead women rarely receive visitors.”

She met his gaze without flinching at all, and he recalled she had been like that before. Yet, there were differences. She had a number of vertical red lines on her face, as if she had been clawed by some beast, and he found himself wondering if she had not always controlled the direwolves so well as she appeared to now. In any event, the scars were old and rather faded. They likely would have been far less visible had she not been rather pale, as if she were suffering from some long illness. He wondered if she were, and if that had kept her from riding out to meet him. There was another scar visible when she inclined her head. Just above the neckline of her gown, he could just see a slashing line across her throat. _The Twins,_ he thought. _Frey had reported her throat had been cut._ It would appear that much was true, even if the wound had not been fatal.

She sat silently, and he realized that he was staring at her. “Forgive me, my lady. I didn’t mean to . . .”

“We are none of us without scars, Lord Lannister,” she said matter-of-factly. “You are hardly the first man to stare at mine. Although, I would submit that your own face has provoked at least as many stares. I assume you know where I received my scars as it was done on your father’s command. Where did you come by yours?”

“The Battle of the Blackwater, my lady,” he replied without hesitation. “I rode out to defend the city from Stannis’s men only to have half my face sliced off by a knight of the Kingsguard.”

She raised her brows slightly. “I fear I have lost all respect for the Kingsguard, my lord. Although I hadn’t realized they abused murderous dwarves as well as innocent girls.”

“Murderous dwarves? That’s a bit much, considering all you must have learned since you wrongfully abducted me on the Kingsroad, Lady Stark.”

“Oh, I don’t believe you sent the assassin after Bran,” she said easily. “And you certainly didn’t kill Jon Arryn or your vile nephew as I know well enough who was responsible for both of those deaths.”

Tyrion goggled at her. Had the she-wolf truly discovered the truth of those deaths or was she merely jumping to conclusions as she had about him? Before he could ask for further information, she continued speaking.

“You did however kill your own father, making you kinslayer. While I am certainly pleased that Tywin Lannister no longer draws breath, it still makes the term ‘murderous dwarf’ apt when applied to you, does it not?”

“I was accused by my sister, but . . .”

“I would no more take the word of Cersei Lannister than I would voluntarily drink poison. Yet your father was murdered the very night you escaped imprisonment. It would appear the evidence against you is rather strong. You needn’t worry that anyone here will seek to avenge the man, though.”

Tyrion closed his eyes. Dealing with this woman was as painful as he remembered. “I am hungry, Lady Stark,” he said. “And thirsty. And painfully tired. Would it be too much to ask that you feed me and allow me to sit before you verbally eviscerate me?”

Her mouth twitched. “There,” she said, indicating a table against the wall, and he turned to see a platter laid with a variety of breads, cheeses and cold meats as well as a large tankard of something.

“Gods be good,” he said, waddling toward it without waiting for further invitation.

“Forgive me for not serving you, but I am to remain off my feet as much as possible, I’m afraid. Our maester is rather strict about it.”

“Are you ill, Lady Stark?” he asked her, lifting the tankard to his lips while standing at the table, before making any move to take any of the food. Ale had rarely tasted so sweet.

“No. I fear that the birth of my last child was exceptionally difficult, and my lord husband has ordered everyone to treat me as if I am made of glass, but I am recovering quite well.”

At the words ‘birth of my last child’, Tyrion had actually spit his ale, and now he struggled to regain some dignity which the damned woman’s amused expression did not make easy.

“I am a married woman, Lord Tyrion. And as your family somehow failed to kill both my lord husband and myself, I hardly think it surprising that I have had another child. I had given Lord Stark five already, you know.”

Tyrion swallowed. “I congratulate you, my lady, on your . . .remarkable fertility.”

She snorted. “Bring that food and drink over here. You can set it on the desk and take any chair here you like. I need to give you Queen Daenerys’s letter.”

When he was seated, she handed him an unsealed roll of parchment. “You’ve read it, I take it?” he said.

“Of course. As has my lord husband. Your queen knew that we would.”

He nodded and read the words. He recognized Daenerys’s handwriting easily enough as well as her habit of speech. He laughed as he laid it on the desk. “She says she will support my annulling my marriage to your daughter, but she does not order me to do so.”

“No,” Lady Stark said. “That was our demand, not Daenerys Targaryen’s.” The blue eyes were hard as ice as she looked at him then. “I will not give you my daughter.”

“My father gave me your daughter, Lady Stark,” he replied with cold courtesy. “I chose not to take her maidenhead in spite of his demands. I should think you might be grateful for that.”

“I am,” she said simply. “But I would like to know why you behaved as you did.”

He took a drink of ale. “She was a child,” he said finally. “A frightened child who had lost everything she loved and who had been given no choice.” He took another drink. “I know a bit about that,” he said darkly.

“She said you stopped the Kingsguard from beating her.”

“When I knew about it,” he said truthfully. “I didn’t always. Once she was my wife, though, I could keep her from physical harm, at least.”

She closed her eyes briefly, and Tyrion realized she was fighting to keep that iron control she always seemed to have over herself. When she spoke next, her voice trembled ever so slightly. “I am grateful. I meant that. I would ask you to stay away from her, though.”

“I would never harm Sansa, my lady,” Tyrion protested, for some reason needing her to believe that.

“She said as much,” Lady Catelyn acknowledged. “But you are King’s Landing to her. And I would not have her reminded of King’s Landing. Do you understand?”

Tyrion nodded. He understood that very well. “If I could ask, my lady, how did you find her?”

“We got word that Petyr Baelish had hidden her in the Vale.”

The attitude of trusting affection with which this woman had once spoken of Baelish was gone. In its place was a hatred far colder than anything he had felt from Lady Stark for himself. “Did he . . .” he started to ask, but couldn’t.

“We got her away from him in time,” she said simply. “But as I think you know, not all harm is physical. In any event, he is dead now.” The coldness in her voice chilled him.

He needed to discuss the contents of Daenerys’s letter. Yet, he found himself compelled to ask one more question first. “Your other children, Lady Stark. Bran and Sansa are here at Winterfell . . .”

“As are Arya, Rickon, and Brien,” she said.

“Brien,” he repeated. “Your new babe is another son.”

“He is,” she said. “A fine, strong boy, like all three of his brothers were.”

The expression that briefly crossed her face then was so pained, he almost felt compelled to offer his condolences on the death of her firstborn son. Yet, his family had engineered that death. No matter that he had not been part of it and that the Freys had actually done the deed, any sympathetic words from him would sound false to Catelyn Stark, so he kept silent.

“Tell me of this threat from beyond the Wall,” he said, indicating Daenerys’s letter. “Tell me why Lord Stark’s bastard would have Her Grace’s third dragon, my lady. And tell me what danger could possibly be so great that Lord Stark would leave you here when you are not yet fit to ride a horse a short distance from your own gate.”

Lady Stark sighed. “I do not trust you, Tyrion Lannister. Yet, I acknowledge that I wronged you once before.”

He nodded his head, accepting what was likely as close to an apology as he would ever get from this woman.

“Queen Daenerys is young and rather . . .impulsive,” she continued.

Tyrion laughed. “Noticed that, did you?”

She gave him a tight smile. “I confess I rather expected her to execute my husband on several occasions.”

“The Usurper’s Dog,” he laughed. “Did she call him that to his face?”

“And to mine.”

“I would have liked to have seen that,” Tyrion said, and he truly would have. His fiery little Targaryen queen going at the icy Eddard Stark and questioning the honor of the she-wolf’s husband to her face. He’d have bought a ticket to watch that.

“I was less amused than you seem to be,” Lady Stark said acidly. “She did have two dragons just outside the walls of my home. And the one flew in and nearly attacked Sansa and myself one night.”

That did dampen Tyrion’s amusement. “Viserion,” he said darkly.

She nodded. “In any event, we need your queen, Lord Tyrion. More specifically, we need her dragons. The peril facing the North will soon imperil the entire kingdom if it goes unchecked. Whatever comes of her meeting with Jon Snow, we need your support of our efforts.”

“If you want my support, you will need to give me more information, my lady.”

She nodded. “I do not trust you,” she repeated. “Nor does my husband. But we both fear the time for keeping our secrets is past. If you are to help us, you will need to know what we have told Daenerys Targaryen.”

Tyrion picked up a piece of cheese and held it just in front of his mouth as he asked, “And what is that, my lady?”

“The truth.”


	59. Unforeseen Attacks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As in the previous chapter, events depicted in this chapter are taking place in Winterfell and elsewhere. While these things are happening reasonably close together in time, they are not necessarily occurring simultaneously.

Jon ran his gloved hands along the side of Rhaegal’s neck, feeling the dragon’s heat. _Rhaegal._ The name was finally beginning to sound natural in his mind although he still found himself often thinking simply _Green._ He generally kept his head tucked behind that thick neck in order to keep the cold wind off his face, leaning around only when he wanted to see the white expanse below with his own eyes.

His aunt had attempted to show him how to look around the dragon’s neck in order to see where he was going while keeping close enough to its warm flesh to break the force of the wind, but he had laughed and told her he had no need to see around Rhaegal. He could navigate far better by looking through the dragon’s eyes. It was true, of course, and once he’d taken flight on the dragon’s back, he’d realized precisely how much better Rhaegal’s vision was than his. He could see things in marvelous detail, even from great distances and height. Looking down with his own eyes was rather like being a blind person in comparison.

Oddly enough, though, he found there was something exhilarating about experiencing flight inside his own skin and seeing the world from this height with his own eyes, and he rather wished he’d paid more attention to Daenerys’s instructions. He’d learned some of those odd words and commands in Old Valyrian at her insistence. While they were as unnecessary as any words were to him where Rhaegal was concerned, she had pointed out that if he were a Targaryen, it was possible that the other two dragons might respond to him somewhat as well, and as he seemed to have no capacity for warging them, it would benefit him to know the language they responded to.

 _If you are a Targaryen._ Daenerys persisted in qualifying her acceptance of his parentage with that phrase whenever she spoke about it, but Jon knew she believed him now. He had seen it in her eyes the first time he’d climbed upon Rhaegal’s back without any saddle or whip or rod and taken to the sky. He’d actually been afraid to fly without a saddle at first, fearing he’d not be able to hold on, and she’d laughed at him.

“I did it,” she’d challenged him. “I did it without sharing Drogon’s thoughts and with no one to teach me. But I am the blood of the dragon, so I did it.” Those violet eyes had gazed steadily at him, and Jon had found himself climbing onto Rhaegal’s back in spite of his fears. Several hours later, he’d known he would never want a saddle on the dragon.

Daenerys had smiled at him when he’d said as much. “I honestly prefer to ride Drogon without a saddle as well,” she’d said, “Although I do need something in my hand to help me direct him. But all the things I need for longer journeys are more easily secured to a saddle.”

Drogon was such a large, powerful dragon, it had been easy for it to carry the additional provisions required for Jon as well, so Rhaegal now flew through the northern sky carrying only Jon. The feeling of soaring through the sky while experiencing both the confidence in its ability to ride upon wind that coursed through Rhaeagal’s mind and the sense of awe and impossibility about flight that coursed through his own gave Jon the most amazing experience of wild freedom he had ever felt. Daenerys envied him that, he knew.

She was jealous of the connection he had to Rhaegal and frustrated by her inability to truly understand it. Truthfully, though, there were some things he thought she understood better than he did. Watching her with Drogon and Viserion and even Rhaegal helped him to learn more about his own connection with Rhaegal, and he came to realize that it wasn’t exactly like his connection to Ghost. There was something else to it--something that he couldn’t quite put a finger on, but that he recognized as existing between Daenerys and the dragons as well.

Jon had realized that Daenerys wasn’t the only person beginning to accept that he was as much a Targaryen as he ever was a Stark. She and the dragons were making him accept that as well. Still, he’d been surprised when she’d wanted him to learn commands for the dragons in Old Valyrian. She knew now that he could direct Rhaegal far more easily than she could Drogon without saying anything at all, and as possessive as she was of all three dragons, he couldn’t imagine her wanting him to have any control over the other two at all. Over the course of the two days it had taken him to get comfortable flying on Rhaegal and making arrangements for the security and command at the Wall in his absence, however, he’d begun to suspect what her motive might be.

Viserion. The cream colored dragon’s moods seemed wildly varied and impossible to predict. It would nudge Daenerys until she sat down so it could lay its head in her lap one moment, and then shriek wildly, bite at one of its siblings, and fly off alone the next. It had attacked one of the larger hogs kept for food at Castle Black, burning it alive in a great long rush of fiery breath, and then eating it in a few large bites before the eyes of several shocked and terrified men. It obeyed Daenerys no more than fifty percent of the time, but wanted to be near her and seemed even more protective of her in some ways than the other two did, hissing menacingly at anyone who came too near her or spoke too loudly to her when it was present.

She was afraid of it, Jon realized. Not afraid of anything that it might do to her, but afraid of what it might do to someone else that she would not be able to prevent. She was afraid enough that she was willing to give him the tools to assist her in controlling it, even if it cost her some of her own power. Viserion’s volatility worried Jon, but Daenerys Targaryen’s willingness to act unselfishly in order to deal with it, even if she would never admit to it, increased the respect he had for his newfound aunt.

“There’s another group of men!” Daenerys’s voice rang out from his right where Drogon flew alongside Rhaegal, and without any effort at all, Jon slipped into the green dragon’s mind and looked toward the camp which had appeared on the horizon. Through Rhaegal’s sharp bronze eyes, he could just make out individual men. They were too far away yet for even Rhaegal to see faces, but one set of bright armor was unmistakable.

“That’s Bronze Yohn Royce and his men,” Jon said. “We’re close to Last Hearth.”

“I don’t see any of those demons you and Lord Stark are so fearful of. Those Others.”

“You won’t now. It isn’t dark out yet.” Jon suppressed his irritation at the slight tone of skepticism that always crept into Daenerys’s voice when she spoke of Others, even when she had to practically shout as they flew on their dragons’ backs. She knew well enough there was some threat, and she was here. He couldn’t ask more than that.

“Shall I land Drogon and Viserion then?” she asked him. That had been their standard approach when they came to the camps of the Night’s Watch or Northmen. Word of the green dragon discovered and tamed by the Lord Commander had spread through the ranks somewhat, so that Jon alone on Rhaegal was less likely to be shot at. In the event that he was greeted with initial hostility, he could better keep Rhaegal from reacting violently than she could the other two dragons.

“Yes,” he answered loudly above the wind. “Drogon, anyway. Viserion, if you happen to see him.” The pale dragon had flown off an hour ago, when the day was just dawning, and they hadn’t seen it since. That wasn’t unusual, and Jon knew as well as Daenerys that it would find them again when it chose to, but Jon disliked having its wherabouts unknown when they were this close to a camp of men. He didn’t speak of that, though, as he knew Daenerys could do little about it. “Come after an hour or so.”

She nodded and tapped Drogon with the rod in her right hand. Jon couldn’t hear whatever she said to the black dragon, but it began descending immediately in a large graceful spiral. Jon silently urged Rhaegal on toward Lord Royce’s camp at its top speed, allowing himself to slip almost entirely into the dragon’s consciousness in order to be fully alert to all his surroundings. Rhaegal’s vision was not the only sense that was far more keen than Jon’s, although it certainly didn’t have Ghost’s sense of smell. Jon missed Ghost almost painfully, but there was no way he would have tolerated flying, and Rhaegal would never have allowed him on its back. The two beasts tolerated each other at a distance only because of their shared connection to Jon. They would never love or trust each other.

The dragon’s eyes saw the men staring upward and pointing at its approach, but no weapons were raised. Rhaegal slowed as it neared the men, making a large circle above the camp before choosing a place to land. Before the dragon’s powerful legs even touched the ground, the tall man in the ornate armor strode forward to meet it.

Jon knew Lord Royce only a little. He had met him first when he’d brought his son to Winterfell on his way to join the Night’s Watch, but he’d been just a boy then, and of course a bastard, so he hadn’t had any significant interaction with the important visitors. This last time in Winterfell, he had been the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and he’d met with all the lords present, Bronze Yohn included, about mounting a defense against the Others, and then Lord Royce had been one of the men who’d sat in his quarters at the Wall with his father when he’d told them that the Others had come south of the Wall at Eastwatch. The man had never lacked courage in his speech, and as he walked directly up to a dragon it seemed he did not lack courage in his actions either.

Jon separated his own mind completely from Rhaegal’s as the dragon lay flat on the ground allowing him to slide off its back. His legs were stiff as he stood upright to face Bronze Yohn Royce.

“Lord Commander Snow,” the older man greeted him in his unmistakable voice. “I see that the rumors are true. You have managed to procure an even more dangerous pet than your direwolf.”

Jon smiled in spite of the gravity of the situation. “Rhaegal is no more a pet than Ghost is,” he replied, “But I hope it proves quite dangerous to the Others. It is good to see you well, my lord.”

“I am well enough. We’ve had no attacks here the past couple nights, however, and I’m left wondering what that means. Prior to that, we’ve had at least small incursions every night since the large assault.” The man’s face had been heavily lined for as long as Jon had known him, but Jon thought he seemed much older now than he had even when he’d last seen him at the Wall.

“Where are Lord Umber and his men now, my lord?” he asked.

“Closer to Last Hearth,” Lord Royce replied. “We currently hold a more forward position, attempting to stop as many of these things here as we can, but we know there are some behind us. Lord Umber’s men make up the last line of defense before Last Hearth. Along with King Stannis. Are you aware he has ridden out from Winterfell to reinforce us here?”

“I am. My father wrote me.”

“Your father,” the man said softly. “And have you heard that Lord Stark is also riding this way?”

“I have,” Jon said briefly. “Lord Royce, I need your men to be made aware that there are two other dragons here. All three belong to Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of Meereen, although she has graciously allowed me to ride upon Rhaegal.”

“Allowed you, has she, Lord Commander?” The older man raised an eyebrow at that.

“She has consented to assist us in our fight here. She met with Lord Stark in Winterfell and then brought her dragons north to the Wall. I believe that . . .”

“Forgive me,” Lord Royce said, reaching out a hand to lay it on Jon’s arm, “but I believe we should continue this conversation in my tent.” He looked around at the men who stood behind him. They were still at a considerable distance, but Jon saw that they were moving closer as Rhaegal had not attempted to attack Lord Royce.

Jon nodded his agreement, and Royce smiled at him. “Will the dragon stay here until you come back to it?”

“It will. I wouldn’t advise your men attempting to provoke it, though.”

Royce laughed out loud then. “You needn’t worry about that. They won’t come near it. I’ll have my captain look out for the Targaryen queen and her two dragons. Her beasts can stay here with yours, and she may be brought to my tent as well.”

“All of the dragons are hers,” Jon protested.

“So you say,” Lord Yohn said with a smile.

He turned then to bark orders to his men, and in a very short span of time, Jon found himself seated in the older man’s tent, a very welcome glass of warm ale in his hands.

“You do realize Stannis Baratheon’s not likely to welcome any Targaryen, don’t you?” the man said as soon as they were alone.

Jon nodded. “I do. But we need her dragons. I can’t be concerned about Stannis Baratheon’s pride or which of them has a better claim to the Iron Throne. That isn’t my concern. The Night’s Watch takes no part.”

“Ah, but it’s their concern, young Jon. And the men here are not of the Night’s Watch. They’ve all taken to calling Stannis Baratheon their king since he’s come to our aid. What will your Targaryen friend have to say to that? I didn’t miss that you called her the Queen of Meereen, but I don’t think she’d be here if she didn’t see herself as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms as well. Would she?”

Jon sighed. “Of course she wants the Iron Throne. She sees herself as the rightful heir every bit as much as Stannis does. I don’t expect this to be easy for either of them, but they are both honorable people, and the threat from the Others is bigger than their dispute. Surely, with all that’s at stake, they can both act honorably and . . .”

The sound of great booming laughter interrupted his speech, and Jon stopped speaking, somewhat shocked. While he had seen that Lord Royce had a certain teasing sense of humor, he had never once seen the man behave in a truly discourteous manner, and he simply stared at him as he laughed for several moments.

“My gods, boy,” the older man finally said. “You are Ned Stark to the teeth!”

Jon was unsure how to respond to that. He was quite used to having people remark upon the resemblance between Ned Stark and himself, and he’d watched Lady Stark frown at it his entire life, but he couldn’t recall Lord Royce ever commenting upon it before. Perhaps the man had simply been too courteous to bring it up in front of Lord and Lady Stark. “I have heard I look a bit like him,” Jon finally stammered.

“A bit?” Royce roared. “You look like he spit you out. But you act just like him, too, you know.” He shook his head. “It’s no wonder everyone believed you were his bastard all these years.”

Jon nearly choked on his drink. “But . . .I . . .what do you mean?”

The look Yohn Royce gave him then was calculating and amused all at the same time. “You arrived here riding that dragon, boy. I know you and Lord Stark’s children have some type of power over those direwolves of yours, but I’ve never seen any of you ride one.”

“I . . .”

“Name me one dragonrider, son, just one, in all the history of the Seven Kingdoms, who is not a Targaryen. Or a Targaryen bastard of some sort.”

Jon looked at the Lord of Runestone and remained silent.

“That’s what I thought,” Lord Royce said quietly. “Now, war does many things to a man. I’ve lived long enough to know that well. And I could believe that even a man such as Eddard Stark could seek the comfort of a woman far from home during war.” He shook his head. “But I am quite certain that Eddard Stark didn’t seek out any stray Targaryen women as he fought to remove that House from the Iron Throne. No. I know of only one Stark who was bedded by a Targaryen in those days . . .and her name was not Eddard.”

The man fell silent after that, and Jon found it difficult to look at him. He had spoken to no one of what his father, _he’s not my_ _father,_ had told him except for Lord and Lady Stark, and now Daenerys Targaryen. When he did look back at Lord Royce’s face, he found the man simply looking at him, waiting.

“Her name was Lady Lyanna Stark,” he finally said. “And she was my mother.”

Yohn Royce nodded. “How long have you known?”

“Not long. My father . . .Lord Eddard, I mean . . .he told no one. No one at all. After he came back from Pentos, he told Lady Stark . . .and then myself.”

“No one else?” Royce asked him.

“Daenerys Targaryen. I asked him to. I had dreamed of the green dragon, and I called it to me, and it came.” Jon shrugged slightly. “I feared she would not believe it from me, and we do need the dragons, Lord Royce. They are the key to defeating the Others. I know it.”

The older man lowered his gaze and appeared to think deeply for a few moments. Finally, he looked back up at Jon. “Has no one else asked you about this?”

Jon shook his head. No one at the Wall had questioned his abilities with Rhaegal. He had told them it was like it was with Ghost, and that had been enough. The men he’d stopped and spoken with on the way here . . .none of them had questioned him about anything.

Yohn Royce sighed. “I imagine none of the men you have encountered on dragonback fought in Robert’s Rebellion, or if they did so, were too young at the time to understand all that occurred.” He sighed once more. “Lord Stark did as he did because of what happened to Rhaegar’s other children, didn’t he?”

Jon nodded, unable to answer. He was still reeling from the way this man had seen the truth of everything so quickly, and he feared what may come of others seeing it as well.

“Stannis Baratheon was a young man during the Rebellion,” Lord Royce said then. “But not so young that he did not understand all that took place. Not so young that he will fail to see the significance of your arriving on dragonback, my lord.” He shook his head very slowly. “I am quite certain that His Grace would prefer you remain Ned Stark’s bastard.”

“I remain the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Jon said. “That is all I desire to be and all I can ever be. I said the words. I am no threat to King Stannis’s claim to the Iron Throne.”

“Mayhaps you are not,” Royce said. “But you come bringing Daenerys Targaryen, who most certainly is. And bastard or no, Night’s Watch or no, there are those who would sooner call a son of Rhaegar Targaryen their king than the daughter of Mad Aerys or the brother of Robert Baratheon.”

“Then they can look toward the Stormlands,” Jon snapped. “There is a man there claiming to be Aegon Targaryen, and if he is, then he is both my elder and trueborn without a doubt. He may be a threat to King Stannis. I am not.”

“The question is, Lord Commander, will he see you as one?” Lord Royce asked him quietly.

 _He will be livid that I have kept this from him, Jon thought. Stannis Baratheon does not like secrets and lies. Yet, he has more_ _reason than most to know that I intend to keep my vows to the Night’s Watch._ Jon remembered very well Stannis’s offer of Winterfell, of everything he had ever dreamed of as a child. Stannis couldn’t know how tempted he had been, though. He only knew that Jon had turned him down.

“He knows how much I value my position in the Night’s Watch,” he told Yohn Royce. “He knows I will never turn my back on my vows. For any reason.”

“For your sake, I hope that is true,” Lord Royce told him. “Stannis Baratheon is not his brother. But he will not tolerate threats to what he sees as his throne. I hope your little dragon queen understands that.”

“You hope I understand what?”

Daenerys’s voice made Jon jump. He turned quickly and saw the petite silver-blonde figure standing in the doorway of the tent. “You are Lord Yohn Royce, I presume?” she asked when both men had stood in acknowledgement of her entrance.

“I am,” Lord Royce replied. “Welcome . . .Your Grace.”

Daenerys laughed, and Jon was reminded of the sound of bells on cold winter mornings. “Your Grace,” she repeated. “You sound like Lord Stark. How would you fine lords ever have managed to handle the title problem had I not been made queen in Meereen?”

Yohn Royce actually sputtered a bit to Jon’s amusement, but Dany merely waved a hand at him. “It does not matter. We are here about graver matters than what you choose to call me. Now what is it that you hope I understand?”

To Lord Royce’s credit, he seemed to recover quickly. “It would seem your understanding of matters is quite excellent, Your Grace,” he said with his usual charm. “I would be most honored if you would join the Lord Commander and myself as we discuss the current situation with these Others from beyond the Wall.”

Daenerys smiled at him and took a seat. “Very well,” she said. “Please continue your discussion with Lord Commander Snow, my lord. I assure you I will catch up.”

Royce smiled at her, appreciative of her obvious intelligence and wit. Yet, as they all began to speak of the enemy and what might be done to vanquish it, Jon had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Daenerys would never hold her tongue. She was smart and brave, but too quick to take offense if someone did not like her. Stannis Baratheon was not Bronze Yohn Royce. And Jon feared that Stannis Baratheon would find a good number of reasons not to like Daenerys Targaryen.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

_I can do this._

She looked at her reflection in the glass as Jeyne finished twisting the last braid of her hair into place.

_I can do this._

“You don’t have to go, Sansa,” Jeyne said quietly. “Your mother said you didn’t.”

Sansa sighed heavily. “I know what my lady mother said,” she said as she turned around to face Jeyne, “But I cannot live my life hiding in my room.”

Jeyne looked downward, and Sansa could have bitten off her tongue. “I am sorry, Jeyne. I did not mean . . .Lord Tyrion never caused me to suffer as . . .”

“It’s all right,” Jeyne said softly. “I only wish I could be as brave as you are, Sansa.”

“Oh, Jeyne!” Sansa cried, standing up to embrace her friend. “You are braver than you know. You could never have survived had you not been brave. And you are getting stronger every day. We all can see it.”

Jeyne looked up at her. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I am getting stronger, I think. I don’t mind your brothers or Dak or Sam at all any more. Even your father doesn’t frighten me too terribly much.”

“Father is the least frightening man I know!” Sansa laughed.

“To you, maybe,” Jeyne said. “But soldiers much bigger and braver than I are petrified of him. You just don’t see how scary he can look.”

Sansa giggled. “I suppose.” She sighed. “But he isn’t here now, anyway. I hope he’s made it safely to Last Hearth.” She squeezed her friend’s hands in her own. “And if my lord father can ride into peril at Last Hearth, then I can certainly face dinner with Tyrion Lannister.”

Jeyne giggled, too. “Well, if you put it that way . . .” she said.

Sansa smiled. “I am so glad to have you with me again, Jeyne.”

“I am, too. But if you intend to arrive in the Great Hall while there is still food to eat, you had better go now. You look beautiful, Sansa.”

“Thank you.”

Before she could change her mind, Sansa grabbed her cloak and swept from the room, leaving Jeyne behind her. She would never tell her friend so, but the image of Jeyne hidden away in their room, fearful of so many people and things, was one of the reasons she felt compelled to go to the Hall tonight. She had no wish to live like that.

Of course, there were other reasons as well. Her lady mother was barely able to stand on her feet for long periods of time. She couldn’t leave her to host this dinner all on her own. Arya was livid at having to sit through the entire thing wearing a dress and exercising her best manners. Even Lord Tyrion deserved better than her avoidance. Sansa knew he had been given no more choice about their marriage than she had been, and he had never pressed the advantage it gave him over her. Yet, she could not erase the image of him on their wedding night from his mind. Nor could she forget his frequent drunkeness which had so embarrassed her. She pushed those thoughts from her mind as she hurried through the snowy courtyard to the Great Hall.

When she arrived, she saw her lady mother seated at the High Table in her usual seat. Bran sat beside her in Father’s chair, looking somewhat uncomfortable there. At her other side, sat Tyrion Lannister. He looked the same as she remembered him--his marred face with most of his nose missing and his beard an odd collection of both blonde and black hairs. Her heart started to beat faster as she looked at him, and she took several deep breaths willing herself not to panic. _This is Winterfell. I am safe here. I am always safe here._

To her great relief, she saw that the seat on his other side was occupied by Arya who was rather pointedly ignoring him in favor of Dak who sat to her other side. That made Sansa smile, thinking that some things had certainly changed in Winterfell for her lady mother to allow a Pentoshi bastard to sit at the High Table simply because a seat happened to be available. Rickon sat on Bran’s other side, but the two seats beyond Rickon were unoccupied.

She took one last deep breath and entered the Hall. The food had already been served, but as the men noticed her entrance, they stood courteously as she passed. Of course, the men suddenly standing drew attention to her entrance, and she heard her brother Rickon shout, “Sansa! You can sit by me!”

She caught her mother’s eyes then, filled with concern, and she nodded slightly to let her know she was all right. She did her best not to look at Tyrion Lannister until she reached the table.

“Here Sansa,” Rickon said when she reached him. “Shaggy will move.” He pushed at the black direwolf who lay on the ground beside him awaiting table scraps, and Sansa laughed.

“I’ll be right back, Rickon. I should greet our guest first.”

Bran grabbed her arm as she passed him. “Are you sure?” he said to her quietly.

“I’m sure, Bran. I’m all right.”

Her mother simply smiled at her and took her hand as she stepped around her chair to face Tyrion Lannister. “You know my daughter, Sansa, Lord Tyrion,” Mother said in her most courteous voice.

Sansa looked at the dwarf then. He was standing, not that it made him any taller than sitting on the chair had. He was looking back at her with those terrible mismatched eyes, and he looked . . .surprised somehow.

“My lady,” he finally said. “It is good to see that you are well. You have certainly grown up since I saw you last. You are as lovely as your lady mother.”

 _Grown up,_ Sansa thought. _That’s why he looks so surprised. I look more grown up to him now._ She had a momentary panic that her more womanly appearance would make him want to claim her as his wife now. A sudden image of his naked aroused body from their wedding night came into her mind, and she felt sick.

“Sansa,” she heard her mother say. “You should take your place now, sweetling. The food is good and you must be hungry.”

“Yes, Mother,” she mumbled nodding her head. Remembering her courtesies, she looked back to Lord Tyrion who still stood there staring at her. “Welcome to Winterfell, my lord.”

“Come on, let’s get you to your seat.” She hadn’t noticed Arya standing up, but suddenly her sister was taking her arm and leading her back to the seat beside Rickon. Her mother’s face looked worried, but she couldn’t muster a smile to reassure her this time. She just held onto Arya and walked to her seat.

“Sit down,” Arya ordered under her breath when they reached it. “Gods, Sansa, you look whiter than Mother. Why did you come down here?”

Sitting down helped. The fact that she could not really see Tyrion Lannister from where she sat helped more. “I can’t just hide in our room, Arya. This is my home. He is our guest. If Mother can do this, I can.”

Arya huffed. “Nobody made Mother marry the foul little man. You don’t have to talk to him, Sansa.”

“I’m all right,” Sansa lied. “I’ll stay here by Rickon and eat. I promise.”

Arya frowned at her, but then left to return to her own seat. Sansa hoped for her mother’s sake that Arya didn’t say anything horrible to Lord Tyrion.

She was very disappointed in herself. She’d been terrified standing there in front of a man who’d actually done her no harm. She’d testified against Petyr Baelish. She’d stood firm against Stannis Baratheon. She’d managed somehow not to fall apart when she’d believed her mother was dying. So why did the mere sight of Tyrion Lannister cause her to shake?

She forced herself to eat a few bites, but the food did not appeal to her. She drank very little as well. Rickon spoke to her several times, but soon lost interest when she didn’t have much to say in return, and he spent the rest of the meal feeding Shaggydog under the table. Bran was obviously trying to hear every word spoken between Mother and Lord Tyrion.

As the meal drew to a close, Sansa was surprised to find Tyrion Lannister standing at her side. “I apologize if my presence here causes you distress, my lady,” he said, looking at her carefully. “I have already agreed to request an annulment of our brief marriage, Lady Sansa. There are no grounds upon which the High Septon should refuse that request.”

Sansa looked down at her plate. “Thank you, my lord.” It seemed inadequate somehow. He was trying to be nice to her. She looked at him then, forcing herself to meet that mismatched gaze. “I am sorry, my lord, for what happened to you after Joffrey . . .after Joffrey was killed.”

“That was not your doing,” he said, although it sounded almost like a question, and Sansa felt the color come into her cheeks as she remembered the hairnet she’d worn.

“No,” she whispered. “I didn’t know.”

“I may be here for some time, my lady, if what your lady mother tells me is true about Queen Daenerys going off to fight ice monsters with your . . .bastard brother.”

Sansa looked at him carefully now. She had not missed the hesitation before the words ’bastard brother’ and wondered what precisely her mother had told this man. She did not intend to tell him anything. “Her Grace went to see Jon at Castle Black. What she will do after that, I do not know, my lord. I know that both Jon and my lord father are hopeful she will lend her dragons to the fight against the Others.” She was pleased to hear that her voice sounded more normal now.

“Have you seen these creatures, Lady Sansa?” he asked her.

“No,” she said. “But my brother has. Haven’t you, Bran?” she said, turning to look across Rickon at the brother she knew was listening intently to every word spoken between the dwarf and herself.

“Yes,” Bran said simply, looking at Tyrion Lannister with his dark blue eyes. In truth, his eyes weren’t much darker than hers or Mother’s, but when he fixed that intent gaze on you that he seemed to have ever since he’d returned from beyond the Wall, Sansa swore they looked almost black.

“What can you tell me of them, young Lord Brandon?” Tryion asked him, continuing to meet her brother’s gaze. Sansa had seen bigger men forced to look away from Bran’s direct stares before.

“They are cold,” Bran said. “I don’t mean that they feel cold. I mean they are cold. Nothing but cold.”

“Where did you see these things?” Tyrion asked him, and Sansa realized that the dwarf probably had no knowledge of where her brother had been.

“Beyond the Wall,” Bran answered. “I saw them kill Meera Reed’s father. I saw their wights kill Hodor. I saw my own father nearly dead by their hands.” He paused a moment and gave Tyrion another of those intense stares. “I saw enough of them to know that nothing in all the world is more dangerous, except maybe dragons.”

Tyrion Lannister actually seemed stunned into silence, and Sansa could not recall having seen that before. As the little man recovered himself and began to ask another question of Bran, however, a great commotion sounded from the entrance to the Hall, and Sansa saw her mother rise.

“See what it is, Deryk!” she called to the captain of her guard.

Sansa watched Deryk and two other men run hurriedly to the door. The returned quickly with four men and a woman who appeared to be smallfolk from the Winter Town.

“Milady!” the woman shrieked as she approached the High Table, falling down on her knees before Mother. “It was a monster, I swear it was. My husband would never do such a thing! He wouldn’t!”

One of the men with her shouted something angrily, and Mother held up her hand for silence. With the exception of the woman’s sobs, there was no sound at all in the Great Hall then.

“Deryk, what is this about?” she asked.

“They were at the gate, my lady, demanding to be let in. There are more of them, too, all talking of an attack.”

“It was a monster!” the woman cried again.

“It were Ronnel! Her husband!” the angry man shouted. “He killed his own boy and mine as well. Mad, he was! And he kept fighting me even after I’d hacked off his arm!”

Sansa watched what little color her mother had drain from her face as she leaned forward to brace her hands on the table. “Where is this Ronnel?” she asked quietly.

“Dead,” the woman sobbed. “Gus pushed him in the fire. But it wasn’t him! I swear it wasn’t! It looked like him, but it was a thing! A thing with awful blue eyes! My Ronnel had brown eyes, milady! I know his face!” Another spasm of sobs racked her and she fell back down on the floor.

“You,” Mother said, pointing at one of the two men who had not yet spoken, the one who looked to Sansa to be the least terrified of the four. “Tell me what you know of this.”

“Ronnel’d gone out to tend the hogs, milady. We share ‘em, see. It was just past sundown when he went, and he hadn’t come back after a long time. So Em there sent the boys after ‘im. Her boy and Amos’s.” He swallowed hard. “Amos’s boy Pate came runnin’ back screamin that Nik was dead, that his father had killed him, and before we could get to him, sure enough, Ronnel came up behind him and snapped Pate’s neck right there in front of us.” The angry man howled at that. “But Em’s right, milady. It was Ronnel, but it wasn’t him. Is it . . .is it them things you and the lord telled us of?”

Mother was silent for only a moment. “Yes,” she said then to the man in a hollow voice. She stood up straight then, and looked to Deryk. “Deryk, see that extra archers are placed on all the walls, and that the firepots are all lit. Only flaming arrows will work against wights. Send a full garrison to the town to reinforce the men there. And Deryk, burn the dead. There will be other wights as long as there are corpses.” Mother looked sick as she said the last, but she did not sit down.

“What of the others at the gate, my lady?” Deryk asked.

“Escort them back to the town safely,” she said grimly. “Someone bring this woman a warm drink. She will stay here. These men may stay or return to the town as they wish.”

“My family’s out there!” one of the men shouted. “Out there where they might be more of these things!”

Mother nodded slowly. “I know that. We will offer your family and all in the town what protection we can.”

“Mother!” Sansa cried out then, unable to stop herself. “If there are wights, or even Others, shouldn’t we bring everyone into the castle? Wouldn’t they be safer here?”

Her mother looked actually pained when she turned to look at her. “And where shall I put all these people, Sansa? There is not room inside the buildings of Winterfell for so many, and the nights are deadly cold now. Even tents are hardly adequate shelter.” Mother closed her eyes tightly for the space of a breath, and Sansa knew she was thinking of Father, riding out somewhere in this cold with nothing but a tent for shelter. “What good will the walls of Winterfell do these people as their children freeze to death?”

Mother’s voice sounded cold, but Sansa knew she was as frightened for the people outside the walls as anyone. As Lady of Winterfell, however, it fell to her to make the hard choices. “No good at all, Mother,” she murmured. She felt a hand laid on her shoulder in comfort then, and was startled to realize it was Tyrion Lannister’s.

“I will go back out with your men, milady!” the man from the town declared. “I’ll defend my family and my home.”

Mother nodded. “Go quickly,” she said to Deryk who had already been dispatching a number of men from the Hall. “It will be a long time until morning.”

Only after the men left and two serving women helped the townswoman into a seat and tended to her, did Mother sink down into her own seat.

“We should send Summer and Shaggy out with the men,” Bran said.

“No,” Mother said flatly. “The wolves are to protect you.”

“We are safe enough inside the castle, Mother,” Bran insisted. “For now,” he added ominously. “The wolves can help. Summer and Ghost always knew there were wights before any of us did.”

Mother swallowed hard, but did not answer.

“And . . .we would know better what was happening. Rickon and I could . . .”

“Do you think I want Rickon to see what occurs?” Mother shouted then, and Sansa jumped. “He is barely more than a babe, and he has seen too much! Too much!”

“I’m not afraid, Mother,” Rickon said in a small voice, slipping from his chair to go and lay his head against Mother where she sat. “Shaggy can help.”

Mother sighed, and Sansa saw tears in eyes. “Very well,” she said softly. “Send out the wolves.”

“Sansa,” she said then, turning to face her. “Take your brothers and sisters to my chambers. You, too, Dak,” she said, turning to look where Dak and Arya sat at her other side. “Stay there with Brien. Tell Letty I shall come to feed him when I can, but if he is hungry, she should do it. Open the door to no one save myself. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Mother,” Sansa said.

“Mother, I . . .” Arya started to say.

“Please, Arya,” Mother said in an almost pleading voice. “Just do as I say. For once, child, just do as I say.”

Sansa watched her sister nod and stand up. Sansa stood as well, and Lord Tyrion backed away from her seat. “Where will you be, Mother?”

“Wherever I am needed.”

Sansa nodded. “Come,” she said to her siblings. As she started to go, Lord Tyrion took her hand, and she looked down at the man she had been made to call husband.

“I will stay beside your mother, my lady.”

She looked into his ugly, scarred face and saw no mocking or threat in those mismatched eyes. “Thank you, my lord,” she whispered, and she meant it.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“The big man is Lord Umber?” Dany called to Jon over the wind. Drogon and Rhaegal flew very close together. Dany had the distinct notion that this was Jon’s doing. The dragons had never liked to fly with their wing tips nearly touching like that, but Rhaegal had stuck to Drogon’s side resolutely during this entire journey. The big black dragon had initially tried to veer away from him, but Dany had continually commanded him to fly straight, and Rhaegal had simply followed when Drogon did go off to the side, so that her big black dragon had eventually resigned himself to the situation.

 _Himself,_ she thought. Upon reflection, she realized Jon was right in that there was no clear indication that any of her dragons were actually male, but she couldn’t simply stop thinking of them that way. She wished Viserion had come back to them before they left Lord Royce’s camp at first light. He had not stayed gone this long before, and it worried her.

While the flight to Last Hearth from Lord Royce’s camp was a very short one, Lord Royce had bid them spend the night there as dark was falling, and Jon had agreed it would be best to meet Stannis Baratheon in the light of day rather than in the dark when he was concerned about attacks by Others. Of course, night was ridiculously long here, and Dany had been more than ready to leave by the time the grey light of dawn began to show in the eastern sky. When they’d gone to the dragons and found only Drogon and Rhaegal there, however, her heart had fallen.

“Yes!” Jon called back to her now, “And that is King Stannis beside him. They appear to be expecting us, so it looks like Lord Royce’s raven got through all right.”

Dany pursed her lips at Jon’s use of the word ‘king’ before Stannis Baratheon’s name, but she made no response. She had no wish to fight with Jon now. She needed him to be her ally when she confronted the Usurper’s brother, even if he did keep telling her it was not the time for a confrontation. She could not imagine the man who’d been described to her by everyone as entirely inflexible acknowledging her rightful claim to the Iron Throne, and she certainly had no intention of backing down on that.

She had gone along with Jon and Lord Royce when they’d decided to send a bird. A raven could fly the relatively short distance to Last Hearth during the night and give the men there some advance warning of the dragons’ arrival as well as her own, removing the necessity for her to waste time letting Jon go ahead of her. Looking down now at the two men who stood together looking skyward with a large number of armed men behind them, she wondered if that had been wise. Jon had done everything but declare her willing to be a loyal subject to the Usurper’s brother in that letter in order to make their arrival as non-threatening as possible, and Dany had been irritated by that. She wanted the Usurper’s brother to realize she could be threatening if she chose to be. Yet, she had been overruled by the two men on the grounds that they knew Stannis Baratheon, and she did not. She wondered idly if she would ever come across a man who was not convinced that he knew better what she should do than she did herself.

Nothing had attacked Lord Royce’s camp the previous night. The men he had sent out on patrol saw nothing either. Apparently, that made three nights in a row without an attack by these icy demons or the corpses they seemed capable of animating. Dany would have thought that three nights without any sign of these supposedly nearly invincible foes was a good thing, but Lord Royce had seemed unnerved by it. He was a charming man, well versed in courtesy, and Jon had told her he had a formidable reputation. Yet, he seemed odd to her in some ways. He didn’t remove his armor, even in his tent, for one thing. She’d asked Jon about it, and he’d given her some ridiculous story about those odd runes on the armor protecting him from the Others. Dany’d asked, if that were so, then why didn’t everyone simply copy the symbols onto their own armor? Jon had shaken his head at her and said the armor was ancient beyond memory, and that ancient magic was more than the words or symbols someone used to express it.

Jon Snow believed in magic. She could see that. She believed in it, too, even if she didn’t always like it and almost never understood it. She could not imagine being without her dragons, but she did often think the world would be a much more comprehensible place without magic. When she’d said as much to Jon, he’d laughed at her and said she might have more in common with Stannis Baratheon than she thought. She didn’t ask him what he meant.

She’d realized that she actually liked and grudgingly respected Jon Snow, even if he did irritate her frequently, usually when he sounded like Eddard Stark. If she were to be entirely fair, she had to admit that some of the things she admired most about Jon were characteristics he shared with the Lord of Winterfell, but those traits seemed somehow easier to admire in a man who was so much less prickly about everything. She truly hoped that Jon would not disappoint her by supporting Stannis Baratheon over her. She could not wholly believe all of his “take no part” talk. He certainly seemed willing to fight whenever any Stark was threatened or even insulted, and surely happenings in Winterfell were not the business of the Night’s Watch. In the end, she thought that every person would have to make some sort of choice, and she found that she cared about what Jon might choose.

 _He is a Targaryen,_ she told herself. _He will not turn his back on the blood of the dragon._ She had no doubts about his parentage now after spending so much time in the company of him and Rhaegal together, even if she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of telling him that. He didn’t look like a Targaryen. He looked like a young Eddard Stark on a green dragon, but the thought of Eddard Stark riding any dragon was ludicrous. _Jon is a Targaryen._

The men of Greatjon Umber and Stannis Baratheon were almost directly beneath them now. Visible a moderate distance behind those men, Dany could make out the stone walls of a castle--much smaller than Winterfell. That must be Last Hearth. It looked secure enough from here.

“Are you ready, Your Grace?” Jon asked her.

Dany nodded and guided Drogon into a descent. She had no intention of following Jon this time. She would arrive to meet Stannis Baratheon as Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, and she trailed behind no one.

As Drogon’s powerful legs touched the earth, she heard the big man say almost beneath his breath, “My gods, that beast is enormous.” The man called the Greatjon stared at Drogon with an expression of awe upon his big, bearded face, and Dany had to suppress the urge to smile at him.

Instead, she looked at the man beside him. Stannis Baratheon wore a hooded cloak against the cold. He had thin lips which he had pressed together so tightly, he almost seemed to have no lips at all, and his dark blue eyes looked directly at her rather than at Drogon.

She tapped Drogon causing him to lie flat so that she could dismount even as Rhaegal landed nearby. She would meet this would-be king on her feet. “Lord Baratheon,” she said smoothly as she walked toward him, head held high. “Lord Umber,” she said then, turning to the man beside him. Now that she was on the ground, she realized with a start that Lord Umber was truly an enormous man, much taller than even Strong Belwas had been, although not so big around.

Neither man knelt or so much as bowed a head in her direction. She got the impression that the big man was taking his lead from the Usurper’s brother. Baratheon stepped forward after a moment, and said “Daenerys Targaryen, I presume. If you have come to lend your dragons to our fight, they are most welcome.”

“ _They_ are welcome?” she spit back at him, anger flaring like fire within her at this man who stood there speaking to her as if she were a mere messenger girl here to gift him with dragons rather than a queen whose throne had been denied her first by his brother and now by himself. “Where is my welcome, my lord? Or do you always welcome royalty in such a coarse manner?”

The man before her looked at her coldly, but before he could speak, Jon was at her side. “Your Grace,” he said quickly, and Dany realized to her irritation that he was addressing Stannis Baratheon. “May I present Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of Meereen.”

Lord Umber took the out offered him and respectfully bowed his head then. “Your Grace,” he murmured in his deep voice.

“Queen of Meereen is it? You are far from home, my lady. Why have you come here?” Stannis Baratheon spoke between gritted teeth, and Dany thought she could actually hear him grinding those teeth together.

“Your man here could teach you some manners, my lord,” she said, indicating Lord Umber.

Her anger had not gone unnoticed by Drogon, and she could feel him stirring behind her. She turned briefly and spoke a word to him, and he lay back down. Lord Umber looked between her and the dragon with that awed expression again, but Stannis Baratheon’s eyes looked even harder.

“She is here to help us, Your Grace,” Jon said urgently, stepping forward.

“I would know her intentions,” Stannis Baratheon said shortly.

“I intend to fight these demons from beyond the Wall,” Dany said firmly. “I would protect the people of the North and all the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Protect them why?” Stannis demanded. “I would protect them because I am their rightful king. What calls you from across the Narrow Sea?”

“Rightful king?” Dany cried. That was too much. Before she could say anything else, though, Jon stepped between them.

“Your Grace!” he said. “She is only . . .”

“You hear that?” Stannis Baratheon interrupted. “Even this man who brought you here, the man I know as Jon Snow, continues to refer to me as his king. What say you to that, Queen of Meereen?” He said the last with a disdainful tone that did not sit well with Dany. She forced herself to smile at him.

“Oh, don’t put too much faith in titles bestowed by Lord Snow, my lord,” she said through her fake smile. “He gives them to everyone. You, me, your wife at the Wall.” She turned to Lord Umber who was watching their exchange with an odd mixture of shock and amusement on his face. “Would you like a new title, Lord Umber? If you’d like to be ‘Your Grace’ as well, Lord Snow will no doubt oblige. The Night’s Watch takes no part, he says, and therefore he cares not what titles anyone goes by.”

“Your Grace,” Jon hissed at her, his grey eyes pleading.

She wasn’t concerned about his plea, however. She was far too angry with Stannis Baratheon and now with him as well. “Ah!” she said. “Did you hear that, Lord Baratheon? One for me. As I said, he calls everyone ‘your grace’.”

Jon was glaring at her with an expression grim enough to be worthy of Eddard Stark, but Dany was pleased to see the anger on Stannis Baratheon’s face as he registered that Jon had indeed just referred to her by the same title he used for him. Baratheon didn’t like that at all.

“Have you brought her here to challenge the rightful king, Jon Snow?” he said through those gritted teeth. “Or is Snow not the proper surname for a Targaryen bastard who rides upon a dragon?”

She hadn’t expected that. Jon, however, did not looked so much surprised as he did simply more grim.

“Not going to deny it then?” Stannis Baratheon pressed him.

“I did not know, Your Grace. My father . . .Lord Stark . . .he told no one. Not even me. Not until I saw him after he‘d returned from Pentos.” Jon spoke quietly, but Dany could feel a strong current of emotion in his words.

“He betrayed my brother as surely as the Lannisters ever did,” Stannis said darkly. “He betrayed his king, just as you are prepared to betray yours.”

“Never!” Jon said forcefully. “Eddard Stark never betrayed Robert Baratheon. He never did anything except serve him faithfully. He only sought to protect me. He only sought to keep his sister’s child safe.”

“Of course,” Baratheon said. “The honorable Eddard Stark--who will always choose the right way, the dutiful way. Until love of a woman or a child clouds his mind and muddles that legendary sense of honor! I know Eddard Stark, boy, and I’ve seen well where honor and duty fail him.”

Before Jon could reply, the man turned quickly to Dany. “You’ve been to Winterfell, have you not? Lord Stark told me of his intent to invite you.” Stannis turned his dark blue eyes briefly toward the two dragons behind Dany and Jon--dragons that Dany could feel growing more agitated at the man’s palpable hostility in spite of his controlled demeanor. “I can well imagine Lord Stark’s response to such beasts at his castle if you threatened him.”

“My father is no craven,” Jon growled through clenched teeth.

“I thought we had established he is not your father,” Stannis Baratheon said quietly. “And no, I would not call him craven. But, I watched him refuse to leave his wife’s room when he could do nothing for her, and there was much to do elsewhere. She remains in Winterfell along with his children. And now he rides here.” He turned back to Dany. “What did he do to assure himself of their safety, I wonder? I cannot imagine he left them in peril. Did he bend the knee to you, my lady? I fear there is much of Torrhen Stark in the current Lord of Winterfell for all he assured me that he had no desire to seat the dragons back on the Iron Throne. He failed to mention he had harbored a dragon all these years, after all.”

Dany could see Jon nearly shaking with anger beside her, but when he spoke his voice was quiet. “I am no dragon, Your Grace. No more than I am a Stark. I am the Lord’s Commander of the Night’s Watch and that is all I shall be. As for Lord Eddard Stark, he seeks only to do what is best for his people, as any good lord . . .or king . . .should do.”

“I am a king,” Baratheon said quietly. “Not by choice, but by right. And I shall defend my people against their enemies, remove the Lannister bastard from the Throne, and never bend my knee to Mad Aerys’s daughter.”

“Your Grace!” Lord Umber had been silent throughout most of this tense conversation, but now he nearly shouted at Baratheon, and Dany was shocked. Then she realized he was pointing skyward.

Flying toward them at an alarming rapid speed was Viserion. She was thrilled to see him safe and coming back to her, but devoutly wished he had not chosen to return to her just now.

“Another one of yours?” Baratheon asked her. “Or is this one Snow’s, like the green one?”

“All dragons are mine!” Dany shouted at him, unable to tolerate this man for one more minute. Viserion screeched loudly above. “I am the blood of the dragon. I am the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. You are merely the brother of a man who rebelled against his king and took what was not his.”

Something flickered in the depths of Stannis Baratheon’s dark blue eyes then, but he did not raise his voice when he replied. “No. _Your_ brother took what was not his. He stole my brother’s betrothed and raped her. There stands the proof beside you. Whatever else my brother was, he was king by rights. Your brother plunged the Seven Kingdoms into war by his own recklessness and your mad father made certain there was no other course for just men to take other than to remove him from power.”

The man drew his sword then, and Dany saw Jon start to pull his own in reflex, but Lord Umber grabbed him and pulled him back. _Is this man truly going to attack me?_ Dany thought wildly.

But Baratheon only held the sword straight up into the air where it shone with an unnatural light. “This is my sword,” he said to her solemnly. “And I have pledged it to the defense of the Seven Kingdoms. I will not bend the knee to you.”

Before she could respond, a shadow fell over her and Stannis Baratheon suddenly grabbed her, pushing her back as Viserion landed with a loud roar nearly where she had been standing. The cream colored dragon fixed his golden eyes on the man holding the sword.

“Viserion!” Dany cried, and he turned those eyes on her only for a moment before turning to hiss steam at Baratheon.

Remarkably, the man stood his ground and held the sword out before him. “The beast is mad, my lady!” he shouted at her as she tried to get around him, holding her arm and forcing her behind him.

Vaguely, Dany became aware of Jon shouting something in Old Valyrian, but she couldn’t make out what it was. He and Lord Umber had somehow ended up behind Viserion, and the dragon paid them no attention at all. “Viserion,” she said again, trying to reach him.

She was not nearly strong enough to escape Baratheon’s grasp, and while a small part of her mind registered that the man was actually attempting to defend her from the dragon, the larger part of it only wanted to reach Viserion.

“Let go of me!” she screamed. And with that, Viserion roared.

This time, the roar was accompanied by a blast of pale gold flame, and Dany felt the intense heat of it. She heard someone screaming, but she couldn’t tell who it was. She smelled something like meat roasting on a spit. Then she closed her eyes and knew nothing else.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Tyrion Lannister wrapped his thick cloak more tightly around him and held his gloved hands over the small fire burning within the black pot. The wind seemed to blow through his very bones as it came in gusts which threatened to knock him right off the wall. He remembered standing upon the great ice Wall with Jon Snow looking over the northern edge of the world. He’d thought he’d been cold then, but he swore that he was colder now standing upon the ancient walls of Winterfell in the dark of night.

“Keep yer head down, Dwarf. Yer not so short that you can’t get a hole in the head from an arrow when yer in the light like that.”

The soldier’s words were rude, but accurate enough, and Tyrion hunkered down lower. Like these Northmen, he had been on the wall for hours. Initially, they had all tended to huddle around the numerous small fires laid atop the wall for the purpose of igniting arrows, seeking what little warmth the small blazes could provide. Then they’d learned the hard way that men who had known how to shoot a bow in life retained the ability in their animated death. Silhouetted by firelight, the Winterfell men had made easy targets for the archers of the dead.

There were fewer wights now moving around the walls of the castle than there had been earlier, and in the relative lull, Lady Stark had ordered that the men take turns coming down from the wall to warm themselves indoors. She had not heeded her own advice however. He looked at her now, sitting silently on a trunk one of the men had brought her, far enough from any fire and well enough shadowed by the walls that she would not be visible to anyone outside the castle.

The soldier who’d warned him to duck followed his gaze and shook his head. “Lady Stark’s going to freeze to death sittin’ there,” he said. “Ye got to move to make yer blood keep flowin’ on a winter night like this.”

Tyrion nodded. The man spoke truly there. His feet were growing numb just in the time he’d stood still by the little fire. “I’ll see if I can convince her to go down for a bit.”

The man grunted. “Good luck. Lady Stark does as she will.” The man’s voice sounded admiring, and Tyrion found himself wondering what was admirable about the woman stubbornly killing herself.

He recalled her standing in the Great Hall ordering men around after the little group from Winter Town had appeared. Had it not been for the pallor of her skin, he would not have known how weak she was then. She’d organized the defenses for both castle and town in a matter of minutes, and he’d realized then that she must have already put a great deal of thought into what would need to occur in such a situation. The speed with which the men moved to follow her orders bore that out. Winterfell had been preparing for this eventuality.

She had remained in the Great Hall initially as her men took their positions on the walls and others rode out to the defense of the town. He had stayed by her as he’d promised her daughter he would, and she had not ordered him away. When two men came running in carrying a man from the town who’d been shot with a flaming arrow by a nervous archer as he approached the gates of the castle, she’d gone down to tend him, shouting for her maester who wasn’t a maester.

The man would live, but she was visibly shaken that the first shot from her walls had taken down one of her own smallfolk. “How are they to tell a wight from a living man in this darkness?” she’d whispered to no one in particular.

“Hail their targets before they shoot them,” he’d said, although she had not been speaking to him really.

She’d looked at him thoughtfully. “That might suffice. It would give the men a chance at least.”

“Can these wights speak as men do, do you know?” Tyrion had asked her.

She’d shaken her head slowly. “I do not believe so. Neither my lord husband nor Bran nor Jon Snow ever heard them speak.”

 _Jon Snow._ The unexpected appearance of Sansa Stark at dinner followed by the alarming news of the wight attack had driven considerations of Lady Stark’s surprising revelations about that young man from his mind. He pushed those thoughts aside again to consider the problem at hand. “Then have all of your archers demand that anyone they see identify themselves. If they don’t reply shoot them.”

“You there!” she’d called to a man walking through the Hall. “I need you to take a message for me!”

She certainly couldn’t be accused of being indecisive, Tyrion recalled thinking. At that point he’d begun to believe that the townspeople may have been mistaken. There were no wights, and the deaths of those two boys were the work of an ordinary madman.

Then the littlest Stark boy had come running into the Hall.

“Rickon!” Lady Stark had cried in dismay. “You are supposed to be in my chambers with Sansa! How have you come to be here?”

The boy had made a face. “I’m plenty fast enough to get away from Sansa, Mother. And Arya and Dak, too, as long as I get a jump on them.”

“Rickon . . .” her voice had sounded frightened and rather threatening at the same time.

“Bran sent me!” the little boy had said hurriedly.

“Bran . . .” She’d looked at her small son and then taken a seat on the nearest bench. “Bran sent you to find me?”

He’d nodded at her with a solemn expression reminiscent of his father except that his ice blue eyes were wide and round. “He said to tell you they are here. They’re all around the town and coming toward the castle.”

Tyrion swallowed hard. “How would your brother know . . .” he’d started to ask, but Lady Stark had held up her hand to quiet him and pulled the little boy onto her lap.

“Tell me, Rickon,” she’d said. “Tell me what Shaggy saw.”

“Nothing,” he’d said gravely. “He smelled something. Shaggy didn’t know the smell, but Summer did.”

“What smell, sweetling?” Lady Stark had asked, and Tyrion heard a slight tremor in her voice.

The little boy had wrinkled his nose. “A bad smell. Like meat. Bad meat, but it moves. And its smell is . . .wrong.”

Tyrion had shuddered.

“Bran says that’s the smell of the dead things with blue eyes. The things he saw north of the Wall.”

“Wights,” his mother had said.

Rickon Stark had nodded.

“What of the White Walkers, Rickon? Did Summer and Shaggy find any of those?”

The little boy had squirmed a bit in his mother’s lap. “Bran says they don’t have a meat smell. They don’t have much smell at all except a kind of cold one. Shaggy doesn’t know it.”

“But Summer . . .could Summer smell any White Walkers?”

“I don’t know!” It was almost a whine. “Bran doesn’t think so, but he says they’re hard to smell. He told me to tell you that.”

“You’ve done well, Rickon, and now I’m going to send a man back to my chambers with you.”

“I know the way.”

“Of course, you do, but this man will stay at the door, and he’ll be able to come and tell me anything else Bran thinks I should know. You are not to leave my room again. Do you understand me, Rickon?”

The boy had nodded solemnly, and his mother had called over one of the Winterfell men and spoken to him. As the man had led the boy away, he’d turned toward Lady Stark one last time.

“There was a lot of it, Mother. The bad meat smell. I think there’s a lot of the dead things.”

The boy had hardly been out of the Hall when Lady Stark had grabbed her own cloak and rushed toward the door.

“Where are you going, my lady?” Tyrion had cried, running after her.

“To warn my men,” she’d said without slowing down.

By the time Tyrion had fetched his own cloak and gloves and followed her out, he found her in conversation with two men.

“ . . .the fastest horses in the stable,” she’d been saying. “Ride hard for Winter Town. Do not slow for anything for these creatures could be anywhere. Warn them a large attack is imminent if it hasn’t occurred already. The wights are bad enough, but if it is truly only wights, every man in the town can help in the defense. Ned said they fought them with flaming brands as well as anything else.”

 _Ned._ Tyrion could not ever recall hearing Lady Stark refer to her husband by only his familiar name. She must be more worried than her commanding demeanor suggested. He’d had no time to ponder that though as she’d already been walking away again.

“Where are you going, Lady Stark?” he’d called after her once more.

She hadn’t replied, and so he’d hurried along as quickly as his short legs would carry him, marveling that a woman reputed to be too ill to sit a horse was setting such a pace. She had slowed considerably on the stairs leading to the top of the turret by the eastern gate, leaning heavily on the wall as she climbed. He’d caught up to her there.

At the top, she’d barely had time to speak to the man in charge of this segment when a soldier's voice called out, “Halt! Who are you?”

There was no reply, and they’d seen a fiery arrow arc through the night sky and light up a stumbling figure below. After that first, more started coming, initially in twos and threes, but eventually in larger numbers. Lady Stark refused to leave the top of the wall, watching the battle progress, and he’d stayed beside her. It hadn’t seemed much of a battle at first as the archers simply fired flaming arrows at the oncoming wights until they began to burst into flames. Sometimes it took as many as three or four hits to do the job, but Winterfell seemed to have a lot of archers and they had apparently been stockpiling arrows wrapped with oil soaked rags.

“It won’t be this easy for the people in the town,” Lady Stark had said bitterly, watching the wights fall and burn.

When the first Winterfell man fell to an arrow shot by what by a dead man, things had changed a bit. Lady Stark had been standing no more than three feet from the man when the arrow sprouted from his chest and he stumbled backward, falling into the courtyard below.

“An arrow,” Tyrion had stupidly. “That was an arrow, my lady. Someone shot him.”

“I am familiar with what it is to be shot by an arrow,” she’d said coldly. “Find and kill that archer!” she had shouted then.

Another man standing next to her was hit then, and Tyrion had realized they all stood in the fire’s glow. He’d grabbed at her hand much to her surprise and pulled her away. She wasn’t stupid, though, and she realized what he was about quickly enough.

The enemy archer had been spotted then, and thinking that surely this could not be a wight, the Winterfell men rained ordinary arrows upon him. He would stagger a little when they hit, but he kept advancing and kept firing at them, eerily illuminated by the burning corpses surrounding him. Finally, some bright individual shot him with a fire arrow, and he burst into flames, falling down among his fellows. By that time, however, what appeared to be an entire company of dead archers had arrived, and things got very hectic on top of the walls.

There were no organized volleys, thank the gods. Each wight with a bow had seemed to shoot as it pleased, but several men atop the wall and even some misfortunate souls in the courtyard below were wounded or killed by arrows. Lady Stark had remained atop the wall doing what she could for the wounded until someone could carry them down the stairs. Tyrion had remained as well, shouting out to Winterfell’s archers whenever he could spy some movement in the darkness below that might indicate a new target.

Gradually, the onslaught had slowed. Tyrion thought it likely that they had been atop these walls for more than four hours now, but dawn was still a long way off. They were lucky to get six hours of actual daylight here now. Since she had given the order for the men to take warming breaks in shifts, Lady Stark had sat quietly on the trunk. Tyrion had his doubts about whether the woman could stand at this point.

“Lady Stark,” he said, and she turned to look at him. “You must go in and get warm. You will freeze if you remain here much longer.”

“Your concern for my health would be touching if I believed you actually had any concern,” she said.

Dead on her feet and half frozen, the woman remained infuriating. “Oh, my interest in your health is purely selfish,” he assured her. “I can’t have your lord husband returning to find that you’ve expired from exhaustion and frostbite, my lady, as I am quite certain it will somehow become my fault. You Starks have a history of blaming me for your injuries.”

She snorted at that. “Is that so?”

“You know perfectly well that it is, my lady. And I would not add myself to the list of men your husband feels have wronged House Stark. I understand he’s made quite a new career out of taking castles away from such men---The Twins, Riverrun, the Eyrie. Even Winterfell itself. I finally have the promise of an actual monarch that Casterly Rock is to be mine. I do not intend to lose it to an aggrieved Eddard Stark because his lady wife hasn’t the sense to come in out of the cold.”

She actually laughed at that. “You do realize that which accursed Lannister receives Casterly Rock holds little importance to me, don’t you, my lord?”

“Truthfully?” he asked her. “I’d have thought you’d at least prefer me to my gallant brother or my sweet sister.”

Her expression hardened at the mention of his siblings. “Do not try me, Imp,” she said. “You are made welcome here at the request of Daenerys Targaryen. I have no love for any Lannister and never will.”

“What of Starks?” he asked her flippantly. “Have you love for any of those? Because I know a number of fairly young ones whose mother you seem determined to kill.”

She sighed. “Mayhaps, I shall go for awhile to my husband’s solar, if only to escape your vile tongue.”

He smiled at her. “Ah, my plan is succeeding then. I knew if I could not appeal to your questionable capacity for reason, I could always annoy you away to a warm, safe spot.”

She didn’t even respond. He realized then that she was struggling to stand and failing. He also realized that he was not physically capable of assisting her down those treacherous, slick stairs. His stunted legs scarcely served to carry him down them safely.

“You there!” he called to a rather large soldier standing near the top of the staircase. “The Lady of Winterfell needs some assistance to return to her chambers.”

The big man walked over to them, and Lady Stark actually smiled at him. “Ian!” she said. “I did not realize you were here.”

“Deryk bid me stay here when you insisted he take command of the forces in the town, my lady. I have been at the northern corner of the castle wall, but I came to find you. I would be happy to take you to your chambers, and then I’ll come back here and see that all remains well.”

“You are a good man, Ian,” she said, “But I want to go to Lord Stark’s solar. I shan’t be able to sleep tonight in any event, and I’d rather be where I can receive reports without my children being disturbed.”

“Yes, my lady.” The big soldier offered her his arm.

“I . . .I am afraid you will have to assist me to rise, Ian. My legs have gone quite wobbly.” The admission did not come easily to her, Tyrion knew, particularly with him standing there watching her.

“I’ve got you, my lady,” Ian said, virtually lifting her to her feet. Tyrion could quite plainly see she’d never make it down the stairs on her own power, even with the young man’s assistance. Apparently, the young man could see it as well, for he said, “Forgive me, my lady,” and scooped her up into his arms without asking permission.

 _Smart boy,_ Tyrion thought. Whatever protest Lady Stark might have felt compelled to make had he asked her first, she didn’t raise now. Instead, she resigned herself to the fact that she would never get down the stairs, much less to the Great Keep, in any other fashion and said nothing as she was carried to the head of the stairs.

Tyrion knew he should probably keep his mouth shut, but he simply couldn’t. “Enjoy the ride, my lady!” he called after her. He knew she was truly beyond exhaustion when she made no retort.

He should go inside himself, he supposed. He wasn’t actually doing anything up here. But something was bothering him. Something he could not quite put his finger on. And so he remained there, looking out into the darkness interrupted only by the flickering of still smoldering wights or by the occasional arrow shot at a new living corpse, arriving late to the party.

He didn’t even hear the young soldier’s approach when he returned and was startled when he spoke.

“Lady Stark says you were of assistance this evening,” he said.

“She did?” Tyrion asked, raising a brow. “I take it you delivered her to the solar?”

The young man nodded. “I pulled Lord Stark’s chair from behind his desk and placed it before the fire. It is the largest and most comfortable chair there by far. Lady Stark said that you were calling out targets, particularly when the wight archers were so numerous that . . .”

“That’s it!” Tyrion cried out, startling the poor soldier. “They were too numerous.” He looked up at the man beside him. “Wights are simply the corpses of ordinary men, correct? Men who have died or been killed, and these Others cause them to be resurrected somehow. That’s how it goes, is it not?”

“Yes, my lord,” Ian said.

“So where did all these damned archers come from?” he asked. “There surely aren’t that many military quality bows in all of Winter Town, are there? Oh, they have bows for hunting, no doubt, and I’m sure some of the men are skilled enough with those, but these dead men were true archers, Ian. It is Ian, isn’t it?”

The big soldier nodded absently at his name. “You are right, my lord. These are the dead of an army.” He said it in a hollow voice. “Lord Stark took archers with him when he rode out.”

Tyrion swallowed. “We need to know what army we’ve just been fighting, Ian. We need someone to go out and see if anything that might identify them remains unburned.”

Again the man nodded. “I will take out a patrol. We’ll go armed with brands as well as swords, and the archers can cover us from here. Mayhaps we can discover one of these still . . .unburned. Gods help me, I don’t want to recognize anyone.”

“Neither do I, Ian. Neither do I.”

Ian’s party of twenty men rode out of the eastern gates shortly thereafter. They were easy enough to spot as they all carried flaming brands. Apparently there were living (living?) wights out there in the dark for several times a few of those flames would strike out apparently in pursuit of someone or something. They also rode through the field of slain wights and frequently touched those brands to things on the ground, causing them to blaze up. It was more than an hour before they returned, and even as some of the men turned toward the gates, Tyrion saw that the larger part of the group turned instead toward the blazes visible at a distance which he knew to be the fires set up all around the perimeter of Winter Town. Lady Stark had stared at those fires frequently through the night, hopeful that their continued presence meant the town’s defenses still held.

He descended from the wall painfully on cold, stiff legs to meet the men as they returned. Ian walked up to him with an ashen face. “You were right, my lord,” he said. “They were an army.” Without speaking further, he handed Tyrion a bit of cloth from someone’s uniform. The sigil was plainly recognizable.

“I’ll go and tell Lady Stark,” he sighed heavily. “She’ll want to know.”


	60. Darkness Grows

The door to Eddard Stark’s solar was slightly ajar, and Tyrion Lannister pushed it open quietly. He entered the room unannounced thinking that if the Stark woman had managed to fall asleep, he might let her be for awhile. However, an audible gasp escaped him at the sight that met him. The last thing he’d expected to see this night was a woman’s teats, and least of all this woman’s.

Catelyn Stark was in a chair beside the fire with the front of her gown unlaced. She held a bundle of sorts up against her, and her long hair, which appeared to have come mostly undone during the long night, fell forward over her shoulders as she looked down at that bundle. Belatedly, Tyrion realized this must be the infant he had heard about but not yet seen.

“Forgive me, Lady Stark!” he stammered rather loudly. “I only . . .”

She held up a hand to quiet him, and continued to look down at her babe, seemingly unconcerned by his presence there or by her state of partial undress.

“Shh, love. You’re all right, my sweetling,” she murmured, and Tyrion was struck by the tenderness in her voice. He had never heard this woman sound quite so soft and sweet, not even when she’d spoken with her little boy in the Great Hall earlier.

“Forgive the intrusion, my lady,” he said much more softly. “I came to bring you . . .”

She cut him off with a raised hand again, but when she spoke, her voice still had that same crooning, tender quality. “He is nearly asleep, my lord. If you could silence that tongue of yours for just one moment.”

She still did not look up from the child, and Tyrion had to fight to keep from laughing at the incongruity between her tone and her words to him. He felt rather like a voyeur, but found himself unable to keep from watching her as she nursed the child there by the fire. It was not an image that came to his mind when he thought of Catelyn Stark. He’d seen her cut a man’s throat once and he knew her capable of pushing men to endure hardships almost beyond their capacity. To be fair, she pushed herself as hard as anyone else, if not harder, he supposed. He certainly had reason to know how ferocious she could be in defense of her children and thought she was perhaps not entirely unlike his own sister in that. Yet, he had never considered what she might be like with her children when she was not stopping assassins or hunting down those who might wish them harm. Watching her now, he thought that in spite of all they’d suffered, the Stark children may be far more fortunate than he had previously realized.

“He’s asleep,” she whispered, startling him out of his thoughts. He raised his eyes to her face and saw a rather amused expression on it. She was fully aware of where he had been staring, but he doubted she would suspect what he’d been thinking about. She raised the child to her shoulder and covered herself with one practiced motion, although her gown remained unlaced, and Tyrion vowed to keep his eyes firmly on her face, lest that gown come open again.

“May I see him?” he asked, surprised at his own request.

She was surprised, as well, but beckoned him to her side. “Stand here by the fire. You’re likely frozen, and I’ll not have you freeze my son. Warm yourself a moment.”

Up close, he could see the lines around her eyes. She was in desperate need of some rest, but she did look better for being warm. He rather enjoyed the warmth himself as the heat from the fire began to ease the ache in his bones. He realized he still wore his cloak, and he discarded it in a heap near the hearth. As he stood back up, he heard a loud sound and realized with a start that the infant had belched loudly.

He laughed out loud which earned him a stern look from Lady Stark. “Don’t wake him, Lord Tyrion. I am far too tired to put him back to sleep.”

He nodded, and after a moment, she asked him, “Have you ever held a babe?”

“I have. Cersei would never let me touch Joff if she could help it, but she wasn’t quite so particular with Myrcella and Tommen.”

“Here then,” she said, stiffly extending her arms to lift the child to him. “If you could lay him in that basket there . . .careful!”

He took the child gingerly, and looked at its sleeping face. “He’s his father’s son, all right,” he said.

“Of course, he is,” she said shortly.

 _Gods! The woman can find fault in anything I say!_ “I only mean that he looks like Lord Stark, my lady. In fact, he looks as much like him as the young man you now claim is not your husband’s bastard, after all.”

She did not miss the challenge in his voice, and she sighed. “I am far too tired to trade meaningless barbs with you, Dwarf. If you have come only to needle me with insinuations and snide remarks, you may leave now.”

“And if you could stop being too far above everyone else to actually listen to what I have to say, you might learn something,” he retorted as he bent to lay the sleeping child in the little basket. When he stood back up to face her, fury blazed in those blue eyes. He raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Look,” he said. “If you can suffer my . . .tendency to speak when I should not . . . with good grace, I shall endeavor to suffer your unfailing belief that you and yours are too good for the likes of me with good grace as well.”

Looking beyond her, he saw a tall decanter and several glasses on Lord Stark’s desk. “Oh gods, let that be wine,” he said, and he walked toward the desk. When he raised the decanter and took a sniff, he grinned. “Gods be praised, it is wine!” He poured himself a glass, took a long drink, and then looked back to see her glaring at him. “Would you like a glass, Lady Stark?”

“My daughter is too good for you,” she said darkly.

“Ah, Sansa, you mean,” he said, taking another long drink. “Well, I won’t disagree with you there. But if we are discussing goodness in the strictest sense of the word, I’d say she’s far better than either of us, my lady.”

She looked at him questioningly.

“She would not have left those townspeople to their fate tonight.”

“I did not leave anyone to their fate. I have more men in that town than I do on the castle walls!” she protested.

“Ah, but castle walls are a good bit stronger than men.” Before she could argue with him, he continued. “Oh, you made the right decision, Lady Stark. The decision that needed to be made. I would have done the same. You cannot possibly house the entire population of your Winter Town within the buildings here, and gods only know how long you’d have them here if you brought them in. Yet, had young Lady Sansa been the Lady of Winterfell, she would have attempted it. She is, as you said, too good.”

“I said she was too good for you. And yes, my daughter is kinder than I am, in spite of creatures like your evil nephew who taught her too much of cruelty.” She sighed. “As to the town, there has been fierce fighting, but the perimeter held firm as of the time I came inside. I pray that it remains so.”

“But Ian only sent men to see about the town now. How could you . . .” Tyrion started to ask. “Ah,” he said then. “Have your children been communing with wolves?”

“My children are not yours to mock,” she said firmly, “And I do not choose to dicuss them or their wolves with you, my lord. You have been helpful tonight, for which I am grateful, but I still do not trust you, Tyrion Lannister. I cannot forget your name, and I have no doubt that your sister would rejoice to see every one of my children dead if it were in her power to do so.”

“And did you mourn Joff, my lady?” he asked her pointedly.

“No, I did not,” she said without hesitation. “But I took no joy in his death, either. There is no joy in death, Imp. Some deaths are necessary and even bring great satisfaction, and I confess that I have thought about Cersei’s own death with longing upon more than one occasion, but death does not bring me joy.”

Her words called his mind back to what had brought him here, and he realized he’d been intentionally delaying the delivery of his news. What he had to say would hurt her and likely frighten her as well. He wasn’t fond of Catelyn Stark, but he was forced to admit to a certain respect for her. He also thought she’d already suffered a great deal more pain than any one person likely should, and he wasn’t eager to bring her more. She had to know, though.

“After you were carried away, my lady,” he started, and he saw her narrow her eyes at his choice of words. “After you left the eastern wall, I began to wonder about where all those wights came from.”

“They were men,” she said softly. “Men who deserved a better fate.”

“Indeed,” he agreed, “But what men? Where did so many come from--particularly so many skilled with bows, and carrying bows with them?”

He knew she understood the significance of his words by the change in her expression. The woman was no fool. “They were soldiers,” she said softly. “Northmen.”

“Not Northmen, my lady,” he said, pulling out the cloth with the sigil upon it and handing it to her.

She stared at the silver eagle on the purple cloth wordlessly for a few moments, and Tyrion saw that her blue eyes actually filled with tears. “My gods,” she whispered. “I have been firing upon my brother’s men. The men he sent when we called for aid.”

“No, Lady Stark. The Seagard men were killed by our enemies. You have only destroyed soulless dead things.”

She nodded slowly and then looked up. “None of them survived,” she said.

“Well, there are still some approaching the castle, but in much smaller numbers. I am not certain about the town, although Ian sent . . .”

“No,” she said. “I do not mean the wights. I mean Lord Jason and his men. And the Northmen who rode with him. There were Northmen with him, my lord. My husband was to have led them before Daenerys Targaryen . . .before . ..my husband would have led them . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment, and she closed her eyes. After a moment, she opened them and looked directly at him as she continued. “I have known Lord Jason Mallister all my life, my lord, and I am certain of two things. First, he would have sent word back to Winterfell immediately of such a terrible attack on our forces. As we have received no word, we must assume that no one survived to bring it.”

Tyrion nodded, realizing she was likely correct about that.

“Secondly, I watched those things assaulting the castle through the night. Lord Jason was well informed on the weaknesses of wights, and I have never known a better soldier. He would not have suffered such a great defeat at the hands of only those creatures we have outside our walls now.” She paused. “Somewhere, Lord Tyrion, between the Karhold and here, well south of Last Hearth, there is a force of Others.”

While he stood frozen at her words, the Lady of Winterfell whom he’d seen carried from the top of her castle wall, too weak to stand a mere two or three hours before rose from her chair and walked to her husband’s desk, pulling a small chair up to it. She sat down in that chair and reached for a quill and parchment.

“I need you to find Sam for me,” she said.

“Sam?” he asked in puzzlement.

“Our maester. Well, he’s not a maester really, but he . . .oh, you met him. He’s been dealing with the wounded all night,” she said irritably.

“The fat boy,” Tyrion said then, recalling him.

“Yes. I’ll need him to send a raven to Last Hearth. My lord husband must know what has occurred here. Send me Ian, as well, as we must now assume that an attack by Others will occur here as well. There can’t be too many more hours until dawn. With luck, we’ll have only the wights until then and then we’ll have the daylight to make preparations before the Others appear.” She chewed on her lip. “The town will likely be completely indefensible against a large scale assault by Others. I have to think what to do.”

He started to reply, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was tapping the quill with her fingers, and he didn’t think she was even speaking to him now as much as thinking out loud. He watched her for a moment, and when she dipped the quill in the ink and began to write, he realized he’d been dismissed. He started to protest that he was not a messenger boy, but then he looked at the infant sleeping in its basket and then back at the mother who’d held him so gently such a short time before. Now that same woman who had to be at the extreme end of her physical strength sat at her lord husband’s desk preparing to coordinate the defense of Winterfell against a far more dangerous foe than had assailed them this night, if all reports were true. Tyrion remained silent and left to find Sam and Ian.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The stench in the room was almost unbearable, but even that was not as terrible as the sight of the man on the bed. Jon said he had lingered like this for over a day, and Ned Stark’s gut clenched at the thought of such a terrible death. Ned had expected to find ill news upon his arrival to Last Hearth. He had feared being met with tidings of more great battles and the loss of more men including dear friends. But not this. Never could he have imagined this. He hesitated just inside the doorway.

“Go on,” Jon whispered at his side. “He’s been waiting for you.”

Ned took a deep breath through his mouth and stepped forward. The man on the bed was uncovered. The blackened parts of his body had no feeling, but the red, raw angry skin that remained in patches could not bear even the pressure of a light blanket without immense pain according to Lord Umber’s maester. What little hair had remained to him was gone as was his beard, and his face was a twisted mass of red and black. The one dark blue eye that gazed up at him now appeared unable to close, and Ned realized the eyelid was burned away.

“Your Grace,” he said softly as he looked down at that eye.

“Now you give me the title.” It was scarcely a voice, little more than a coarse and painful hiss of air through the throat.

 _Stubborn, proud man,_ Ned thought. “I beg your forgiveness for my tardiness in that, Your Grace,” he said. _You would have made a better king than Robert, I think, for all your stubborn pride._

“Did you bend the knee to the Targaryen girl?” he rasped.

“I did not.” _I will if I must, though. I will bend the knee before I ever see Catelyn or my children or any of my people like this._

Stannis Baratheon did not have enough of a face left to truly change expression, but Ned thought that his response pleased him. “They tell me she is not dead. The Targaryen girl.”

“They tell me you shielded her from her dragon’s flame,” Ned replied.

“My daughter . . .” he said.

“Princess Shireen is safe at the Wall, Your Grace. She remains at Castle Black with Queen Selyse.”

“Promise me . . .”

“I promise I will see she is cared for.”

“No. Promise me . . .you will see that she receives all that is her right.”

 _Promise me, Ned._ He heard Lyanna’s voice again. _Keep my son safe. Keep him hidden._ He heard Robert’s voice, too, speaking of the damned boar. _Eat the bastard. Don’t care if you choke on him. Promise me, Ned._ And then, _Take care of my children._ Promises he’d given the dead. He had choked down a bite of the damned pig. He’d managed to keep one promise at least. But just as he had failed Robert in the end, he knew he could never put Shireen Baratheon on the Iron Throne.

“I’ll see she has her inheritance,” he said to Stannis now, thinking of Storm’s End. It should have been Stannis’s all along. Robert was too pigheaded to look beyond his own convoluted reasoning and see what taking it away had done to the man. But then, Robert hadn’t seen Stannis and the people of Storm’s End directly after the siege. Ned had. _Daenerys will grant Shireen Storm’s End, he told himself. It is only right, and the girl is not a monster whatever the men think of her here now. She will do right by Stannis’s daughter. She must. I will see to it._

Stannis was quiet for a long time then, and Ned thought he had drifted into unconsciousness. He started to turn away and the man spoke again. “I wanted to be Robert’s Hand. I thought it was my right.”

“He should have made you Hand after Jon Arryn,” Ned said. “You were better suited for it than I.”

“I should have told him the truth. He deserved to know. I told myself I needed more proof. More time. But I was angry. I left because I was angry at him.”

This was the longest utterance Baratheon had made and the last few words were nearly inaudible.

“It does not matter now,” Ned said, unsure of what other words he could offer the man.

“Little matters now. Except Shireen.”

“I will see to her. I promise.” _I promise._ Ned Stark wondered if anything weighed as much as promises.

“I do . . .love . . .my daughter, Lord Stark,” Stannis Baratheon rasped then, his dark blue eye staring at Ned.

“Of course, you do. I have no doubt of that ,Your Grace,” Ned responded.

Stannis Baratheon made a sort of choking sound then, and Ned wasn’t certain if he were trying to speak or not, but it sounded for all the world as if he said, “But she does.”

He spoke no more after that and did not respond when Ned took his leave.

Ned did not stop when he left the room until he had walked all the way outside into the courtyard of Last Hearth where he took in great gulps of cold air, trying to clear the sickening smell of burnt flesh and death from his nose and his mind.

“Father!” Jon called, running after him with his cloak. “You’ll freeze to death out here without wrapping up, and you know it!”

“Better to freeze than to burn,” Ned said darkly. He wondered if his father’s flesh had smelled like Stannis’s when mad Aerys had burned him to death, and then closed his eyes against the thought. “How much daylight would you say is left, Jon?” he asked.

Jon looked skyward. “More than an hour,” he replied. “But likely not much more.”

Ned nodded. “Tell me again what happened here yesterday.” Jon had actually ridden out to meet them just before they’d arrived at Last Hearth earlier and told him of the incredible events, but he wanted them clear in his mind before he went to see the Targaryen girl.

Jon sighed. “It wasn’t Daenerys’s doing. I told you that.”

“You did.” Ned had not failed to notice how quickly Jon became defensive of his newly recognized aunt. “I am not attempting to lay blame Jon. I only want to know precisely what occurred.”

“You are the only one not seeking to blame,” Jon said bitterly. He sighed. “As soon as we landed, Daenerys and Stannis started going at each other, verbally that is. Both were to blame. It was as if each of them expected the other to fall upon their knees and hail them as sovereign and when that didn’t occur . . . .well you know Stannis Baratheon.”

“I’ve had some experience with your dragon queen, as well,” Ned said, raising a brow.

“Yes. I told you it was both of them. Anyway, I tried to intervene, but then Stannis started in on me. He asked about my parentage, and started throwing insults at you. I . . .”

“You lost your temper.”

“I am afraid I did, a little bit,” Jon admitted. “You know how the wolves are with all of us?

“You mean how they get angry when you are angry?”

“Yes,” Jon said. “It is the same with Rhaegal. I could feel its anger toward Stannis as I got angry, but there was something more to it.”

“More? But your dragon did not attack anyone, did it?”

“No, but that’s because I kept it still. It was agitated. So was Drogon.”

“Drogon? The big black one that Daenerys Targaryen rides? Does she have the same connection to that beast as you do with the green one, Jon?”

“No.” Jon shook his head. “She’s no warg. But she has a connection to all of them. She’s like their mother. She’s raised them and protected and fed them when they were small. Now they are all protective of her, and they react badly any time they feel she’s being threatened. Drogon is especially close to her because she rides it, but it also minds her the best. She actually calmed Drogon more than once during the meeting with Stannis. She didn’t want this to happen, Father.”

“It would appear she doesn’t control them very well.”

“Does any parent have complete control over a child?” Jon exploded. “They’re like your children, Father. How do they react when anything threatens Lady Stark?”

“My children have not murdered anyone in defense of their mother, Jon,” but even as he said it, Ned was picturing Rickon’s direwolf tearing out the Frey man’s throat.

“No. They are children. Imagine Rickon as great fire breathing dragon and then let him witness someone threaten his mother,” Jon said, and Ned nearly jumped as the words echoed his own thoughts so closely.

“But it was only the white dragon who attacked?”

“Viserion,” Jon sighed. “Viserion is not . . .stable. I don’t know how to explain it. I can’t get into its head as I can Rhaegal, but even Rhaegal knows something is not right with Viserion. It loves its sibling, but fears what Viserion might do. That’s the best I can explain it.”

“A mad Targaryen dragon?” Ned shook his head slowly. “Mayhaps, the Targaryens are more closely linked to these beasts than anyone realizes.”

“Daenerys is not mad,” Jon said firmly.

“I did not say that she was. But you cannot deny the history of madness in the family, Jon. Aerys was not an aberration, I’m afraid.”

“And how closely did you watch me for signs of madness?” Jon asked somewhat accusingly.

“I didn’t,” Ned said simply. “You were always a Stark to me.”

They were both silent for a moment, and then Jon continued. “We didn’t know where Viserion had been. It had been gone since before Lord Royce’s camp, but suddenly it was there, and it was angry. It was frightened for Daenerys, and then when Stannis pulled his sword.”

“Stannis pulled a sword?” Ned asked, stunned. Jon had not mentioned that earlier.

Jon could not meet his eyes all of a sudden. “He did not mean to threaten her. He was making a gesture and talking about defending the realm or some such business about being king. And I knew he wasn’t threatening her. I knew Stannis Baratheon would never attack an unarmed woman. Not ever.”

Jon was holding something back. Ned could feel it. “What is it, Jon? What happened, son?”

Jon swallowed. “Dragons are far more powerful than direwolves, Father,” he said quietly. “I think it’s the magic inherent in them as much as their size and strength. Warging a dragon is . . .” He swallowed again. “When you share another creature’s skin, the connection goes both ways. Ghost knows my thoughts and feelings just as I know his, although he understands them differently. Rhaegal does the same. I can influence both of their actions with my thoughts. It was accidental at first, with Ghost. But now I can do it pretty much at will. Ghost, however has never influenced my actions. Yesterday, when Stannis drew that sword, I knew there was no threat. Rhaegal did not. It was frightened for its mother, and I felt that fright and anger, and . . .I started to draw my sword. Father, I would have attacked Stannis had not Lord Umber grabbed me, and the men there saw it.”

“Gods, Jon. You mean that dragon can control you?”

Jon shook his head helplessly. “It never happened before. I didn’t expect it. I think I can prevent it now that I know . . .but Viserion saw me as well as the men did. And he landed nearly on top of Stannis and Daenerys then.”

“And Stannis put her behind him, as you told me.”

Jon nodded. “I was shouting at Viserion to lie down, but it didn’t listen. Daenerys was shouting at Stannis to let her go, and . . .”

“And the dragon thought she was being attacked.”

“And it just breathed and I . . .I’ve never seen anything like it, Father. One moment, Stannis was standing there with Daenerys half beside him and half behind him. The next, they were engulfed in flame, and the next they were lying on the ground and he was . . .well, you’ve seen him.”

“And she was not injured?”

“Her hair was singed on the one side that wasn’t behind him. That eyebrow as well. But otherwise she’s unharmed. It was unbelievable.” Jon shook his head as if to clear the image of the two people on the ground from his mind and looked directly at Ned. “Men started shooting at Viserion then, and I could see it getting ready to snap again. I didn’t want it to eat King Stannis or to attack anyone else so I shouted at Lord Umber to keep Daenerys safe, and I jumped on Rhaegal’s back and had it drive Viserion away. Drogon actually listened to me and helped as well, thank the gods, because it took both dragons to drive Viserion off.”

“You only sought to drive it off? Not to kill it?”

“I don’t know how to kill it,” Jon said. “And I’m not certain Rhaegal would in any case. They are siblings. They care about each other. Driving it off seemed the best thing to do. I didn’t think the arrows the men were shooting would hurt it, but Viserion certainly could have hurt them. All of them.”

Ned nodded grimly. He didn’t want to close his eyes even to blink because every time he did so, he pictured that same pale dragon standing over Catelyn and Sansa in Winterfell’s courtyard. Then he saw his wife and daughter as Stannis Baratheon was now and could barely keep his stomach from turning inside out.

“Where are the dragons now?” he asked.

“Rhaegal and Drogon are not far. They are together and will come if I call Rhaegal. I have gotten Rhaegal to understand that Daenerys is safe and well, and somehow I think it has communicated that to Drogon. Where Viserion has gone, I do not know. But anywhere is better than here.”

“Oh, yes,” Ned said darkly, "a mad dragon randomly burning smallfolk gods know where is far better.”

“There was nothing else I could do!” Jon protested.

“I know, son,” Ned sighed heavily. “But getting these men to ever trust dragons or the Targaryen girl now will be difficult.”

“Or to trust me,” Jon said. “They saw me try to draw my sword, and Lord Umber heard me admit to King Stannis that my father was Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“I’m afraid that people reaching that conclusion was unavoidable as soon as you climbed on that dragon’s back, Jon. I simply didn’t meet any stray Targaryen maidens during the war, and the men who fought those campaigns know that well enough. And it is hardly secret that Rhaegar Targaryen had Lyanna a long time. What did you tell them of their relationship?”

“Nothing,” Jon said. “It does not matter, does it? I am the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. I would be seen as such. If I have Targaryen blood and can ride a dragon, I’ll ride a dragon, and they’ll see that I ride it against the Others. But if I start claiming legitimacy, who will believe I do not seek the Iron Throne?”

“No one,” Ned sighed. “You are right to do as you have.”

“I have been a bastard all my life, Father. It pains me not at all to remain one, even if I am no longer yours.”

Those words hurt Ned more than he cared to admit. “Let’s go talk to your aunt,” he said. “The men here will follow my lead even if they aren’t happy about it, but I have to figure out precisely what I’m going to say to them. I can’t do that until I’ve spoken with her, and I’d like to speak to the men before dark.”

Jon nodded and turned to lead Ned back inside to the room where Daenerys Targaryen had voluntarily remained since she’d awakened after the dragon’s attack. As they entered the keep, a man ran up to him.

“Lord Stark!” he cried. “His Grace, King Stannis has died, my lord. He’s gone.”

“May the gods grant him peace,” Ned murmured, and the man moved on to spread the word of the king’s passing. _Rest well, Stannis Baratheon,_ Ned thought. _You go to that rest with your honor intact. I’ve known few enough men of whom that can be said._

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Lady Stark, I cannot possibly allow you to do that.”

“Allow me, Sam? Did you honestly just say that you couldn’t allow me to do something?” Catelyn’s head pounded, and she knew she needed to rest for at least a short period, but first she must make it perfectly clear that she would do as she intended.

“I . . .I didn’t mean . . .” Sam stammered.

“Did I miss our wedding, my lord?” she pressed, causing Sam’s cheeks to color, “For I cannot recall taking orders from anyone other than my lord husband for a good number of years.”

“Lord Eddard would not want you to . . .”

“Lord Eddard is not here!” She raised her voice and realized that the three men in the solar were all staring at her as if she had lost her mind. Maybe she had. She was exhausted, terrified and grief stricken. Yet, she knew perfectly well what she was saying, and she meant it. She sighed deeply. “I am sorry, Sam,” she said more quietly. “I know you are thinking only of my welfare, and I was being unkind. But I must think of the welfare of everyone, and that includes those people in the Winter Town. How can they know precisely what I can and cannot offer them if I do not go and explain it?”

“My lady, forgive me, but you should not be on your feet for more than a few hours, and you still need a great deal of rest. You have not slept all night, and you spent hours up on the wall out in the cold. You cannot keep going like this.”

“I agree, Sam. The sooner you all stop arguing with me, the sooner I can rest. If you keep me here until daylight, I shall have no time to rest at all. Is that what you wish?”

The young man hung his head, and Catelyn knew he was finished making objections.

“My lady,” Deryk said. “I do not wish to speak of ill things, but the last time you went to the town . . .”

“Ramsay Snow is dead,” Catelyn said firmly. “We know who our enemy is this time, and they do not come out during the day when I shall travel.”

“Are you certain you are strong enough, my lady?” Ian asked her.

Catelyn sighed. Ian had not mentioned how he had carried her from the top of the castle wall to Ned’s solar to the other two men, and for that, she was immensely grateful. She could see the worry in his face, however. “I am, Ian. I have warmed these old bones in this comfortable room for some time now, and I’ve scarcely left the chair since I got here. I am weaker than I should be. I will admit that. But I do not intend to do any walking about the town. It requires no great expenditure of energy to sit in a sleigh.”

She looked at the three men, and they all still looked extremely doubtful. “Tell me,” she said. “Do you have specific concerns with the plans I’ve outlined or only with my ability to physically travel to Winter Town?”

“The plans are good, my lady,” Deryk said quickly. He had arrived only a short time ago, and she and Ian had quickly apprised him of the situation and what they intended to do about it. “Your plans for the townspeople will put a strain on resources here in the castle however we work it, but I believe you are correct in thinking we could not hold the town against an assault by Others in anywhere near the numbers of wights we’ve seen this night. I don’t know what else you can do.”

“And who should tell them those plans, Deryk? You’ve fought alongside them all night. Who would the smallfolk wish to hear from?”

Deryk sighed. “Lord Stark, of course, if he were here. As he is not . . .you, my lady,” the man conceded.

“Very well, then. We are decided. Assign an escort and make preparations. I intend to leave when the sun has been up no more than half an hour.”

“That gives you very little time to rest, my lady,” put in Sam.

“I told you I would rest upon my return. Sam, most of these people do not have horses, and we cannot allow their horses in the castle in any event unless we have a use for them. They need every precious hour of daylight we can give them to prepare and come if they choose. I realize the town is not far, but walking that distance in deep snow with small children will require some time.” Catelyn bit her lip. “Were there any objections to burning the dead, Deryk?”

Deryk had returned with the men Ian sent to the Winter Town during the night to give a report on the battle there. It had been fierce, and there had been more loss of life than in the castle, of course, but all the lives lost were soldiers or townsmen who were defending the town. The monsters were kept out of the town proper, and no women or children were killed. Because there was more hand to hand fighting, Deryk could easily confirm that the wights were largely made up the men who had ridden out with Lord Jason. He had not seen Lord Jason personally, but had recognized several of the Northmen who’d gone out with him, and seen several dead men wearing the colors of House Mallister. He had looked quite ill as he’d spoken of that, and Catelyn had no wish to cause him to dwell on, but she had to know that the dead were being burned.

“No, my lady. The men who were killed in the town . . .they . . .well, no one wants that to happen again. The smallfolk are burning the dead around the town, and I’ve got men out burning any of those wights that remain outside the castle walls. They . . .they keep moving, even when it’s just bits of man. It all must burn.”

Catelyn shuddered. “There are no more attacks, then? It is still dark.”

“Not many. Not more than one or two of them showing up at a time now. Men on horseback can easily run them down, and our archers still take out any that are spotted in range of the castle walls.”

“We’ll have to be much more careful with those dragonglass arrows, if Others do attack,” she said.

“We’ve been through this already, my lady,” Ian said gently. “We know we have far fewer of those, and that they are not easily replaced. The archers will be ordered not to shoot unless the Others are within a few paces of the walls.

“And we’ll still need the fires for the wights. We don’t know what will come when the dark returns. The dragonglass daggers are being distributed appropriately?”

“My lady,” Deryk said. “Please let us take care of these things now. You know our defenses as well as we do. Let us prepare them while you rest before going into the town.”

“And the removal of as many of our people as possible into the Great Keep from the Guard Hall and the Guesthouse?”

“I can oversee that,” Sam said. “Go to your chambers, my lady. Please.”

“You three must rest at some point, as well. You have been awake as long as I have.”

“With all due respect, Lady Stark, none of us nearly bled to death a few weeks ago. You can only do as much as your body will allow, my lady.”

Catelyn looked at the young man who stubbornly reminded everyone he was not a maester, thinking that she liked it better when he had been more frightened of her. He would not have dreamed of saying anything like that to her when he first arrived here. “Very well, Sam. I shall go to my chambers if you promise that I will be awakened when it’s getting light.”

“I promise, my lady.”

Catelyn nodded at the sealed roll of parchment on the desk. “Send the letter, Sam. Ned needs to know all that has transpired here.” Then she rose from her seat, willing her body not to sway. She would not ask for assistance in going to her room. She was quite certain she could make it that far, and she needed to prove it to them that she could as well. She remembered something when she reached the door, however, and she turned back to them. “Where’s the dwarf?” she asked.

“I’m not sure, my lady. I told him he needn’t accompany me back here when you sent him for me,” Ian said.

“That was well done. I confess I was tired of his company. You should find him now, though. He is uncommonly clever. He may have a worthwhile suggestion or two for our defenses.”

“You trust him, my lady?” Deryk asked.

“No,” she said flatly. “But I trust his interest in preserving his own skin. And I hardly think he is in league with the Others. As long as we are stuck with him, if we can make use of him, we should.”

“As you say, my lady,” Deryk responded.

She turned and left them then, wishing to be out of their sight before she found it necessary to lean against a wall for support. She was glad Letty had come earlier and taken Brien back to her room already. She could not have carried her son. As it was, she was out of breath when she reached her chambers and opened the door.

The sight that met her eyes was worth the walk, though, and she found that the tears she had held back since discovering what had happened to Jason Mallister and his men now flowed freely. Lying in her bed, piled against each other like a pack of wolf pups, were her children. She had never seen anything more wonderful. She saw that Brien was asleep in his cradle near the bed, and Letty was dozing in the big chair beside it.

She walked to her dressing table and sat down on the stool there to brush out her hair and rebraid it. It looked a fright, but she supposed no one particularly cared what she looked like at the moment. She certainly didn’t.

“Mother?” came a soft voice, and she turned to see her younger daughter now sitting up in the bed looking at her. “Is it over?”

“The attacks seem to have stopped for the night, sweetling,” she said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You need to sleep,” Arya said. “I’ll get the others to move.”

“Don’t,” Catelyn told her. “I’m only going to lie down a short while. I can lie across the foot of the bed just fine.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Arya said, and then clapped a hand over her mouth as she realized she’d just called her lady mother stupid. “I’m sorry. I just meant . . .”

“It’s all right, Arya,” Catelyn said with a soft laugh. “I know what you meant. But I have to get up once it’s light, and it will be light soon.”

“Why do you have to get up? You need to sleep, Mother. You look awful.”

“I realize that, sweetling, but I have to go to Winter Town and . . .”

“What? No!” Arya nearly shouted, and while Rickon didn’t move and Bran merely made a brief incoherent noise, Sansa sat straight up.

“What is it?” she asked, alarmed. Then she Catelyn. “Mother! You’re here. What has happened?”

“Hush, both of you before you wake the boys.”

Sansa looked appropriately abashed, but Arya still looked at her with grey eyes blazing. “You cannot go to the town, Mother.”

“The town?” Sansa asked. “Why would Mother go to the town?”

Catelyn sighed. “Come here girls, if you want me to tell you all of it. I see no reason to wake the boys.”

Both of her daughters came and sat at her feet, leaning against her legs as they had done when they were small. After she had given them an abbreviated version of the night’s events, Arya spoke first. “Father is well, Mother.”

Catelyn let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. She couldn’t quite get over the fact that Ned had been planning to ride out with those men until Jon’s letter about dragons had come. Had they not received that letter, her Ned would have returned to Wintefell as a monster with bright blue eyes, come to kill those he loved.

“Where is he?” she breathed.

Arya shrugged. “They’ve made camp somewhere, but they’re close to a place with lots of men. Nymeria could smell the signs of that when she went hunting, so I think they must be almost to Last Hearth.”

“Thank the gods,” Catelyn whispered.

“You can’t go to Winter Town,” Sansa said softly. “Not after what happened to you the last time.”

“Ramsay Snow is dead, Sansa,” Catelyn said firmly. “Lady Brienne rid the world of that particular evil. I have nothing to fear there by daylight. And I promise both of you, I will never leave the sleigh and I’ll be surrounded by our men at all times.”

“Lady Brienne died for you, Mother. She wouldn’t want you to risk yourself.”

“You think not, do you?” Catelyn asked her. “Do you think the lives of smallfolk are important, Sansa?”

“Of course I do. I just . . .”

“You just want to keep me safe. I understand that, but I am the Lady of Winterfell, sweetling. I cannot hide behind our walls when people have need of me.”

“You would have us hide, though,” Arya said angrily. “Winterfell is our home, too. Why are you allowed to demand that we are safe when we can’t demand it of you?”

Catelyn ruffled her hair, noting that it had finally grown to just below her shoulders. “Some day,” she said softly, “I will not be able to demand that you do anything, Arya, and that will be very hard for me. Some day, you may even have children of your own, and then you will understand me far better than you possibly can now. But for now, you must simply accept that you are my children, and as your mother, I will see that you are safe regardless of your wishes on the subject, and that as the Lady of Winterfell, I will do what I deem necessary, also regardless of your wishes.”

“That doesn’t seem very fair,” Arya complained.

“Perhaps not, but that is the way that it is.”

“Lady Brienne would tell you not to go,” Sansa insisted. “She would keep you safe.”

Catelyn sighed. “Did I ever tell you what Brienne said to me the day she swore herself to my service?”

Arya shook her head, and Sansa said, “Not exactly, no.”

Catelyn thought hard, trying to remember the young woman’s precise words. “She told me she would not serve your brother, Robb, because she did not know him. She could serve me, though, because I had courage. Not battle courage perhaps, but a kind of woman’s courage.”

“You do have courage, Mother,” Arya said fiercely. “She was right about that.”

“So, my dears, if Brienne swore herself to my service and indeed gave her life in my service because she believed in my courage, do I honor her by hiding myself away here? When there is need of me to do otherwise?”

Both of her daughters were silent at that until Sansa finally said, “Here, Mother, let me help you with your laces. You’ll be more comfortable in your shift to lie down with the boys. Arya and I are wide awake now. We’ll send Letty down to sleep and sit and watch over you. You can’t have more than an hour before it’s light now.”

Arya nodded. “We’ll get you up.”

Catelyn nearly told them that they both needed to go back to sleep, but instead decided she would best serve her daughters by accepting the gift they offered her, and so she allowed them to help her out of her dress before she lay down beside Rickon. She thought her mind was too full to allow her to sleep, but found that she knew nothing from the time her head hit the pillow until the time that Sansa was softly whispering to her to wake.

Later, as she shivered in the sleigh in spite of her heavy dress and undergarments and her thick hooded fur cloak and gloves, the thought of her daughters gave her the strength to stand in spite of her weakness as the townspeople gathered around. She remembered the last time she had addressed the people in this square. While snow had been upon the ground, it had not been so bitterly cold, and of course Brienne had been mounted upon her horse, always right beside the sleigh. _I miss you, my brave, loyal girl._

Before she even began to speak, a woman asked about the health of her babe, and Catelyn recalled that she had been large with child at her last visit and that most of these people had not seen her since. She was touched that any of them spared a thought for her little son given their current situation. She thanked the woman for her concern and told her that Brien was a strong, healthy boy. She then tried to explain once more about the Others, how they differed from the wights, and why they were so much more difficult to defend against. She could see by the faces in the crowd that these people had found the wights quite deadly enough and had no wish to meet even more dangerous monsters. She took a deep breath and began to tell them what she had planned.

“As I don’t believe we can keep the Others from the town even if I had double the men to send you, we will be opening the gates of Winterfell to you today. The castle walls are the best protection we have to offer.”

A great murmur went up at that, and she held up her hand. “There is not truly enough room in the castle for everyone. I will not lie to you. I have endeavored to make room in some of our buildings for at least women with small children, but some of you will be forced to remain outdoors. You may bring whatever tents or coverings you have and certainly you may build fires in the courtyards, but I cannot promise you will not freeze.”

There was another rumble of voices in the crowd at this. “We cannot feed you,” Catelyn went on. “We have scarcely enough to feed those already in the castle. You will be permitted to bring a small amount of food with you, but we do not have the room or provisions for any extra livestock. When it is light, you will be permitted to leave the castle and tend to your stock or hunt or gather more food, but when it is dark, the castle gates will be opened for no reason save to let soldiers out if necessary.”

“So yer willin’ to let us starve and freeze inside yer walls, and that’s all, huh?” a man yelled.

Catelyn sighed. “I am willing to do as much as I can to protect everyone to the best of my ability. I can do no more than that.”

“What if we stay in the town?” another man shouted.

“You will certainly be more comfortable,” Catelyn acknowledged. “And if we are never attacked by anything other than the wights, you may be safe enough. But we know Others are south of the forces that have gone to defend against them. There is no defense between these things and Winterfell. If they come in large numbers, your survival may depend upon those walls.” She gestured in the direction of Winterfell. “And you cannot wait until they arrive. For once they are here, you likely won’t survive the walk from here to the castle in the dark. And even if you do, I say again, the gates of Winterfell will not open when it is dark. I will not risk the safety of all within for anyone who has chosen to remain without.”

There were more mumblings and conversations among the people, but no one else shouted out. “You know how short the daylight is now,” she told them. “If you wish to come inside the castle, secure your belongings here as best you can, gather what you need to bring with you, remembering that large animals or anything like that will not be permitted inside, and make your way to the castle. You will be welcomed.”

She nodded to the driver then that she was ready to go. It seemed only a moment later when someone was shaking her gently. She had fallen asleep, and they were back in the courtyard at Winterfell. She looked up from the hand on her arm and found herself blinking woozily into Ian’s face. She didn’t say a word as he picked her up and carried her to her chambers, although she did manage to make him promise she would be awakened if any problems arose or at the first sign of any attack.

As Letty helped her undress for bed, she noted with approval that cots had been set up in her room. In an effort to free up more rooms in the Great Keep for castle dwellers moving out of the Guest House and Guard Hall, she had decreed that all her children along with Dak and Jeyne Poole should stay in her chambers. They could handle a little bit of crowding, and she could honestly rest better knowing them all to be in one place. She did not intend to let them out of the Keep while the castle was overflowing with people she did not know. She assured herself that all the children were present and then allowed herself to lie back and close her eyes.

There was nothing else she could do for the moment. So Catelyn Stark slept.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The Umber man who stood guard outside Daenerys’s room simply opened the door when Jon told him he and his father wished to see her. Jon frowned at the discourtesy and knocked softly on the doorframe, waiting for the young woman to acknowledge them before entering. She was standing at the narrow window, looking out into the distance, but she turned at the sound.

“Your Grace,” Jon said to her, “Lord Stark has arrived.”

“I can see that,” Daenerys said softly, turning her eyes to Ned Stark, who stood slightly behind him. “Come in, Lord Stark. You, too, Lord Commander.”

She made no acknowledgement of the Umber man holding the door open, and Jon couldn’t truly blame her, but he wished that she would at least try to reach out to the Northmen a bit more. A great number of them would happily kill her outright at the moment, especially as the dragons were not immediately present. Only Lord Umber’s word that nothing more was to be done until Lord Stark’s arrival had stayed their hands. Jon was more than grateful to the huge man. The Greatjon was far more a man of action than words, and Jon knew that the events of the past day had knocked him off balance. Yet, he had shown remarkable restraint, ordering no harm be done to Daenerys, treating Jon as he always had, and allowing Jon to take his father to see Stannis Baratheon privately after meeting with them briefly when he’d brought his father into the keep.

Jon and Ned stepped into the room and waited for the guard to close the door behind him.

“Stannis Baratheon has died,” Ned said without preamble before Jon could speak. His voice was cold.

Daenerys gave an almost imperceptible nod and looked back to the window. “I feared as much,” she said softly. “I did not see how he could survive.” Turning to face the men once more, she said. “I am sorry.”

“Are you?” Jon heard his father say. “The man was Robert Baratheon’s brother. He claimed the throne you want for yourself. Are you truly sorry he is dead?”

Ned Stark’s grey eyes were ice, and his face as hard as marble as he strode toward Daenerys Targaryen. Jon nearly protested, but then realized that his father was trying to provoke a reaction from her. He bit back his own words and simply watched to see what would happen between the two of them, praying that neither would say anything that damaged their fragile accord beyond repair.

“Am I sorry he’s dead?” Daenerys echoed thoughtfully, as if to herself. “I have seen enough death to know that it always causes sorrow.” She paused. “The man was my enemy. I heard nothing from him that would make me believe otherwise. Yet, his death was not my doing, and I would wish it undone if I could, even knowing that likely his death on a battlefield would be necessary some day.”

“His death was not your doing?” Ned asked a little more softly. “Whose dragon killed him then, Your Grace? If you cannot control the dragons, they are not truly yours. They are wild and far more dangerous than you would have us believe . . .even to your friends.”

Jon saw Daenerys flinch at that. “The Usurper’s brother was never my friend!” she snapped. “But I did not want him dead. Not now. Not in such a manner. Viserion merely . . .”

“The white dragon is out of control,” Jon heard his father interrupt coldly.

“No!” Daenerys protested. “No. Viserion only misunderstood. He thought I was in danger. He only wanted to protect . . .”

“And what of my wife? And my daughter?” Ned Stark nearly shouted the interruption then. “How did they threaten you, Your Grace?”

Jon couldn’t imagine what Lady Stark or his sisters had to do with this conversation, but Daenerys went pale. “Lady Stark and the girl were not hurt,” she said somewhat defensively, and Jon found himself wondering what had happened in Winterfell.

“That dragon flew into my castle and threatened my wife and daughter for no reason! You were not even in the courtyard. You cannot continue to tell me there was no danger to them. You cannot possibly say that now!”

His father’s eyes were as furious as he’d ever seen them, and even his voice had lost a bit of its normal icy control as he all but stood over top of the much smaller Daenerys Targaryen.

“Viserion didn’t hurt them,” she said in a small, stubborn voice. “He would not . . .”

“I have seen Stannis Baratheon, Your Grace. I see the burnt ends of your own hair now. Do not tell me you know what that dragon will or will not do.” Ned Stark clenched both of his fists and took a deep breath, and it shocked Jon to see just how hard he was working to keep control of himself. His father was even more shaken by what had occurred than Jon had realized. _Viserion tried to attack Lady Stark? And Sansa or Arya?_ He suddenly felt very ill as the image of his sisters with their flesh blackened and peeling from their faces came unwelcome to his mind.

“I know my children,” Daenerys whispered as Ned Stark walked away from her.

“You do not even know where the white dragon is,” Ned replied in a tired voice, turning back to look directly at her.

Daenerys could not hold his gaze long, and she looked toward Jon, questioning. “I do not know, Your Grace,” he said softly. “Drogon is with Rhaegal. They are not far. Viserion is not with them.”

Daenerys suddenly looked very tired and sank down into a chair.

Jon watched his father consider his words carefully before speaking again. “The men here are afraid of the dragons. As they should be. They also are afraid of you. Stannis Baratheon made himself their king by coming to fight beside them. He defended the Wall from wilding attack. He marched to take Winterfell back from Bolton’s bastard when I was still believed dead, and he came here to stand beside them and defend the North against the Others. Why would they not have him as their king?” Ned Stark’s words were quiet now, and Jon could see that Daenerys was listening intently.

“Then you arrive,” his father continued, “And almost instantly your dragon murders this king who has spent more time in the North fighting enemies of the North than any Andal king I can recall. Can you not see that it is folly to defend the beast to them? You must acknowledge the evil of this act.”

“Viserion is not evil,” Daenerys protested.

“Is it mad?” Ned Stark demanded. “I know not what passes for reason in the mind of a dragon, but if this dragon lacks it, then mayhaps it should be destroyed. Can the other two . . .?”

“No!” Daenerys shouted, and Jon was surprised to hear his own voice protesting as well.

“I don’t know if it can be killed,” he told his father. “And Drogon and Rhaegal wouldn’t . . .they care for one another, Father.”

“It can be killed,” Ned Stark insisted quietly. “I know not how to do it. But dragons fought dragons in the civil war they called the Dance of the Dragons and many of the beasts were slain. It can be done.”

After her initial shouted protest, Daenerys had sat quietly, seeming lost in thought. Now she looked up, first at Jon and then at Ned. “It can be done, Lord Stark,” she said quietly. “But I would not ask it of Drogon or Rhaegal. I do not believe Viserion need be killed, but if he did, I would do it myself.”

“And just how would you do that, Your Grace?” Ned asked as Jon stared at his aunt in stunned silence.

“Dragons have few weaknesses,” she said. “But few is not the same as none. I am not so great a fool as to tell you those weaknesses, my lord, but I will not allow my dragons to randomly murder the people of the Seven Kingdoms. You have my word on that, and I will give it to the men here as well, if you would like.”

“You will destroy the white dragon then?” Jon heard his father ask.

“No,” Daenerys said firmly. “Not now.” She turned toward Jon then. “You think you know my children so well, but you did not always know them. All have killed men, women, and children. All have killed for fear, anger, or simple hunger. A father once came to me with the bones of his child, whom Drogon had killed and eaten as thoughtlessly as he would a sheep. A prince of Dorne came to Meereen to seek my hand. When I refused him and later had to flee Meereen on Drogon, he tried to take my other dragons. Ser Barristan told me how Rhaegal did to him as Viserion has done to Stannis Baratheon. It took him three days to die, however.”

Jon felt sick. “A prince of Dorne,” he said softly.

“Quentyn Martell,” Daenerys said. “A foolish, stubborn man, but brave and honorable in his own way. I certainly did not wish him dead. He was never my enemy.” Those purple eyes looked directly into Jon’s. “Yet Rhaegal killed him, Jon,” she said, using his given name. “And he died a horrible death. Should I have killed Rhaegal then? Should I have killed Drogon for the child? Many people believed that I should. And if I had done so, what hope would you have against your White Walkers now?”

Jon found himself unable to reply. The prospect of losing Rhaegal was too much like losing a part of himself. It was unthinkable to him, just as any thought of harm to Ghost was unthinkable.

“You submit that the white dragon is no more prone to attacking our own men than the other two?” he heard his father ask her.

“No,” she said quietly. “Drogon and Rhaegal do not attack men now. I do not believe they will again except at my direction . . .or Jon’s, in Rhaegal’s case. They have learned this, Lord Stark. And if they could learn it, I believe that Viserion can as well. I must give him that chance.”

“And how many more men will die as Stannis Baratheon did before you consider the beast unteachable, Your Grace? How many chances?”

Daenerys did not take her eyes from his father’s as she replied, and Jon knew from experience precisely how difficult that was.

“He is on his last chance, my lord,” she said gravely. “If he attacks anyone else, I will either find a way to keep him permanently confined or else . . .I will put him to death.” The words cost her dearly. Jon could see the pain etched in her face.

“I have your word?” his father asked.

She nodded.

“Good. You will come with us now and give that same word to Lord Umber and the other men here. Then, mayhaps we can move forward from this.”

She looked shocked, and Jon thought she was about to make a protest of some sort, but his father cut off whatever she might have said. “If you would be their queen, Your Grace, you must start behaving as such.”

His tone of voice reminded Jon uncomfortably of reprimands he and Robb had received from him on any number of occasions, and he waited for Daenerys to lash out at him.

Instead, she rose to her feet, and regarded him coolly. “I am a queen, Lord Stark. You and I would both do well to remember that,” she said very calmly.

Jon watched his father nod. “Very well, Your Grace. Let us assemble the men to hear your words.”

It hadn’t gone too badly, Jon reflected when the assembly broke up just as the last light faded from the sky. Lord Umber had stood beside his father and Daenerys as she took responsibility for her dragon’s actions while insisting she had not intended it to occur. She then repeated her pledge that she would allow no further such attacks by any of her dragons without taking action against the dragon in question. There was an obvious mumbling throughout the ranks which made it clear that this promise did little to reassure most of the men, but with Lord Stark and Lord Umber accepting it for the present, the men would grudgingly go along. Neither his father nor the Greatjon had sworn any type of fealty to Daenerys, and she’d been intelligent enough not to demand that of them at this point. They’d simply thanked her for coming to lend the dragons to this fight, and she’d expressed her commitment to defeating their enemies. It was a beginning, at least.

The men were now preparing the patrols which would go just north and east of Last Hearth’s walls, riding throughout the night to watch for Others and wights. The odd lull in the attacks and what it might mean had been forgotten in the wake of Stannis’s death by dragon fire, but the threat could not remain forgotten. After much debate, it had been decided that Daenerys and Jon would remain at Last Hearth this night rather than going out on the dragons. Jon had protested this, stating that they had brought the dragons to fight, but his father was concerned about Viserion returning to Last Hearth and wanted the two of them available with their dragons to intervene in such an event.

“If there is an attack by the Others, we will send for you, Jon,” his father had assured him.

Lord Stark was riding out with one of the patrols. He said that he needed to see what defenses had been made with his own eyes. Jon wanted very much to be with him, but he understood his father’s decision and knew that he needed to abide by all his father’s decisions here, in any case. Too many men were becoming aware of the fact that Eddard Stark was not actually his father after all, and Jon needed them to know that his respect and admiration for the man who’d raised him remained unshaken. He needed these men to believe that the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch was as much a Northman as any of them, and not some bastard dragon whom they could not trust.

He had reached out to Rhaegal in his mind, calling the dragon to return to Last Hearth with Drogon as the big, black dragon still wore Daenerys’s saddle and carried all their clothing and supplies. Should he and his aunt need to ride dragons into a battle, they would need to be prepared. He was now standing by his father’s horse holding his reins as his father checked the girth and prepared to mount up when Lord Umber came running toward them.

“My lord!” he called. “My lord, wait!”

The man was out of breath, and his face was reddened from the exertion and the cold. Upon reaching them, he immediately held out a roll of parchment sealed with the direwolf of Stark. “This just arrived,” the Greatjon said between breaths. “The maester brought it to me, but it is obviously meant for you, my lord.”

As his father reached out wordlessly to take it and break the seal, Jon easily recognized Lady Stark’s handwriting. His father read silently for what seemed like a long time, and Jon noted with fear that the parchment began to shake slightly as Lord Stark’s hand began to tremble. He looked at his father’s face and saw grief and fear and a pain that was almost unbearable to look upon.

He looked toward Lord Umber and saw that the Greatjon could see the emotions upon his liege lord’s face as well, and as that was hardly a typical occurrence, Lord Umber’s own features now bore an unaccustomed look of fear.

When he finished reading, Ned Stark simply held the letter out wordlessly for either of the men to take. Jon reached for it, and then his father walked away by himself silently. Jon held the letter where both Lord Umber and himself could read the words Lady Stark had written. Her handwriting was no longer the perfectly formed artistic script he remembered Sansa trying so hard to emulate when they were children. The assassin sent for Bran had damaged her hands permanently, and Jon knew every word she put down cost her a great deal of effort. Yet, she had managed to write them all clearly enough, and Jon’s own hands shook when he finished.

Lord Umber finished reading shortly after he did and swore under his breath. “Damn,” he said, and then more loudly, “Gods damn these fiends to hell!” He stomped angrily toward his father, and Jon followed him.

Ned Stark gave no indication that he was aware they were there as he looked off into the night, but Jon knew he heard them approach. “What shall you do, Father?” he asked softly.

His father sighed heavily and turned to face him, that terrible pain still etched in his face. “I shall ride out with my patrol as planned,” he replied just as softly.

“But, my lord!” Lord Umber protested. “Winterfell is . . .”

“I cannot ride to Winterfell in the space of one night, Jon,” he said. “You know that as well as I. If you read the letter, you know that Catelyn has prepared her defenses as well as can be done. I could do no better. I am here now. Mayhaps, I can do some good. Riding forever back and forth between castles serves no purpose.”

The Greatjon lowered his head, acknowledging the truth of these words.

“I could go,” Jon said then. “On Rhaegal. I can get there . . .”

“No, Jon,” his father said softly, this time speaking to him. “Not now. You are the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. You brought Daenerys and her dragons here for this battle. You cannot take them away because of a threat to Winterfell. The Watch protects all of the North. You must remain here, especially with all that’s happened.”

Jon knew his father spoke truly, but it didn’t make the words any easier to hear. “Daenerys then . . .she can . . .”

“No. You heard her pledge her dragons to the fight here less than an hour ago.”

“My lord,” the Greatjon protested. “These Others to the south are a part of this fight, too. And if they truly wiped out Lord Mallister’s entire company . . .”

“I should have been with them!” Jon heard his father shout, losing the tight control he’d been exercising since they’d approached him. “Gods damn me for not being there. I was to lead those men. I stayed behind to treat with the Targaryen girl and sent them to their deaths!”

“Father, you couldn’t have . . .”

“Lord Jason is not a Northman! How could he have known what he would face? I’ve seen those bloody Walkers, Jon! I . . .”

“My uncles had seen them, too, Lord Stark.” Jon Umber’s deep voice was not as loud as his father’s, but he spoke with an urgent tone that demanded attention. “Mors and Hothar. They’d fought Others and wights. And the gods know they were Northmen. Yet, when that avalanche of soulless, white, icy demons swept over us, they could do nothing. None of us could. I don’t know why I’m alive, Ned,” he said softly, the use of Father’s title slipping away as the big man allowed himself to recall the attack that had pushed them back to the walls of Last Hearth. “It certainly isn’t because I knew more or fought harder than my uncles.” He shook his head. “Lord Mallister was a tough old soldier, my lord, and had you been with him, it would be your dead hand attacking your own castle. That’s what Lady Stark would have written us.”

Jon’s breath caught at the thought of such a thing, but he knew Lord Umber was right. His father had regained control over his features, his face set in what Lady Stark had always called his “lord’s face,” but his eyes still betrayed his pain and uncertainty. Jon watched those eyes go to the sword he now carried--the remnants of Ice reforged by the Lannisters and given to Lady Brienne by the Kingslayer. When his father had first ridden north to the Wall to face the threat of the Others, he had refused to ask the woman for that sword, stating that the Valyrian steel blade would remain with the lady knight at Winterfell to protect Lady Catelyn and the children. The lady knight was dead now, and she had bequeathed the sword to Lord Stark with her dying breath. Yet, that meant there was likely no Valyrian steel in Winterfell now, and Jon knew well that was what his Father was thinking.

“Whether I could have done anything or not, that chance has passed,” his father said quietly after a moment. “You are correct, my lord, in that the defense of Winterfell is important to all the North. My lady’s plans for that defense are sound. We must depend upon her and the men I have left her for now. We shall get through this night and see what it brings us here. We shall see if the dragons can truly sway things in our favor if the Others appear. And we shall send whatever aid we can to Winterfell when we are able.” He scowled. “Although, it would appear that no roads are safe anymore. What aid we can send may not reach Winterfell.”

Jon knew he was thinking of Lord Mallister and his men again.

Lord Umber nodded. “Very well, my lord. Gods willing, we’ll have a quiet night out there and speak again when it is light.”

As the big man walked away to join his own group of men, Jon heard his father mutter, “Gods willing, it will be a quiet night in Winterfell.”

“Father,” he said, turning toward him. “I understand why we must remain here. I do. But I know this is no easier for you than it is for me. Any time you say the word, know that I will take Rhaegal and go to Winterfell as quickly as I can reach it. They are my family, too.”

His father’s face relaxed just slightly, and he put a hand on his arm. “I know that, Jon, and it gladdens my heart more than you know. I will never choose to put them in harm’s way, you know that. But I honestly do not believe we can do as much there right now as we can here.” His face twisted into a pained expression for the briefest of moments. “I only wish that Catelyn were well. I worry for her.” The admission was not one his father made easily, Jon knew. Once his father would not have spoken of his lady wife to him at all, and if he had, Jon would have resented it. Whatever lingering bitterness Jon harbored toward the woman now, he realized he did not resent his father’s concern for her anymore. He had a strong suspicion that the feelings between his father and his lady wife were at least in part responsible for his father’s unfailing will to survive even the most impossible circumstances, and he was certainly grateful for that.

“Lady Stark is one of the strongest people I’ve ever known,” he said, and his father looked at him in some surprise. “It’s true,” he insisted. “I’ve never been one to praise her, but she is strong, Father.” He hesitated, not certain if he should say the next part. “And I know you mean as much to her as she does to you. She’s not likely to let herself come to harm if it will prevent her from seeing you again.” The last words came out in a rush, and he couldn’t quite look at his father as he said them.

His father made no response for a moment, and then he tightened the grip on his arm. “You will never know how proud I am, Jon, that you still call me Father.”

He swung himself up into the saddle then, and Jon watched him ride out with his group of men. He wondered if Nymeria would come back to his father once he was outside the gate, and thought it likely. Father had told him that Arya’s wolf had come to him as he traveled here, but had not wanted to enter Last Hearth. That didn’t surprise Jon in the least as Nymeria was forever suspicious of men she did not know and resistant to being confined, not unlike Arya. He had smiled to think of his little sister sending her beloved wolf to watch over her father. _Watch over him still,_ he silently asked the wolf, wherever she was. He asked his father’s gods for the same thing. _Keep him safe,_ Jon prayed. And keep Winterfell safe. Protect my brothers and sisters . . .and Lady Catelyn.

Three or four hours later, he was riding back toward the main gate of Last Hearth with Daenerys and the men who’d accompanied them to where the dragons had landed. They’d removed Drogon’s saddlebags and loaded them onto horses. The men with them had stayed well back from the dragons, and Jon couldn’t blame them, but Drogon and Rhaegal were both very well behaved so hopefully these men would share that tale.

Just before they reached the gate, they saw the torches of another group of riders approaching rapidly. Even in the dim torchlight, as the riders closed the distance, Jon easily recognized Ned Stark. “Father!” he shouted.

“Jon!” Lord Stark kicked his horse and quickly covered the last few lengths between them. As the other horsemen drew up behind him, Jon realized that two of the horses looked as if they were about to fall over and the men upon their backs not much better.

“Riders from Yohn Royce,” his father gasped out. “They are under attack there, Jon. Others in large numbers. We need to go to their aid.”

Jon looked at Daenerys and found her looking back at him. They were both dressed warmly with cloaks and gloves over the thick, durable clothing they’d been wearing to ride the dragons. “The helmets are there,” she said, pointing to a bag on one of the horses.

“I know you don’t want mail, but you should take a blade of some sort,” he said.

She nodded. “I have one.”

Jon turned back to his father. “Have these men seen to,” he said, nodding toward the men from Royce’s camp, “And gather what men you would take. We can be there long before you.”

His father looked at him a moment and nodded grimly. “May the gods go with you, Jon,” he said. “And you as well, Your Grace.”

Daenerys was already off her horse, retrieving both of their helmets from the pack horse. She handed him his and leapt lightly back into her own saddle. Jon reached out and gripped his father’s hand for only the briefest of moments before he turned his horse back to where the dragons waited in the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the holiday season is upon us once more which means lots of happy, but busy things going on in Real Life. I am committed to finishing this story in the near future, (I have been writing it for a little more than a year now, after all!), but I don't know that I'll be able to update very regularly these last couple weeks in December. So, if things get quiet until the new year, don't despair. We truly are in the homestretch now, and once I get through the holidays, I intend to be very diligent about updates until it is finished. I anticipate we are within 10 chapters of the conclusion now. 
> 
> If I don't get another update in before the end of the year, I wish all of you a Merry Christmas (the holiday that I happen to celebrate) and a most joyful holiday season whatever you may celebrate this time of year. I cannot possibly thank you enough for all the support this story has received, and may all of you have a blessed and happy new year! :)


	61. A Long Night

Bran Stark opened his eyes to see a shadowed face peering intently into his.

“Bran. Bran, wake up,” hissed the face at him. His sleepy mind took a few moments to resolve the hissing voice and the outline of the face, barely discernible in the moonlight streaming through the window, as his sister Arya’s.

“What do you want?” he said irritably.

“Shh! You’ll wake up Rickon and Dak!” Arya hissed angrily.

“Well, you’re waking up me,” he responded with a yawn. “What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you . . .privately.”

Bran yawned again. Privacy was not something any of them had much of at the moment, all crowded into Mother’s room. He was sharing a reasonably large pallet placed on the floor of the small side room with Dak and his younger brother. The girls and Jeyne Poole theoretically shared a similar pallet in the larger room where Mother’s bed was, although Bran knew perfectly well that Arya had been sleeping in Mother’s bed.

He pushed himself somewhat upright with his arms. “What’s this about, Arya?”

Arya looked at the two sleeping boys beside him and bit her lip. She looked nothing like Mother ordinarily, but Bran always thought she looked exactly like Mother when she did that, even in the very poor light now. “Father,” she mumbled. “And . . .things.”

Bran sighed. “Can you help me?” he whispered, gesturing toward his useless legs.

Arya pulled the covers off him and grabbed him by the ankles. She raised up his legs and pulled as he walked himself off the pallet and across the floor on his hands. When they’d reached the little alcove in the far corner of the small room, he leaned back against the wall and asked his sister once more, “What’s this about, Arya? What about Father?”

“If I can get you to the godswood, could you see Last Hearth? I mean the whole tree seeing thing. I know they’ve got a heart tree there. A real weirwood.”

Bran closed his eyes. Mother probably knew more about his greensight than anyone in the castle, but she had never asked him to do it. She was afraid of what Father had told her about Lord Brynden--what Bran had told Father about Lord Brynden. He wondered what Arya thought greensight was and why she wanted him to use it now. “I thought Nymeria was with Father,” he said thoughtfully.

“She is,” Arya said in some frustration. “Or at least she was. She’s not far from him. It’s just . . .Father’s at Last Hearth now. I know he is. And Nymeria won’t go into the castle, and I can’t make her. She hates man rock. This is the only place she even thinks about coming inside it.”

“Well, if Father’s inside Last Hearth, you know he’s all right, right? So what’s the problem?”

Arya huffed. “I don’t know he’s all right if I can’t see him! I don’t know where he is now, but I do know Nymeria’s afraid. There are things there, Bran. I can . . .she can smell them. They smell wrong.”

“Dead?’ Bran asked, more alert now. “Dead, but not like a good meat smell? Like something dead and bad?”

Arya closed her eyes. “Yes. That’s one smell, but there’s another one. It’s cold. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

Bran shuddered. “Others,” he said.

Mother had told them Others were coming here, to Winterfell. That’s why they were all stuffed into her chambers. People from Winter Town were jammed into the castle, and a lot of the castle’s normal inhabitants were jammed into the Great Keep. He and his brother and sisters weren’t allowed to go anywhere without Mother’s express permission and a guard. It had been three nights since the wights had come in great numbers to the castle and the town, and no further attacks had occurred since then. The townspeople were growing weary of the crowded conditions within Winterfell. Some of them had returned to their homes and, among those who remained, fights and other acts of discontent were becoming ever more frequent. Mother had gone to the town the day after the wights attacked, and when she’d returned, she’d slept nearly two full days. She’d been furious upon awakening that they’d let her sleep so long, but as she had only instructed anyone to awaken her in case of another attack, and one hadn’t come, Sam had adamantly refused to allow anyone to disturb her.

“Others?” Arya asked now. “Are you certain?” She sounded frightened.

Bran shrugged a little. “Well, I wasn’t with Nymeria, you were. But cold is the only way I can describe their smell. Cold and frightening. Just like them.”

“Father went there to fight those things, Bran!” Her voice rose a little, but at a small sound from one of the boys on the pallet, she lowered it again. “He can’t die, Bran. I can’t stand it if he dies. And I’m afraid Nymeria won’t go near him if he goes after those monsters.”

“She will,” Bran said. “You told her to guard him.”

Arya shook her head. “She’s not like Summer! She doesn’t always do what she’s told. Even when I’m with her, I can feel her resist certain things . . .she’d go after the Others for me . . .but for Father . . .she doesn’t know him the way Shaggy or Summer do . . .and I . . .I don’t have any other way to see him. To know he’s safe.”

Arya was very nearly crying, and that frightened Bran. Arya didn’t cry. She didn’t even yell as much as she used to before . . .everything. She just seemed quietly angry a lot. “I’m sure Father will do everything he can to keep safe, Arya,” he told her, not really sure what to say. Her grey eyes stared at him intently as if she expected him to provide her with answers, and he found himself unable to look at her. He turned his gaze in the direction of the doorway into Mother’s main room, where her bed was, but the bed appeared empty from here.

“She’s up and gone down to the Great Hall already,” Arya said quietly. “You know how mad she was when she woke up yesterday. She knows about the fights and troubles with the townspeople. She’s going to hear grievances or something.”

“It’s still dark,” Bran said.

“It’s almost always dark,” Arya said. “It’s morning though. Just early morning.”

“Arya, I . . .”

“Why won’t you look for him?” Arya asked, those grey eyes pleading. “I would if I could. I even tried to . . . but that was stupid because even if there are cats in Last Hearth, I don’t know them and . . .”

“What are you talking about?” Bran asked, thoroughly confused now.

Arya bit her lip again. “You were wrong about being the only one who can warg animals other than our wolves. I can do it, too. Or I could anyway. I can’t seem to do it now, though.”

Bran simply stared at her, waiting for her to explain.

“There was a cat. An ugly old tom,” she said softly. “In Braavos. It seemed to like me. When I was blind, I learned how to see through the cat’s eyes.”

“When you were blind . . .” Bran said. “What do you . . .”

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” Arya snapped. “I know you ask Dak questions. He told me. And I told him he could answer.”

Bran felt slightly guilty. He had asked Dak questions about his sister’s time in Braavos. He still couldn’t quite believe she’d lived with the Faceless Men.

“Don’t feel guilty about it,” she said more gently. “I don’t care if you know the things about me that Dak knows. I just don’t want to talk about them.”

Bran nodded. “So, when the . . .the . . .people you lived with made you blind, you warged a cat?”

Arya nodded. “It wasn’t like the wolf dreams. I was awake. I can’t find the cat now, though. I never dreamed about it, and it never occurred to me to try to find it until after I found Rickon and Sansa, and I learned more about what Rickon could do with Shaggy. But I couldn’t do it anymore. I don’t know if the cat’s dead or if Nymeria’s the only one I can warg from far away . . .or what. But I have tried sometimes with birds here. And it doesn’t work. I mean, I never really tried with Nymeria or even the stupid cat. It just worked.”

Bran looked at his sister carefully. Lord Brynden had spoken to him of powerful wargs who weren’t greenseers. “I never warged anything except Summer until Lord Brynden taught me how. And he taught me with the ravens in the cavern who’d been warged many times before. He said it was like a horse that was already broken, or something like that. It’s harder with animals who’ve never shared skins with anyone before. Maybe the cat had been warged by someone else.”

Arya shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t care about that right now, though. I care about finding out what’s happening with Father. And I can’t do it. This greenseeing thing of yours--the seeing through the trees thing--that’s the only thing I can think of to do now.”

Bran shook his head. “I can’t, Arya.”

“What do you mean you can’t? You don’t know how to do it anymore?”

“I . . .I haven’t tried really. Not since I’ve been at Winterfell.”

“What? Why not? Bran, I’ll find a way to get you to the godswood. It’ll be difficult with Mother practically having us locked up right now, but . . .”

“That isn’t it. I mean . . .I don’t think I really have to be in the godswood.” He remembered when he’d seen Mother here in the godswood at Winterfell from his bed in the cavern. He remembered a time much further back, when he’d slept so long in his bed here at Winterfell after his fall, in the bed he’d had before the fire. He’d been high up as if he were flying, and he could see Father then. Father had been pleading with King Robert near the Trident. But he’d seen Mother then, too, on a ship at sea far away from his father. He’d seen Arya and Sansa and even Jon at the Wall. He’d seen the heart tree of Winterfell looking up at him and thought surely he’d looked down upon all the realm. That hadn’t been the view from any one raven. He’d seen things even further away and things that frightened him so much that he tried never to recall them. “I don’t want to do it,” he whispered, ashamed of himself.

“What do you mean you don’t want to do it? Bran, this is Father we’re talking about!”

“I know that, Arya! But seeing him isn’t helping him. When I saw things before . . .when I see things, I can’t even tell if it’s happening now or if it happened a long time ago. It doesn’t help anything.”

“It has to help,” she said, shaking her head stubbornly. “Knowing is worth something. Knowledge is a weapon.”

“Not if I can’t get to him. And not if I can’t even tell you if what I see happened a moon ago or won’t happen until next year.” He felt tears coming to his own eyes then, and he blinked hard. His mother wanted him to be the Lord of Winterfell after his father. He knew that. If he became a greenseer like Lord Brynden, that couldn’t be his future. The thought of becoming like Lord Brynden made him shudder even if a part of him did long for all the knowledge greensight could bring him. But becoming a greenseer was his destiny. And what if accepting that destiny was the only way to help his father? “And I’m afraid,” he whispered more to himself than Arya.

She heard him, though. “Of what?” she asked, almost as quietly.

“Lord Brynden told me I am to be a powerful greenseer like him. He’s waited for me all this time. And Jojen died to bring me to him. And I do want to be more than a broken boy.” The words tumbled from his lips even if he couldn’t look his sister in the face.

“You are more than a broken boy,” Arya said firmly. “Much more.” With his eyes staring down at his lap, Bran could almost believe it was his mother who spoke as Arya sounded so much like her then.

“I don’t want to be like him. It scares me,” he whispered. “That’s why I haven’t tried to use the greensight. Mother thinks I’ll be Lord of Winterfell some day. I can’t tell her I never can be. I just can’t tell her that yet.”

“Of course, you’ll be the Lord of Winterfell someday. But not for a long time. Because Father is not going to die.” Her fierce words on behalf of himself and their father caused him to look back up at her. “Father is not going to die for a very long time, Bran,” she repeated softly. “He just can’t. But you can’t be scared to use this sight of yours no matter what your Lord Brynden told you. He isn’t in charge of you, Bran.”

“You haven’t seen him, Arya,” Bran said quietly. Slowly, then, these words coming with more difficulty, Bran began to describe the cavern far north of the wall and the man who sat upon a weirwood throne and seemed as much a part of the tree itself as he did his own body.

She listened to him speak for what seemed like a long time to Bran, and she never once changed her expression. Surely, she was horrified at the thought that someday her brother would become the thing he described, but he could tell nothing from her face. She reminded her forcefully of Father then, when he wore his lord’s face.

After a long moment, she spoke. “This Lord Brynden was just a man a long time ago, wasn’t he? The bastard called Bloodraven.”

“Yes.”

“He fought his own brother. He loved a woman not his wife.”

“I guess.”

“He did all kinds of things that weren’t really right, Bran. He was just a man. He’s not a god.”

“I never said . . .”

“He’s the only greenseer you’ve ever met. He’s a million years old or something. And he knows a lot. More than anyone you’ve ever met before. So, everything he says sounds like truth to you. Like wisdom.”

“I . . .he told me that . . .”

“I don’t need to hear what he told you.” She actually reached out and took his hands then. “Bran . . .you will have to choose where you want to be. Even who you want to be. I had to learn that. As for men who would teach us wisdom . . .In the House of Black and White, I listened to the Kindly Man, and the words he spoke always sounded wise.”

“Who’s the Kindly . . .”

Arya waved her hand to cut off his question. “It doesn’t matter. He was a teacher of sorts. My teacher. With the Faceless Men. He told me that only the Many Faced God could judge whose time it was to die. No person could truly judge that for another man. Yet Father would tell you it is his place to judge men as the Lord of Winterfell.”

“Father is . . .”

Arya waved him silent again. “Father would tell you that the Faceless Men are merely assassins, very skilled assassins willing to kill anyone for enough coin.”

“Well, they are!” Bran insisted.

“The Kindly Man would tell you that Faceless Men are merely servants of the Many Faced God. It is not ours to question why it is this person’s time to receive the gift of death. We care not if he has lived a good life or an evil one for that is not our place. We are merely the servants who give the gift.”

“But that’s just . . .”

“Bran . . .I believe the Kindly Man is wrong about a lot of things. But I know he spoke a lot of true things as well. I now know I get to choose what I believe. When we were little, I would never have believed Father could be wrong about anything. But he has been wrong sometimes, Bran. What he did to Mother, about Jon, that was wrong.”

“But he only meant . . .”

“To keep Jon safe. I know. He believes he did right. I can believe he did wrong in that without hating him. I can believe him to be honest and honorable and good and brave and still not agree with everything he’s ever said or done. The same is true of Mother. She was wrong to treat Jon the way she did. Nothing Father did was Jon’s fault.”

Bran shifted uncomfortably. He had never spoken badly of either of his parents to any of his siblings. Nor had he heard such words from any of them other than the normal, brief angry outbursts after someone was punished for something or not granted something they wanted. Arya still had hold of his hands.

“Bran,” she said slowly, squeezing those hands more tightly, “You’ve just barely seen eleven name days, and I’ve seen nearly thirteen, but we’ve both seen too many terrible things. I don’t want to talk about anything that happened from when I was in King’s Landing until I came back to White Harbor with Dak, but I will tell you that for a long time, I tried very hard not to be Arya Stark. I believed what people told me, and I tried to do as they asked. But I am Arya Stark, and I couldn’t just stop being myself even when I wanted to very badly. You believed Jojen and Bloodraven, and I believe them, too. I believe that you’re going to be a great greenseer. But you’re also going to be Brandon Stark. And if Brandon Stark is supposed to be the next Lord of Winterfell, then you will be. You’ll be Lord Stark, the greenseer. You don’t have to go north of the wall and live in a tree to be a greenseer just because the Bloodraven and some Children of the Forest said you do. You have a choice. Just be Bran.”

“Bran,” he whispered. “The broken boy.”

“Bran,” she responded. “The heir of Winterfell, son of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn.”

Outside a direwolf howled, and Bran closed his eyes. “Someone’s at the Kingsgate,” he told Arya after a moment. “Not wights. Men.”

“Summer and Shaggy are there?” Arya asked.

Bran nodded. “You’d better find Mother. I’m sure the guards have already informed her there are men outside, but you can tell her they truly are men.”

Arya nodded. “Want me to help you back to bed?”

Bran shook his head. “It’s morning, as you said. I’d kind of like to sit here awhile until everyone else wakes up. And, maybe . . .I’ll try, Arya.”

Arya nodded, and turned to leave Mother’s chambers through the larger room almost completely soundlessly. Bran still leaned against the wall, his mind full of his sister’s words.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Jon’s heart beat wildly as he surveyed the scene beneath him. From this height, the battle below looked like nothing more than hundreds of small fires moving over the dark landscape, but the sounds that drifted upward were recognizable enough--the clash of weapons, and men shouting out and screaming wordlessly. The flaming brands obviously carried by Yohn Royce’s men fanned out for a long distance in either direction, and Jon’s stomach lurched at the realization of precisely how big this battle truly was.

Through Rhaegal’s eyes, he could see much better, of course, and the most frightening thing he recognized immediately were the dark areas where numerous flaming brands seemed to go out all at once. Rhaegal’s sharp eyes saw the White Walkers there, descending like a cold tide upon the soldiers, sweeping over them and drowning them in frost and fear. In most areas, the combatants were men and wights, but there were several of these dark places, and Jon turned Rhaegal downward toward the nearest.

As he prepared to let go a great flaming breath, for he was as much dragon as man at this point, he suddenly realized that the Others were so enmeshed with the fighting men that, whether or not dragon fire could kill Others, it would most certainly kill these men.

“Retreat!!” he screamed, forcing his mind back almost entirely into himself and finding his own voice. “Retreat! Get away from the White Walkers!”

A few men heard him, but only a very few. Now that he was so much lower, the sounds around him were deafening. The easily heard shouts and the sharp clang of weapons had been joined by the less distinguishable sounds of heavy footfalls, bodies crashing together and falling to the ground, and the muffled moans of pain from too many men to count.

Even those men who heard him seemed to stand frozen in place, staring upward at the great beast that descended toward them, and Jon wondered how terrifying Rhaegal appeared to them outlined against the black sky, blocking out the stars behind it. One man even panicked and heaved his fiery torch upward toward the dragon before turning to flee, although it came nowhere near hitting it, falling back down to land in the snow and sputter out.

He began to panic. _How can I possibly help these men without killing them?_ He realized he’d lost track of Daenerys and Drogon and began to look around wildly with his own eyes, finally spotting them circling above him. _She’s waiting for me to make a_ _move,_ he thought. _She doesn’t know what to do, either._

Not knowing what else to do, Jon consigned his soul to the gods and brought Rhaegal down to land directly in the midst of a group of Others and men. All of them scattered wildly, attempting to get out of way of the dragon’s huge legs and long powerful tail. Jon was mostly within himself then, but he was aware that a swish of that tail had sent several men or Others flying violently to one side. Amidst the panic around him, Jon spotted one White Walker almost directly ahead of him who was not engaged with any soldier, although a man lay at his feet unmoving and the Walker was now lifting his icy blade away from that body.

 _Please let that man be already dead,_ Jon prayed as he joined himself as completely as he could with Rhaegal once more. Oddly, Jon felt no new sense of fear added to his own as he entered the dragon’s mind. Rhaegal was agitated and hyperalert, but not truly afraid. Jon turned the beast’s thoughts toward the Other directly in front of them, and he felt the heat rising up as if it were coming from his own lungs as Rhaegal drew in a breath and then fire streamed forth from its open mouth and nostrils toward the tall white creature silhouetted in the moonlight.

 _Please, please,_ Jon prayed as he watched the flames hit the White Walker. At first, nothing seemed to happen except that the monster glowed more brightly in the dark, but then the unearthly white color of the Walker began to change subtly to reflect the orange-yellow flames of Rhaegal’s breath. Jon even thought he saw green creeping into the face and hands of the Walker and playing around the blade of its sword. Then the Other’s features seemed to become indistinct, as if it were fading or melting away. And then it was gone. Simply vanished as if had never been.

Rhaegal shrieked loudly and triumphantly, and Jon heard some of the men nearby shouting as well. He couldn’t be sure whether his own voice shouted or not as he was so at one with Rhaegal then. The great dragon swiveled its head to one side and saw several men shouting and pointing at the two White Walkers they were attempting to stab with tiny black daggers while somehow staying away from the strokes of those long white blades.

 _They want me to burn the Others,_ Jon thought. _They don’t even care that the flames will hit them as well._ He cared, though, and he struggled to be human enough to shout with his own voice, “Run! Get out of the way!” knowing that the dragon had understood their invitation all too well. Knowing that the dragon wanted nothing more than to burn these white creatures and feeling that burning desire in his own gut as well. _The Walkers must burn._ All other wants were quickly becoming unimportant in the face of that one desire. _Burn._ As the fire once more built up within, Jon honestly didn’t know how much of that desire was Rhaegal’s and how much his own.

The flames erupted once more from the dragon, and they went on longer this time as Rhaegal’s big head swiveled slightly to be certain both Others were engulfed. Rhaegal’s eyes could clearly see the men diving out of the way as best they could and rolling in the snow to extinguish the flames on their clothing. One man simply screamed in anguish and waved his arm about. In his hand, he still held the dragonglass dagger he’d been jabbing toward the Other’s midsection when the the flames erupted. Now that entire arm blazed, and the flames began to lick their way up onto his shoulder and torso as another man tackled him to the ground.

Jon barely had time to register all this when he felt a sharp, needle-like pain in his left side. The pain was more irritating than debilitating, but it was accompanied by a cold sensation that chilled him more than he’d realized he could be chilled. Rhaegal’s head snapped to that side and flames shot forward again, enveloping the White Walker that had just stabbed its blade into the dragon’s flank. It hadn’t been able to penetrate the tough scales, however. _The pain is Rhaegal’s, not mine,_ Jon thought then.

The cold had startled the dragon more than the pain, which was little more than a pinprick, and Jon suddenly understood that this was the first time Rhaegal had ever experienced cold at all. He wondered what it meant that the Others could actually chill the dragon with their blades, and he decided he didn’t want to find out as he saw several more Others seeming to make their way through the men toward him.

With a great push of strong legs against the ground, Jon/Rhaegal leapt into the air, unfurling great wings as it rose. Once they had reached a height of about fifty feet above the chaos below, Jon began to look around for Daenerys and Drogon once more, realizing that he’d forgotten them in the heat of the battle below. As he began to turn his own head about, Rhaegal’s head jerked upwards and the dragon’s eyes saw Drogon coming toward it from above.

“Higher!” Daenerys shouted at him as they approached. “Get higher!”

Not quite comprehending, Jon headed up to follow her, pulling himself more and more into his own skin as they ascended so that he could attend better to her words. Once they were several hundred feet above the fray, his aunt maneuvered Drogon very close to Rhaegal, closer than the black dragon was truly comfortable with, Jon knew.

“Arrows, Jon,” she panted at him. “Some of the wights shoot arrows. I don’t know about the Others. I’ve only seen them with those long swords.”

“Arrows?” Jon said, puzzled. “Surely an arrow can’t hurt them. That Other’s sword couldn’t get through Rhaegal’s armor.”

“Arrows can hurt us, Jon, if they strike truly. And they can hurt the dragons in one place. You must protect his eyes!”

“Eyes?” Jon said, wondering what she meant. Then he recalled her words to his father earlier about dragons having few weaknesses, but not none. “Are their eyes one of their weaknesses, Your Grace?”

She seemed reluctant to share the information even with him. “Yes. Or so I have been told by someone whose knowledge of my dragons has proved accurate thus far.”

They were flying in slow circles well above the battle now, and Jon felt the need to return and help the men below, but he needed to tell Daenerys something else. “I think maybe the Others can hurt them, too, Your Grace.”

His aunt looked puzzled now. He’d already told her the Other’s sword hadn’t pierced Rhaegal’s scales. “Not their blades so much as the cold. Rhaegal felt the cold when that blade touched it. It frightened it, and I’ve never known it to be frightened before. I think if enough of them got near, they could damage the dragons.”

His voice was hoarse. Conversing while flying was always difficult. Words had to be nearly shouted at the best of times, and with the din of the battle rising up from beneath them, he felt like he was screaming at his aunt.

“We can’t land then,” she replied, looking grim. “And we can’t simply spray fire across the battlefield. We’ll kill more men than Walkers that way!”

“We can dive toward them, try to scatter them, and burn any White Walkers that get isolated by that,” Jon said after a moment’s hesitation. “Rhaegal can see well enough to do it, I know. Do you think you can see well enough to guide Drogon?”

She looked uncertain. “I can try,” she said, “But I can’t risk burning these men, Jon. Not after Stannis.”

He nodded at her. “Do what you can, then. No more. And be careful!”

With that, he turned Rhaegal back downward at a rapid rate of speed, screaming at those below to move out of his way. When he and the dragon were just above the battling men and monsters, he looked entirely through Rhaegal’s eyes and saw one Other standing nearly alone. He exhaled fire upon it and rose into the sky again as it disintegrated in the flame.

By his third dive, the men had seen well enough what he was doing, and he didn’t have to shout at them at all. They actively tried to separate themselves from the White Walkers in order to leave them open to the flames. This didn’t prove easy, however, for the Walkers moved swiftly and pursued the men as they fled. Jon became frustrated at his ability to burn no more than two or three of the creatures at each pass without risking the men. Even now, he knew some men had to be suffering burns. Still they shouted for him to continue.

 _It isn’t enough,_ Jon thought miserably, as he rose from his latest dive and saw the big black dragon take out a single Other about a hundred yards away before rising as well. _It is too slow. We are scarcely more effective doing this than the men are with their dragonglass knives!_

Suddenly, Jon became aware of a single man on horseback in the midst of the fray whom the Others were not pursuing. There was almost an empty space about him as he rode after the Others, appearing to brandish nothing more than flaming torch. Yet, the Others fled from him.

“Lord Royce!” Jon shouted, as he recognized the distinctive armor. It would appear the runes were as effective as the man had said they were. Of course, his ordinary fire was not effective at killing the Others at all, although he rather quickly dispatched any wights he came across.

The older man waved his arm at Jon, beckoning him toward him. Relying on the Others’ apparent fear of Lord Royce’s magic armor to keep them away, Jon decided to risk landing close to him. Of course, Rhaegal’s proximity caused the man’s horse to scream and rear wildly, but BronzeYohn remarkably managed both to keep his seat and settle the animal.

“Snow!” he shouted once the horse stopped trying to throw him off and flee the nightmare in front of it. “Can’t those beasts of yours spray any more fire than that?”

“Not without killing all your men, my lord!” Jon shouted back. “I can’t get them separated.”

“I can!” the man shouted back.

“How?”

“Just get back in the sky, boy, and give me a few moments!” the Lord of Runestone bellowed before turning his horse and shouting for some of the men around him.

Jon had no idea what the man was planning, but he complied with his request to take to the sky once more, and he flew to join Daenerys. “This way!” he shouted at her. “Lord Royce is planning something!”

She followed him on Drogon and they circled high above the battle once more. Jon was startled to realize that the battle had actually been moving all this time. While the line still stretched out a good distance toward each end, the entire thing was constantly moving southward toward Last Hearth, and Jon realized they were a good bit nearer Lord Umber’s castle than they had been originally.

Below him, he saw that that a large number of men seemed to have formed into a more organized group. Most of these men seemed to be actually leading the wights southward, battling them with fire as they went, while a smaller number held firm against the Others, trying to hold them further north. As the men fell and the Others inexorably began to push forward, Yohn Royce suddenly gave a shout and raced along the line on his horse while the men who remained able flung themselves away from the Others they battled and sprinted southward for all they were worth. With Bronze Yohn galloping back and forth in front of them, the group of at least a score of Others were slow to pursue the men.

Lord Royce was looking skyward and shouting, and Jon knew well enough what he wanted. There were a very few men left behind, of course--too injured to get away from the Others, but Jon couldn’t think about them. He threw his mind forcefully into Rhaegal and dove, aware that Drogon dove directly behind him. Both dragons released an impossibly hot, impossibly long torrent of fire as they sped along just above the Others, burning everything in their paths as Royce kicked his horse and galloped hard to the south to get out of their way. The screams of a wounded man as he burned to death amid the melting Others were nearly drowned out by the cheers of the men who watched the Others die by fire.

The cheers were short-lived of course. There were wights all around them and more Others already heading for them, and of course this was only one small section of the line. Yet, it felt like a victory even if it were a small one, and any tiny victory was more than these men had believed possible before. Jon watched the men below form up to repeat a similar maneuver and marveled at their courage, especially that of the men who went for the Others because those men knew a good number of them would die by icy blade or dragonfire, and yet they flung themselves at the Others all the same.

Again and again, this deadly dance was performed. The two dragons rained fire down on one group of White Walkers after another, seeming tireless in their efforts although Jon could feel the aching in Rhaegal’s wings and feel how its breath came a little shorter between fiery blasts. He honestly couldn’t say if it had been moments or hours or days after awhile. Existence was measured by the ever increasing tally of destroyed Others, the screams of the inevitable burned men killed alongside of them, the pounding of the hooves of Bronze Yohn’s remarkably well trained warhorse upon the snowy ground.

All the while the sounds of the men battling the wights, and sight of those wights blazing suddenly when struck well enough by someone’s brand went on and on, slowly but persistently moving southward until suddenly they met with more resistance.

More men had arrived, Jon realized. Large numbers of men. _Father!_ These had to be the men who’d ridden from Last Hearth--his father, Lord Umber, and their men.

 _Gods keep them there,_ he prayed desperately. _Keep them there fighting the wights._ Jon knew perfectly well he could never allow the dragons to send down fire and blood upon Eddard Stark. His heart clenched at even the thought.

Before he could really see how the new men were being integrated into the battle, he heard a loud dragon screech from high above him which surprised him because he’d thought Daenerys had kept Drogon fairly level with Rhaegal as they circled around for their next run.

“Nooooo!” He heard his aunt’s agonized scream from directly behind him and turned to see the big black dragon right where he’d thought it was. Daenerys was staring upward. “No!” she screamed again, and then let loose a string of words in Old Valyrian.

Jon looked upward, already knowing what he woud see. Above him, the cream colored dragon screamed again as it dove toward them. Viserion had come to join its siblings in battle.

He and Rhaegal soared upward to meet Viserion who seemed excited to see them or to see Rhaegal anyway. It looped around them enthusiastically, having much more energy than Rhaegal did after being in battle for so long. To Jon’s relief, it seemed willing to follow Rhaegal, and so he led Rhaegal to descend slowly, leading the other dragon northward, away from the men.

From somewhere behind him, he heard Daenerys shout, “Jon! They’ve set it up again! They are ready for us!”

“But Viserion!” he shouted.

“You’ve got him! Keep him with Rhaegal! I can’t just let those men sacrifice themselves for no reason!” With that, Daenerys turned Drogon toward Yohn Royce’s latest group of targeted Others and dove.

Reluctantly, Jon shouted at Viserion the Valyrian command for follow and continued to fly in the other direction. However, the moment the flames erupted from Drogon’s mouth and nostrils, he saw Viserion turn. He shouted again, but to no avail.

He turned Rhaegal and flew after the cream colored dragon as fast as his own dragon could move, but Rhaegal was nearly spent while Viserion was fresh. The distance between them increased as Viserion dove and followed Drogon’s example spewing flame onto the Others below it.

For a moment, Jon thought it would be all right. Viserion would simply follow Drogon instead of Rhaegal, and Drogon was already pulling up after releasing its fire upon the ground below. Viserion had actually helped with the attack.

Yet, something appeared to catch Viserion’s eye, and instead of following Drogon upward, it instead veered suddenly to the south as if pursuing some prey. With a sinking heart, Jon realized the riderless dragon was pursuing Yohn Royce’s horse as it galloped southward toward the men there.

“No!” He threw all the will he had into Rhaegal’s exhausted body knowing they could never reach Viserion in time. He prayed that Daenerys had seen what was happening as well. Drogon had to be as exhausted as Rhaegal, but it was easily the biggest and strongest of the dragons.

Viserion seemed to be slowing, and Jon began to think that he might catch it. Then, through Rhaegal’s eyes, he saw all too clearly as Viserion dove once more, and flames engulfed the Lord of Runestone and his mount. The horse’s screams were terrifying and so loud that if Bronze Yohn made any sound, Jon could not hear it. The horse stumbled and fell, its flesh burning. The man looked like a misshapen toy soldier. The runes on his armor were proof against the cold of the Others and their wights but not against dragonfire, and the beautiful armor was now molten and deformed.

 _Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods._ Feeling that he might be sick as he continued to speed toward Viserion, Jon wondered wildly if that’s how his grandfather had looked when Mad Aerys had burned him in his armor. Then it occurred to him that Rickard Stark had not been his only grandfather present that day. One grandfather had murdered the other with fire just as Viserion had done to Lord Royce.

Men were riding toward the fallen Lord of Runestone now, and Jon recognized the man leading them with a jolt. His father was riding with all speed toward Yohn Royce, and he knew that his father’s thoughts were similar to his. He was remembering what had happened to his own father and not thinking of the beast that still threatened. He was playing the role of his brother Brandon, leaping forward to save a man who could not be saved at the expense of his own life.

Viserion had landed virtually on top of the charred horse, tearing into the steaming flesh with one huge claw, but as Ned Stark and the men with him approached, the cream colored dragon looked up and screeched, unwilling to allow them near its kill. It drew back its head and Jon saw it make ready to release its fire once more.

Rhaegal surged forward through the remaining distance separating it from Viserion and hit its sibling directly in the side with its huge head just as the flame started to leave the lighter dragon’s mouth. Viserion rolled sideways. What flame came from it skittered across the snow making Ned Stark’s horse jump in panic before quickly sputtering out.

Rhaegal pounced on top of its fallen sibling then, but Viserion screamed and clawed at Rhaegal, throwing the green dragon off itself and leaping toward the sky. Rhaegal immediately pursued it. Jon felt the aching in its wings and a deeper ache in its side where Viserion had clawed it, and a throbbing pain in its head from the initial impact, but the dragon willingly responded to Jon’s desires. As he urged the dragon to hunt down its sibling, Jon had to suppress the desire to turn around and go back to see about his father. To see about Lord Royce.

They were flying eastward and Jon became aware of two things. The sky before them was finally beginning to lighten. Behind them, Drogon was flying after Viserion as well, and Rhaegal’s sharp ears easily picked up the sound of Daenerys Targaryen’s sobs.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“They are coming, milady. Just like you said.”

Those words had marked the beginning of the longest day and night in Catelyn Stark’s life. She’d been sitting in the Great Hall listening to several men and women from the town shout at each other about any number of grievances--stolen food, stolen cloaks, stolen firewood--when two of her guards had come to announce there were men at the gate, followed closely by Arya who informed her that there were no wights among the visitors, information she had received from Bran who had apparently received it from Summer.

She had been very clear to the townspeople that the gates of Winterfell would not be opened except during daylight, and she hadn’t felt she could go back on her words then, but as daylight had been no more than an hour or so away, she had taken her cloak and accompanied the men back to the Kingsgate and climbed the tower stairs to speak to the men below.

A group of about a dozen men stood below her, and she had recognized their leader as a man from the Winter Town who’d left just after she’d awakened and come down to the courtyard the previous day. He’d been shouting that the Starks had no right to starve him and his family, and that Lady Stark’s monsters hadn’t come so all the people should follow him out of the gates to their own warm houses where they could hunt and work on their own time. A good number of smallfolk had followed him out, and Catelyn had not tried to stop them. They were not prisoners, after all.

Yet less than twenty-four hours later the man had returned shouting up at her that he and others had seen white creatures like those she’d described when they’d gone night hunting in the woods near the town. To his credit, he had not brought his family with him nor begged her to open the gates. He’d merely told her what he’d seen and asked if his family would be allowed back in the castle once daylight arrived. She’d assured him they would be, and he and his companions had turned away and begun walking through the dark to the town only to return once the pale sun appeared low in the eastern sky with their families and meager provisions.

Upon their return, she’d quizzed the men in more detail, but they couldn’t tell her much. They’d been hunting and suddenly felt much colder than they had been. The half moon gave them some visibility, and they’d seen what appeared to be tall, white men moving through the woods without making a sound. There’d been disagreement among them as to the direction these creatures had been headed and to the actual number of them, but they all agreed there were at least a score and that the intense cold had gone when the white men had.

She’d spent the day wondering why the Others, if they had truly been there, hadn’t attacked the men, and what the new night would bring. The atmosphere in the castle during the precious brief hours of daylight had been tense, but relatively calm. The return of so many of the townspeople who had left made those who had remained more confident of their decision, and the tidings they brought made the petty squabbles over blankets suddenly less important. Many of the men had volunteered to take turns watching upon the castle walls, and Deryk had formed them into small companies with members of the household guard in charge of them.

In truth, there had been little for Catelyn to do regarding the Others as the defensive plans were all made and her men were prepared. She had spent some time with her children, and those had been her most enjoyable hours although she’d worried that Bran and Arya were acting a bit secretive. She’d been careful to ask the guards in the corridor outside her room to keep a close watch on them. She’d also informed the children that both Summer and Shaggydog were to stay with them through this night. Selfish or not, the best use Catelyn could imagine for the direwolves was as a last line of protection for her children should these Walkers manage to overwhelm their defenses and enter the castle. _The gods sent those wolves to my children._

After that, she’d gone through the larders with the cooks and walked through the glass gardens with the head gardener as she needed to know precisely what their food situation was should they be cut off from outside help for an extended period of time. The results of her inventories were far from reassuring, but she had known that would be the case. A dark sense of foreboding nearly overwhelmed her as she’d drawn her cloak tightly about her and stepped from the glass gardens into the godswood. She’d found herself walking alone through the tall sentinel trees to Ned’s heart tree.

 _Ned’s heart tree,_ she thought, laughing at herself. The heart tree belonged to Winterfell, of course, and it had served as the spiritual heart of the place for countless generations of Starks, but she’d always thought of the ancient weirwood with its ever watchful eyes only as Ned’s. She’d stood before it in the cold silence of the godswood and bowed her head, allowing herself to truly think upon her husband for the first time since she’d forcibly pushed aside the pain of waking up to his absence again that morning. Arya had confirmed that Ned had arrived to Last Hearth, but had said little else and Catelyn had thought her younger daughter was being evasive. Her heart sped up and she found it harder to breathe when she thought about him far away and in danger, so she’d forced him from her mind as much as she could in order to do what was necessary--to be the Lady of Winterfell and the mother to her children in a time of threat.

But as the cold winter sunlight began to fade toward the western horizon, she’d stood before his heart tree and prayed for her husband, calling upon the gods of the Starks to protect him. _He is yours, old gods of the North. He belongs to you. But he also belongs to me. Return him to me, I pray you. Return him to me safe and whole, and I promise you I will care for him and keep_ _him well._ She’d prayed for her children’s safety, for the safety of all within the walls of Winterfell. She’d prayed for strength and wisdom and courage, and by the time she had finished her prayer, she honestly hadn’t known which gods she beseeched for what. She supposed she simply asked all of them for everything. After all, she was certainly both Tully and Stark now, and she’d long ago given up trying to separately define those parts of herself.

“Lady Stark. I am surprised to see you here.”

The dwarf’s voice had startled her. She had been far too lost in her own thoughts to hear his approach. She’d turned to face him. “Why should you be surprised to find me anywhere in this castle, my lord? I am the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Of course, my lady,” Tyrion Lannister had said evenly. “But I thought you had always remained quite devoted to the Faith of the Seven, even after all your years among the Northmen.”

“I do keep the Seven,” she’d said, looking down at him rather severely. “However, you may have noticed that the sept my lord husband had built for me was destroyed when Bolton’s bastard sacked Winterfell. Lord Stark has promised to rebuild it for me, but he has been rather busy since our return here.”

The dwarf had coughed, and Catelyn was almost certain he’d concealed a laugh. She’d remembered his words to her in Ned’s solar. _If you could stop being too far above everyone else . . ._ She supposed she did sound rather like a self-righteous septa. She’d softened her expression somewhat and continued, “And my lord husband and my children are Starks of Winterfell. Surely the gods of the Starks will hear prayers on their behalf, even those offered by an Andal from the south.

Lord Tyrion had regarded her with a very thoughtful expression for a moment before replying. “If any gods hear anyone’s prayers for her husband and children, my lady, I believe those prayers would be yours.”

She’d actually smiled at him then. “What brings you to the godswood, Lord Tyrion?”

“Oh, I simply like it here, my lady. I discovered that when I came here with Robert and my sweet sister. This place offered the only peace to be found during that visit.”

Catelyn had frowned once more. “There was no peace during that visit,” she said sharply. “And none since. If the gods would truly grant any prayer, I’d pray to them to make it so that none of your family had ever entered the gates of Winterfell.”

“I cannot say I blame you, Lady Stark. I’m not overly enamored of my family, myself. Yet you cannot claim that Lannisters alone have brought your family all its troubles.”

“No,” she’d conceded, thinking of Petyr Baelish, Roose Bolton and his bastard, accursed Walder Frey . . .even Lysa, her own sister, had had some hand in the treacheries against House Stark although Catelyn laid that mostly at Baelish’s feet. All of them were dead now. She’d wondered if the depth of her hatred for the Lannister twins would lessen at all once they were dead. In any event, the Imp had given her no cause for complaint beyond his rude tongue during this visit. “I do thank you for the advice you offered my Captain of the Guard,” she’d told him.

Tyrion had bowed his head modestly, but in truth, his idea had been an excellent one. She’d told her men to make use of the dwarf’s intellect if they could and they had taken her at her word. It had been his notion to assign only certain archers, the very best, to the dragonglass arrows. All the other men with bows could simply shoot fire arrows at the wights which would surely accompany the Others during any attack. The different types of archers and ammunition would be distributed all along the walls so that every area could be defended from both types of attackers without bowmen having to constantly switch arrow type depending upon the most immediate threat. That would decrease the chances of valuable ammunition being wasted by being mistakenly fired at the wrong foe.

“I spent a great deal of time considering defensive strategies prior to the Battle of the Blackwater, my lady. If only we had the stores of wildfire here that the pyromancers had in Kings Landing, we could make short work of these wights and perhaps give the Others pause as well.”

Catelyn had shuddered. “I heard about the Battle of the Blackwater, my lord. I think your fire is an evil to be feared almost as much as these Others.”

Lannister had cocked his head as he looked up at her then. “You would hesitate to use wildfire, but you welcome dragons?”

She’d smiled at him, but her voice was hard. “Did I say I welcomed the dragons? Or that I would not use wildfire if I had it? I will use whatever means necessary to defend my home, Lord Lannister. You need never doubt that. But I will call a weapon what it is, whether I wield it or someone else does. Victors and vanquished count up their dead after every battle, my lord, and good men die as easily as wicked. If a wicked man’s weapon will save a good man’s life, I’ll use it.”

“Oh, I do not doubt that at all, Lady Stark,” he’d assured her. “In fact, I’m rather thankful for it. You did give me a weapon when the mountain clansmen attacked us after all, and surely you considered any weapon in my hand a wicked man’s weapon, did you not?”

She’d bitten back the retort that had sprung to her lips at that, and said simply, “We both have reason to be thankful I allowed you a weapon that day. I have not forgotten.” She looked around at the darkening wood. “We should go inside, my lord. My Captain of the Guard believes that I should spend this night in my lord husband’s solar to receive any reports. You are welcome to come with me if you can keep a civil tongue. This night will be long enough without your insolence making it longer.”

“I suspect your Captain of the Guard believes you should spend this night in your bed, that you believe you should spend it atop your castle walls, and that the lord’s solar is the best compromise the two of you could reach. And I would be pleased to accompany you there.”

She’d huffed at that. “Well, it appears I will not be spared your sharp tongue, but as your wits seem just as sharp, I will attempt to suffer it. Come along, my lord.”

He’d grinned widely at her then. “As you say, my lady. We must use the weapons we have.”

Now, having checked on her children and made certain the direwolves were with them, she sat in Ned’s solar with the Lannister Imp while her husband fought monsters somewhere to the north and her home was being assailed by dead men and icy demons. If she let herself dwell too long on that, she feared she’d go mad. Ian had come to the solar about two hours after sundown and told them that wights were once again approaching the castle. This group of corpses appeared to have fewer bowmen among them, but they were coming from all sides of the castle this time, completely surrounding it.

“They have no siege equipment, my lady, and we have the manpower to hold them off,” Ian had said before pausing. “If nothing else comes.”

She’d nodded and thanked him for his report. He’d returned not fifteen minutes ago to report that new attackers had appeared. Tall white creatures which gave off such an intense cold from their presence that not only the men atop the walls could feel it, but the townspeople huddled in their makeshift tents around the courtyards. “Not all of them walk, my lady. Some ride beasts. I’ve seen a bear, two stags, and a horse, myself. All the animals look to be dead and covered in frost, but they move, my lady. They move all the same.” Catelyn had never seen such an expression on Ian’s face, not even the night of the previous wight attack. These Others terrified him.

“Do the dragonglass arrows slay them?” she’d asked him.

He’d nodded slowly. “They . . .disappear. It’s like they melt or simply become air,” Ian said unbelievingly. “I’ve only seen two hit, though, my lady. And the frosty beasts---they can burn. Like the wights.”

Catelyn had nodded grimly. “Very well, Ian. You may return to your post.”

The young man had nodded slightly and left, still looking nearly dazed.

In his wake, neither Catelyn nor Tyrion spoke for some time. Tyrion stared into the fire, and Catelyn sat behind Ned’s desk, staring intently at the wood surface before her and seeing nothing at all. _Gods preserve us,_ she thought.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t like a glass of this wine, Lady Stark?” the dwarf asked her after a bit. “It is a rather nice Dornish vintage. A gift from your fat merman, the steward told me.”

Catelyn snorted slightly. “I rather suspect the steward did not refer to Lord Manderly as our fat merman, but yes, he did send the wine. He has been very good to us since our return to Winterfell.” She smiled at the memory of Wyman Manderly showing up outside her room in the dark of night with a dagger and a message for her when she’d been a hostage of the Boltons and Freys here, although when she thought of his questioning of her about the child she had carried then, she found herself very anxious to see the man’s face when he finally got to see her youngest son. She would take great satisfaction in the Lord of White Harbor looking at Brien’s obviously Stark face. And Lord Wyman would know it.

“So would you care for a glass?” Tyrion Lannister’s voice called her back from her brief distraction.

“No. I must keep a clear head this night.”

He smiled then and gave a small laugh as he shook his head slightly.

“Have I said something amusing, my lord?”

“No,” Lannster replied. “I was merely reflecting on how unlike my sister you can be. Cersei would find the events of this night an excellent reason to have more than one glass of wine.”

“I am nothing like your sister,” Catelyn hissed. “On this night or any other.”

“No doubt, she would dislike my saying so as much as you do, my lady, but in some ways you are very similar.”

“I doubt that very much,” Catelyn said firmly, rising from her chair to walk to the window. It was too dark to see anything clearly, but there was obviously a great deal of movement outside. “And I do not wish to discuss Cersei Lannister with you, Imp.”

“Conversation might distract you, Lady Stark.”

“I do not wish to be distracted!” she snapped, turning around to look at him. “I wish to know what is going on.”

“I am certain your man will come back or send someone else when there is anything to report.” He paused, but then returned to his previous train of thought. “I believe you are certainly most unlike my sister in your marriage.”

“All of my children were actually fathered by my husband, if that is what you mean,” she said acidly.

He laughed again. “I have no doubt of it. But that isn’t what I meant. I saw enough of the two of you together when I came here with Robert’s entourage to know that each of you holds the other in very high regard---and there is no lack of affection between you.”

Catelyn gave a slight shrug. She had no wish to discuss her feelings for her husband with the brother of the woman who had imprisoned him.

“Cersei made japes about the two of you, but I believe she was envious.”

“I told you I have no wish to discuss that woman. I have no wish to ever hear her name again, truth be told.”

“You are not alone in that, Lady Stark.” He drained his wine glass. “I believe I shall have another. With your permission, my lady?”

Catelyn nodded absently, turning back toward the window, trying to gain some knowledge from the blurred and shadowy figures moving about the tops of the wall and down below in the courtyard. The dwarf said nothing else, apparently content with his wine and the fire, but her mind raced furiously. She wasn’t certain how long she stood there, staring at men she could not truly see before turning around once more and exclaiming, “I cannot stand this!”

“Cannot stand what, Lady Stark? My company?”

She sighed. “No, my lord. I confess you are not the companion I would choose, but you have not been entirely unbearable. No. I cannot stand that I do not know what is occurring. Winterfell is my responsibility, and as long as sit in this room, I have no way of knowing how we fare against the enemy.”

“Then why stay here?”

She raised her brows at him.

“Oh, I know they all want you to stay here. Your soldiers and your not-a-maester. They seek to keep you safe, my lady, and I hardly blame them. No doubt Lord Eddard would have you under lock and key rather than risk your going anywhere near the battle.”

“My lord husband would never make me a prisoner, Dwarf!”

Tyrion sighed. “I only meant that your lord husband, were he here, would order you and the pups defended at all costs, protected from all harm. But he is not here.”

“No,” Catelyn said quietly, wishing that he were here with every fiber of her being. “He is not.”

“And he left you in charge of Winterfell, did he not?”

“You know he did.”

The dwarf nodded. “Then while you would certainly remain shut up in this Keep should your husband be here to ask it of you, why should you stay here to please men you command? You are the Lady of Winterfell. Go out and see the battle for yourself if you like.”

She wanted to do that very badly, but why was the Lannister Imp so interested in encouraging her? “You want to go out to the battle,” she said suddenly. “You wish to see what is occurring as badly as I do.”

He smiled at her. “Of course, I do, my lady. And I confess I want to see these Others for myself. I imagined them, you know, when I stood atop your great Northern Wall and looked beyond the edge of the Seven Kingdoms. I’d like to know if I came close to the real thing.”

She shook her head. “I am not a warrior. Neither are you. I have no wish to distract the men from their duties in the heat of battle.”

“No,” he agreed. “But we needn’t be much of a distraction. And if something truly big happens---bad or good---and it requires some act by our side, wouldn’t it be easier for everyone if you were right there to give your blessing to it? Rather than wasting time by having men run forever back and forth with messages?”

She looked at him a moment. “Very well, my lord, I shall give you what you want . . .but only because it is what I truly wish to do as well. Fetch the warmest cloak and gloves you have and meet me at the door of the Great Keep.”

The dwarf looked ridiculously pleased with himself, but Catelyn honestly didn’t mind it so much. Now that she had made up her mind to go, she felt oddly relieved. The guard outside the solar didn’t question her about her movements. Nor did the guards outside her chambers where she went to fetch her outer garments. Her children, however . . .

“You can’t go outside, Mother! They’re fighting!” Sansa exclaimed, eyes wide with disbelief and fear.

“There are no enemies within the castle walls, Sansa. I shall be quite safe. And I need to know how the battle proceeds.”

“You aren’t well enough to be out in the cold at night, Mother. You slept forever after you went to Winter Town,” Arya put in. “I can go and find out what’s happening for you. I can . . .”

“No,” she said firmly. “No, you cannot. And if you try, the guards outside this room, will stop you.” She knew she sounded terribly severe, so she took a deep breath. “I am quite well enough, Arya. I probably was in no condition to go to Winter Town when I did, but the long sleep has done wonders for me. I haven’t felt this well since before Brien was born. I will be very careful not to overdo it, child.”

“What about Brien?” Sansa said, seizing on the opening she saw there. “Won’t he get hungry?”

“Letty will be here if he needs fed before I return,” Catelyn said with a pang of guilt. “I truly must go, Sansa.”

“Take Summer with you,” Bran said, speaking for the first time.

“The wolves are for your protection, Bran.”

“There are two of them. Take Summer, Mother,” her son insisted.

“No! Take Shaggy!” At Rickon’s exclamation, the big, black direwolf leapt at Catelyn and nearly knocked her down. “Shaggy loves you. He won’t let any monsters get you.”

Catelyn pushed Shaggydog down, keeping her hand on his head, and looked at her little boy. His face bore a fierce expression, and his ice blue eyes stared into hers, almost defying her to tell him no. Her heart nearly broke as she remembered the way Shaggydog had followed her around camp when Rickon had first been returned to them. Of all of her children, Rickon’s connection with his wolf was the most unconscious, the most seamless. At times, it truly was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. If Shaggydog accompanied her out of the Keep, she had no doubt that Rickon would experience everything that occurred around her. And if anything bad did happen . . .

“Of course, I know Shaggy loves me,” she said, dropping to her knees in front of her third son. “He loves me almost as much as you do.” She took her son’s hands in hers. “But I love you even more than that. And I need Shaggy here with you. Because he is strong and fierce and brave. And I know he can keep all of you safe.”

Looking up at Bran, she said, “I will take Summer with me, if it will make all of you worry less.”

Bran looked at her with those eyes of his that sometimes seemed too old and nodded. “I’ve seen them before, Mother. I know what they look like.” He understood why she couldn’t take Shaggy. He understood more than Catelyn thought a boy newly turned eleven ought to have to understand.

“You all try to sleep. You can pile up in my bed if you wish. Keep Shaggydog close. Mind what Sansa and Letty tell you. The guards will be outside if you need them.”

A chorus of “Yes, Mother” with “Yes, Lady Stark” from Dak and Jeyne met her remarks, and then with final hugs and kisses, she tore herself away from them and headed out into the corridor and down the stairs, Summer at her heels.

“I see you have one of your children with you,” the dwarf said when he saw the wolf.

“This is Summer,” she said simply. “Bran’s wolf.”

“Ah, the one who killed the assassin, then.”

She nodded.

“I’m glad to have him along then. As long as he knows I’m on your side.”

No one actually seemed to take notice of them as they moved through the courtyard, and Catelyn thought that was fairly remarkable, considering the huge direwolf padding along beside her. While numerous men ran back and forth, she saw no sign of townspeople milling about, so they must have abided by the admonishment that all people not serving in a military capacity of some sort remain within their shelter--be that one of the buildings or within the tents. It appeared that she and the Imp were the only people flouting that particular instruction.

“Lady Stark!” cried a young man in astonishment when they reached the foot of one of the turret staircases. “What are you doing here?” Then, realizing he had just questioned the lady of the castle, he began to stammer, “I mean . . .what do you . . .what can I do for you, milady?”

“You can let my companion and myself go up these stairs,” she said firmly, but not unkindly.

“Milady! I really . . .I mean there’s fighting and . . .”

“I am well aware there is fighting. That’s what I’ve come to see. I won’t get in the way.” She bit her lip. “And I’ll leave the wolf here.”

“Lady Stark, are you certain . . .” Tyrion Lannister started.

“We do not need to be a distraction, remember? Summer is enormous, and there is limited space atop the wall, even on the turrets.” She looked at the grey wolf. “Stay, Summer. Stay here.”

The wolf sat down obediently beside the foot of the stairs, and the young man who guarded them moved aside, his eyes moving back and forth rapidly between Catelyn and the direwolf. He seemed to take no notice of the dwarf at all.

The climb up the stairs winded her more than she would have cared to admit, after the walk from the Great Keep, but still she felt immensely stronger than she had the previous night she’d spent up here watching a battle. The sounds of battle had been loud enough as soon as they’d left the Great Keep, but as they reached the top of the inner castle wall, the din became deafening. Men shouted everywhere, and she heard the sounds of arrows being loosed. There were four archers on this particular turret, all shooting flaming arrows at the wights. All the bowmen with the dragonglass arrows were on the outer wall, as they needed to shoot more or less downward if they waited until the Others were extremely close as had been the plan. Most of the other archers were stationed on the outer wall as well, but some longbowmen who could shoot higher and for greater distance had been placed atop turrets on the inner wall in the interest of maximizing the space.

The moon was just slightly bigger than half, but her eyes had adjusted to the night, and she could make out large numbers of what appeared at first glance to be men swarming outside the walls. When she looked at them closely, she could recognize the Others among the wights. They were generally taller by a good measure and so white, they glowed. Some, indeed rode upon all manner of beasts which were so covered in hoarfrost, they appeared nearly as white as their riders. She saw some arrows coming toward the castle and instinctively crouched low, although none appeared aimed in this direction. Some of the Others appeared to be throwing something at the walls, although she couldn’t make out what it was.

What nearly took her breath away were the sheer numbers of attackers she could see. Whether she looked to the left or the right, she could see no area of ground around the perimeter of the castle where these creatures were not. If the entire castle were truly surrounded, and every wall was approached by this many of them, the numbers were unbelievable. _Where had they_ _all come from? How could this many have simply appeared?_ They cared nothing for staying out of the range of the arrows. They simply burned or disintegrated as they were hit and others came forward to take their places.

“Gods be good,” she whispered under her breath. _How do we turn back an army that moves like the tide?_

“Lady Stark!” one of the archers cried, turning around at her words. She and Lannister had been unnoticed when they first arrived, standing quietly near the rear of the turret, but now all four men turned to stare at them. “Back to your task! Eyes forward!” the first men bellowed at the others as he walked to stand in front of Catelyn. Bowing his head respectfully, he said “Forgive me, my lady, but you cannot be up here. It isn’t safe.”

“I’ve taken note of the arrows coming from the enemy,” she responded, “but none of them appear to . . .”

“It isn’t that. It’s . .” He suddenly broke off. His eyes had been darting along the outer wall the entire time he’d spoken to her and now he whirled around and shouted at a man standing atop it. “Arryk! There’s one!” He pointed to a spot on the outer wall about thirty paces from the archer he had shouted at.

To her horror, Catelyn saw a tall, white spectral creature rising up on top of the wall where he pointed. Before she could say anything at all, the archer on the outer wall fired, and the Other seemed to slowly dissolve before her eyes.

“What? How?” she asked.

The man shook his head. “Grapping hooks and rope. The damned things throw them, and they can throw further than any man ought to be able. I don’t know what the hooks are made of. Look like ice, but you can’t break them. The ropes don’t break either, but they will burn if you can keep a flame to them long enough.

“They’re breaching our walls,” Catelyn said desolately.

“Only the outer walls so far, my lady. None has made it across the moat without being shot down as of yet. But we’ve got none of those black arrows here. I’ve nothing to stop them if they get this far, but this.” He held up an obsidian dagger. “You cannot be here, my lady. We can’t keep you safe.”

“How do they climb before they can be shot?” she asked him.

The man laughed bitterly. “They climb as fast as a man can run, I’m afraid, and there are too many of them. And we can’t destroy their ropes as fast as they throw up new ones.” He shook his head. “If we can keep them from coming across any faster than they are now, we can shoot them down as they move across the frozen moat. They can jump down to the moat without injury, it seems, but they can’t jump across it to this wall, thank the gods. None has managed to stay alive down on the moat long enough to throw their godsforsaken ropes up on this wall yet. Once they manage that, it’ll come to hand to hand fighting. And I cannot keep you safe, my lady. You must go down.”

“Is it the same on all the walls?” she asked him, fighting down the panic she felt. “All around the castle?”

“Last I heard,” he said. “Someone’s supposed to send word all around if there’s a breach as far as the inner wall. Please, my lady . . .”

The man’s plea was interrupted by long, mournful, almost otherworldly sound which Catelyn recognized immediately as the howl of a direwolf.

“Summer,” she breathed. “Something’s happened.”

Without another glance at the archer or the dwarf, she turned and nearly sprinted down the stairs to find Summer standing there, hackles raised, howling continuously toward the west.

“Summer! What is it?”

The wolf stopped howling and turned to look at her with those big yellow eyes. Then he turned and trotted away back in the direction of the Great Keep.

“The children!” Catelyn cried. “Send men to follow him,” she ordered the young man at the foot of the stairs before following the wolf herself.

“Lady Stark, come back!” cried Tyrion Lannister, who had only just made it down the stairs on his short legs, but she ignored him, determinedly following the wolf through the snowy courtyard.

But Summer went right past the Great Keep, and Catelyn continued following him, wondering where he was headed, when he finally stopped at one of the gates into the godswood and howled.

Catelyn felt a chill run down her spine.

“Lady Stark!” Deryk was running toward her along with several other men.

“There’s something in the godswood,” she told her Captain of the Guard.

Deryk shook his head. “There cannot be, my lady. We have had no breach of the inner wall. I have received no word of . . .”

“There is something in the godswood,” she repeated as Summer howled again. “I know better than to ignore these wolves, Deryk.”

The man hesitated. He looked exhausted. “I will send men into the godswood to investigate. I promise, my lady. But you must return to the Great Keep.”

Summer growled then, a low menacing sound that should terrify anyone with ears to hear it. Then several things happened at once. From somewhere a short distance away, she heard Tyrion Lannister who was coming toward them shout her name. In front of her, Deryk’s face went visibly pale, even in the dim moonlight, and his eyes grew wide. From behind her came a blast of cold air like she had never felt in all her years of living in the North, a cold that seemed to sink into her very bones and steal both her breath and her will to move.

Slowly she turned and found herself facing a creature from a nightmare. Emerging from the godswood gate was a White Walker, tall and menacing, seeming to glide rather than walk, and before she could truly comprehend what was happening, it grabbed her by the wrist, and even through the thick glove, the cold seared her flesh, and she screamed.

Summer leapt at the creature and it raised a long white blade to strike the wolf down, never letting go of Catelyn’s wrist. Yet, before the blade fell, she saw the outlines of the Other become indistinct, and then it seemed to sink into itself and was gone. Even the white sword was gone. Standing just behind where it had been was Deryk, his arm extended, holding a dragonglass knife which he promptly dropped on the ground.

“Cold,” he murmured. “So cold.”

“Summer?” Catelyn turned to the wolf which came to her and began licking around her wrist where the thing had held her. The wrist felt numb now. “Are there more?” she asked the wolf. The direwolf simply looked up at her and lay down.

“There are no more of them in the godswood,” she told Deryk who had bent to retrieve the dagger he’d dropped. “This one must have somehow gotten across without being seen.”

“We don’t have quite as many men on that wall,” Deryk said, shaking his head. He turned to the men with him. “Go,” he said. “Check the defenses along the perimeter of the godswood. Send someone along the inner wall to check every inch of it for a rope. If this thing got across unseen, it must have gotten a rope up somewhere. I want it burned.”

The men nodded and ran to do as they were ordered.

“You stabbed it, didn’t you?” Catelyn said to her Captain of the Guard then. “You saved my life.”

“Thank the wolf,” Deryk said gruffly. “I’d never have gotten near it if that wolf hadn’t gone after it.”

“I thank you both,” Catelyn said.

“Are you well, Lady Stark?” That was Tyrion Lannister, who had reached them now, and Catelyn saw that he honestly looked concerned.

“I am well enough, but I must go to my children now. If more of these creatures get inside the castle, I will be with them. And I will have one of those,” she said, pointing to Deryk’s dagger.

“My lady, I don’t think . . .”

“Deryk, do you have another blade or shall we send someone to find one for me?”

“The guards I’ve assigned to your chambers have dragonglass blades, my lady.”

“And so shall I,” Catelyn said simply. “If this castle falls, I may be all that’s left between my children and those things. I will not be unarmed.”

“But you . . .”

“The Lady of Winterfell just gave you an order, man,” Tyrion Lannister snapped at him.

Deryk swallowed. “Here,” he said, handing her his dagger. “I can get another. I would have you go to the Keep now, my lady, if you would.”

The dagger was colder than ice, even through her glove. No wonder he had dropped it.

She nodded. “I shall be in my chambers, Deryk. I shall not be asleep, and I expect reports regularly.”

“I can do that,” Tyrion Lannister put in. “I cannot run very quickly, but I can get where I need to go, and if I carry reports to Lady Stark, you don’t lose a fighting man to message service.”

Deryk nodded. “I thank you, Lord Lannister.”

“Summer,” Catelyn said, “Stay with Deryk.” Turning toward her captain, she said, “Give him your hand.”

Deryk held his hand out to the wolf and the animal sniffed at him for a few moments before taking a few tentative licks. Deryk reached out with his other hand then and scratched the top of the wolf’s head.

“He knew this one was here,” Catelyn said. “He can warn you if there are any more.” She swallowed hard. “But if any great number of them enter Winterfell, you are to tell him, ‘To Bran,’ do you understand me? I want him there to defend my son and the rest of my children if need be.”

“I understand, my lady. I will send the wolf to you,” Deryk said softly.

“I will not leave you uninformed, Lady Stark,” Tyrion assured her. “I know how little you like it when you don’t know everything.”

“And I will do all in my power to keep your castle from falling, my lady,” Deryk said earnestly. “You have my word on it.”

Catelyn nodded her thanks at both men and then turned toward the Great Keep, dragonglass dagger in hand. As she made her way toward her children, she thought of all the people who’d taken refuge within the walls of Winterfell and prayed that refuge would hold. She thought of Ned, who may well be battling similar foes without even the dubious protection of castle walls. She clutched the black blade tighter, vowing that she would protect her children with her dying breath and praying that she would not have to. _Please gods,_ she prayed. _Please let all of us see the dawn._


	62. Fire and Blood

Ned Stark had not seen such a large number of men engaged in battle since the days of Robert’s Rebellion. Even during the assault on Pyke, he could not recall a front stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction. When they’d first arrived at the front, he’d wondered if it were merely a trick of the darkness which made the twinkling specks of seemingly thousands of flaming brands extend infinitely to the east and west, but as he’d ridden into the thick of the fighting here, he’d realized that at least in this spot, both men and wights were too numerous to count.

At first he had thought there were fewer Others than he’d expected, but slowly he’d realized the men seemed to be actively attempting to separate the wights from their icy makers, and that significant numbers of those fell creatures could be glimpsed in the light of the torches just further north from this mob of men both living and undead. A few of the Walkers had been among this southernmost group, however, and Ned had ridden directly for any he saw, holding the black and red rippled blade Brienne of Tarth had called Oathkeeper at the ready.

The sword felt oddly comfortable to him in spite of the hated lion’s head pommel. “It is not Ice,” he had thought more than once. It was not a greatsword. The ancestral sword of House Stark had been melted down, some of its steel taken to form another blade, and the remaining steel tainted and marred with the ugly red ripples. Yet this Valyrian steel seemed to know his hand none the less. And when he sliced through the heart of the first White Walker he reached, he’d roared with satisfaction.

Almost as if in answer, he’d heard an otherworldly shriek from above and he’d looked up to see two enormous winged beasts against the night sky. Colors were not discernible in the dark, but the higher of the two dragons appeared lighter in color, and Ned had realized it must be the monster which had threatened his wife and daughter and then so brutally killed Stannis Baratheon. The other dragon had flown up to meet it, and Ned had recognized with a sudden lurch of his heart that the rider it bore was too large to be Daenerys Targaryen.

 _Jon!_ His breath caught in his throat as he’d watched the two dragons meet and the light one circle Jon’s beast at dizzying speed. He hadn’t even heard his name shouted in warning before he felt the hand gripping his ankle.

Reflexively, he sliced downward and the arm connecting the hand to the body of a wight was severed at once. However, Valyrian steel was no more effective at killing the dead things than any other blade, and the hand kept its grip on his ankle even as the severed arm hung limply from it, and the wight stabbed at his leg with a blade held in its other hand, piercing his calf muscle.

“Lord Stark!” the nearest man had shouted again as he ran up and touched his flaming brand to the wight that had stabbed Ned. It had burst into flames and fallen away. Ned had then pulled his foot from his stirrup and kicked his wounded leg forcefully until the dead arm fell away as well. He’d tried not to watch it continuing to move on the snow.

“Are you all right, milord?” his rescuer had shouted.

“I’m fine!” he’d shouted back, ignoring the stinging sensation in his calf. He didn’t think the wound serious, and that leg was already a ruin anyway. Before he could thank the man, he’d seen two wights rising up behind him. “Duck!” he’d shouted, and the man had dropped.

With a single stroke he’d brought his blade across the approaching corpses, taking both their heads off. While the bodies hadn’t fallen, they’d been disoriented enough for the man to then jump up and set both ablaze before they could do him any harm. Ned had spied two more Others on this side of whatever divide had been created in the battle, and as this soldier seemed quite adept at dealing with wights, he had ridden for them, knowing that his sword was certainly far superior to any little dragonglass daggers the soldiers might carry.

He’d spared a glance skyward as he’d ridden and seen that Jon and his dragon appeared to be leading the pale dragon away. While that was likely a blessing, he’d wondered if the dragons had proven any use at all in this battle. Then he’d spied Daenerys Targaryen on that enormous monster she rode approaching rapidly from the west, putting the dragon into a dive as she came toward them.

He’d spurred his horse then as he’d neared his first target and dispatched the Walker from the back as it was occupied with two men in front of it. He’d been out of the thickest bunch of combatants then, almost to the demarcation between the more northerly group and the one he was in. He’d noted a lone horseman galloping from east to west just in front of the northern group and then veering suddenly to the south as the Targaryen girl and her dragon descended, fire erupting from the beast’s nostrils and mouth, lighting the night as if it were midday and engulfing everything in its path in flames.

“Yohn!” Ned had shouted, recognizing the Lord of Runestone’s unmistakable armor as it was backlit by the inferno behind him. _His armor!_ Ned thought. _Mayhaps it truly does turn the demons away and he’s herding them into the dragonfire!_ In any event, it was clear that the dragonfire did burn the damned Walkers as well as it did wights and men, and Ned had allowed himself to hope.

The white dragon had then returned and followed in the black one’s wake, raining fire and blood down upon everything below it as well, and Ned had watched, mesmerized, as Others, wights, and a few unfortunate men burned beneath it. The smell of burning flesh from the men and wights reached his nostrils, and his mind produced a momentary terrifying juxtaposition of Stannis Baratheon’s charred, ruined face and Catelyn’s frightened yet determined face as she’d stood before the white beast and tried to keep Sansa behind her. He’d blinked hard, forcing himself to stay in the present and wait for Jon’s dragon to make a run. Then he’d realized that the white dragon hadn’t pulled up and away from them like the black one. It had veered toward them and was closing in on Yohn Royce’s horse as the Vale man galloped southward.

“No!” he’d screamed, and it had seemed he could hear his shout coming from above. Then he’d seen Jon again, screaming and flying his own dragon after the white one. _He will not get there in time. He cannot get there in time._

Before he’d had time to form another thought, fire once again erupted from the white monster’s mouth, this time engulfing Bronze Yohn and his mount. The horse’s screams were like nothing he’d ever heard, and Ned had felt the bile rise to his throat. _My father was burned alive in his armor._ He couldn’t see Yohn Royce’s face, but the man was still moving his arms as he fell from the dying horse, and Ned had kicked his own mount hard, thinking of nothing but reaching his friend.

The white dragon had landed as he rode toward it, and had begun feasting on the carcass of the horse. Ned had become vaguely aware of other hoof beats following him and had the fleeting thought that he had likely led whatever men those were to their own deaths, and he paused. But when he beheld Yohn Royce lying motionless in the snow, his armor resembling melted candlewax, he could not keep himself from going to him.

As he started forward again on his horse, the white dragon raised its head and breathed deeply. Ned had barely a moment to pray that his family could be saved when fire erupted from the monster once more. At the precise moment the flames came forth, however, the beast was knocked suddenly sideways, and while Ned felt the intense heat, the flames did not touch him. His panicked horse jumped and reared badly, screaming almost as loudly as Royce’s mount had, and it took Ned several moments to get it under control. Only then did he realize it had been Jon’s dragon which saved him.

Now he watched, mesmerized and petrified as the two powerful creatures clawed at one another, and then the white one took to the sky with Jon atop the green one in pursuit. Ned heard a loud unearthly screech that sounded like pure anguish, and he looked to see the huge black dragon coming from behind them to join the pursuit. As it flew directly over them in the direction the other two had gone, it screeched again, and the sound made Ned shiver.

He forced his thoughts away from dragons and even from Jon then, and dismounted from his horse, crying out when his bad leg hit the ground, having forgotten his fresh wound. He could not run, but he made his way to his fallen friend as quickly as he could. Yohn lay face down in the snow. Not a single rune remained on the back of his armor. The entire suit had melted smooth when the fire hit it. Ned reached out to roll him over, but screamed when his gloved hands touched the armor which remained hot enough to burn him even through the thick gloves. He quickly stuck his smoking gloves into the snow and then put his sword into the snow under Royce’s body and used it to turn him over. The Valyrian steel steamed, but it did not melt, and Ned quickly covered it with snow as well before falling on his knees beside his faithful friend.

“Gods be with him,” he murmured in prayer. Yohn had had his visor up, and since the flame had hit him from behind, his face was remarkably unburned except where the hot metal touched it.

“Well, they weren’t today, Stark,” came the barely audible reply, and Ned jumped. He had not believed the man could possibly be alive.

“Yohn,” he said hoarsely, and realized he had nothing else to say. He had no words to tell this dying man the depth of his gratitude or of his sorrow.

“Win,” Royce whispered. “Kill them all . . .and go home and give that beautiful lady a kiss . . .” The man’s lips had barely moved while he was speaking, and his eyes hadn’t opened, but now the lips stretched into the tiniest of smiles “from me.”

The breath that escaped him with those words was Yohn Royce’s last, and Ned looked at the dead man who had delighted in needling him until the very end and yet had proven himself the most faithful of friends. “I’ll make it a good one,” he whispered to the wind, and he hoped that Bronze Yohn could somehow hear it.

“Lord Stark!” a man shouted, and Ned looked up, startled. He’d almost forgotten they were in the middle of a battle, and between the battling dragons and their natural aversion to Royce’s armor, there had been no Others or wights in their immediate vicinity. Apparently that was changing, though. Ned looked around to see both Others and wights coming from all sides. It would seem they now recognized that the dragons were gone and so were the runes on the armor. Ned could make out a very few still on the front of it, but whatever power it had held seemed broken completely for he found himself face to face with an Other as he rose.

It brought its icy blade down toward him, but Ned parried with Oathkeeper. The Valyrian steel blade mercifully didn’t break as other swords did at the touch of that deadly ice, and Ned then thrust it through the Walker’s heart. “Take the wights! I’ll take as many of the Walkers as possible, for I’ve the longest blade that can slay them!” he shouted.

Men nodded and moved to battle all around him. One man had grabbed his horse’s reins when he’d dismounted, and Ned thanked the gods and the man for that. As the soldier helped him mount back up, a terrible thought struck him. “Get a group of men to make shift to drag Lord Royce behind the battle. Careful of the armor as it is still hot.” He swallowed hard before continuing. “Then make a pyre and put him on it.”

He didn’t think Yohn could be removed from the armor as the metal had no doubt melted to his flesh. He knew he wouldn’t burn quickly in the armor, and the thought of him roasting slowly within it, even already dead, conjured memories which turned Ned’s stomach. Yet the thought of him rising up with cold blue eyes disturbed him more, and if the armor no longer had power over the Others, then he didn’t imagine it could protect his friend from that fate.

The soldier nodded grimly, understanding precisely what Ned wanted and why. Leaving him to his task, Ned turned his horse once more into battle.

He had no clear idea of how much time passed after that as he turned his horse this way and that, not hesitating to trample over wights in his pursuit of the Walkers, but fearing that it was often far too difficult to tell the wights from the exhausted men at first glance. The battle raged furiously all around now, and Ned feared that whatever brief advantage they had gained from the dragons was lost as he could feel the entire line moving inexorably southward.

The men had courage. Vale men and Northmen alike stood firm and charged at their foes with flames and black daggers. All around him, they fought bravely. But all around him, they died. Ned’s horse gave him a slight advantage over the Others who were unmounted, but the inhuman speed of the creatures all but negated that. Some of them were mounted, on undead beasts in various stages of decomposition--bears, stags, elk, horses. The beastly corpses at least seemed as susceptible to fire as the formerly human wights, so Ned would shout for men with brands whenever he faced these.

They were killing a good number of both Others and wights. In the case of the wights, it became more difficult for Ned to look too closely at them as the battle wore on because he began to recognize too many. Men who had fought beside him now came at him with those unnaturally blue eyes, forcing him to hack at these spectral remnants of his own men until someone lit them on fire. He noticed the men with brands touching them to their fallen comrades as soon they breathed their last, and he did not fault them in the least for it. Yet, the simple truth was that they were losing far too many men. They could not continue this indefinitely, and it appeared that the Others could. The creatures showed no signs of tiring, and while Ned was almost certain their numbers were decreased, there were still far too many.

“Lord Stark!” Ned turned to the sound of his name, to see a large Northman, bleeding profusely from a gash on his unhelmeted head. “Where are they going, milord?” the man asked, sounding dazed, and Ned wondered if his head wound was even more serious than it looked.

“Who?” he inquired. He’d been facing roughly west, engaged with two Others whom he’d only just managed to dispatch before the man called out to him. Now, as he looked toward the east, he realized what the man had meant. There were noticeably fewer Others and wights than there had been only moments before. Men still engaged in combat with wights, but the fights appeared more isolated, and more men were now standing around looking as if they were as confused by this as the man in front of him.

Whirling around, he realized that the Others, in particular, were almost entirely gone now, in every direction. He saw none walking or riding away. They were simply absent. He knew the things moved alarmingly quickly, but their seeming disappearance left him cold. Looking back to the man who had asked him the question, he realized he had to squint. The sun had risen behind the man, sitting on the horizon as a cold, pale, orange orb, its light magnified to almost painful intensity by reflecting off the white snow.

“Daybreak,” he murmured, more to himself than to the other man.

“What?” the man said bluntly, battle fatigue and confusion causing him to forget the normal use of Ned’s honorific in addressing him.

“The sun rises,” Ned said, nodding toward the east. “The Others are creatures of cold . . .and darkness. It would seem they flee the light.”

“But where did they go, milord?”

Ned shook his head. “I know not. Nor can I say how they have gone so quickly.” He looked around at the landscape of death as the light grew. “It would seem they have taken a good deal of their corpse army with them, however.” The few wights that remained were in the act of being set afire by soldiers. Corpses and parts of corpses littered the ground, the stench of death permeating even this frigid air. Ned recalled other battlefields in other wars and found he had no more tolerance for the shocking waste of lives now then he had then. Sighing deeply, he drew himself up as tall and straight as he could on the horse and put on his lord’s face. “Form up groups of men,” he said loudly, addressing any who were within hearing of his voice. “Burn every dead man. Every dead body part. Collect all dragonglass weapons you find for I would not have them wasted. But of all of these, our friends and brothers, leave naught but ash; for I would not wish to have to strike them down once more when the sun sets next.”

The men stared at him with grim faced acceptance. Then one man shouted, “What of their families, milord? Are they to have no bodies to bury? Nothing of their menfolk at all?”

Ned sighed deeply. There were precious few hours of daylight to be had, and the casualties of this battle were far too many to even attempt making identification of all of them before they must be burned. “If any of the dead are known to you, take something--a piece of clothing, a token, a ring, a charm--whatever he may carry; and when all is settled, mayhaps such things can be given to their families.”

The man nodded slowly and turned away to begin the grim task. He knew as well as Ned did the necessity of it. They all did. But none of them felt good about it.

“Lord Stark! You’re all right then, Ned?” came a booming voice from somewhere behind him, and Ned turned to see the Greatjon riding toward him. The man was filthy, but robust enough in appearance. Ned was immeasurably glad to see him alive and well.

“I am fine, my lord,” he called back. “And I am pleased to see that you appear to be so as well.”

The man grunted. “I have no intention of dying and letting these frozen bastards have my castle.” He pulled his horse up beside Ned’s. “Did you see those dragons, my lord? My gods! I’ve never seen anything like that! They burned everything before them!” He looked around. “But why did they go? The battle seemed to be turning before they left.”

Ned’s jaw clenched, thinking of Jon pursuing a mad dragon and realizing that Jon Umber had no idea what had happened to Yohn Royce. He could do nothing for his Jon at the moment, no more than he could do for Catelyn or the children at Winterfell, so he endeavored to push those things out of his mind, sighed, and said, “These horses could use a rest from carrying our old bones, I am sure. Walk with me a bit, my friend.”

While the re-injured leg pained him at every step, it did feel good to be out of the saddle, and Ned purposely took long strides and swung his arms widely to stretch out his knotted muscles. As they walked together, he informed the Lord of Last Hearth of all that had occurred with the dragons, the Others, and Lord Royce.

“Gods be good!” Umber swore under his breath as Ned finished the tale. He looked truly distraught by Royce’s loss, and Ned realized that the two men would have come all the way from Riverrun together as they brought Ned’s army north. “He was a damned good soldier,” Greatjon said with conviction, “Even if he was a puffed-up Southron.”

Ned smiled just a little as he recalled the man’s last words. “He certainly didn’t lack confidence,” he agreed.

“Do you think the girl will kill it? The mad dragon I mean. The one with no rider,” Umber said, referring to the promise Daenerys Targaryen had made all of them.

Ned sighed again. “She’ll have to, if she’s to keep any sort of faith with the North or the Vale now. She’s too rash by far, but I have not yet found her to be an oath breaker. With luck, she and Jon will return soon, and we’ll know what’s been done. In the mean time . . .”

Ned filled his friend in on the orders he had given, and the big man nodded his approval. “Oh,” Ned said, as he finished speaking. “One more thing. I quite forgot to ask about him after being greeted with the news of Stannis Baratheon’s dragon attack and everything that has come after . . .but where is Perwyn Frey? I understood he was here with you.”

“He was,” Umber grunted. “But as we’d gone so long hearing nothing from the Karhold and then heard nothing from the men he sent, he took a larger party and rode east himself.” Umber shook his head grimly. “Like as not, it’ll be the Frey boy no one ever hears from again, now.”

Ned hoped not. He thought carefully about all they had seen during the long night and tried to plan for the next one. “Jon,” he asked thoughtfully. “How many men can we put within the walls of Last Hearth? Not comfortably, mind you, but crammed in as full as we can make it?”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Tyrion Lannister stepped from the chaos within the Great Hall of Winterfell into the frigid darkness of the courtyard. Of course, the darkness was relieved by more bonfires and torches than had likely ever graced this ancient fortress before, but the sky remained black save the white moon and the scattered stars. This night had been far too long already, and he wondered if it would ever end.

As he waddled across the courtyard through the snow, he at least saw no one running for the Hall or dragging injured men toward it, and he hoped that meant no further incursions of Walkers over the inner walls in the previous hour. That would be good news to report to Lady Stark. His eyes wandered toward the now abandoned tents of the townspeople, and he shuddered as he recalled informing the she-wolf of the death of that woman and her two daughters.

For a good two hours after Lady Stark had gone to stay with her children in the Great Keep, the battle had continued in much the same manner as it had been with no further breaching of the defenses. Then had come the screams from the courtyard not far from the old library tower. A number of Others had climbed the walls in the vicinity of the stables and were wreaking havoc among the townspeople huddled in their tents. Soldiers had responded quickly and the invaders were destroyed, but not before killing a number of the smallfolk, including a woman and two little girls. Tyrion had reached the scene after the fighting had finished, but had arrived just in time to watch as the woman’s corpse sat up and attempted to choke the life out of her eleven year old son who’d been sobbing over her. There were a great number of memories Tyrion Lannister wished he could erase, and that one now topped the list.

The look on Catelyn Stark’s face when he’d told her about the deaths wasn’t a pleasant memory, either. Most of her children had finally gone to sleep, and she’d come out into the corridor to speak with him, accompanied by her younger daughter, the one who always looked like a feminine version of a particularly angry Ned Stark.

“Why was she there?” Lady Stark had asked him in a shocked, angry whisper. “And those little girls? Mothers and small children were to be housed in the buildings! Why were they there?”

Tyrion had known she would ask, and he’d had her answer. “Her husband’s dead, my lady. She has two sons as well. The older one is helping guard the inner walls with other townsmen, but the younger boy’s only one and ten. Too little to fight. Too old to go to the buildings with his mother and little sisters. She wouldn’t leave him alone.”

Catelyn Stark’s face had gone ashen at that. He’d known well enough that she thought of her own son, the crippled one. _The_ _child my brother crippled._ Lady Stark would never leave that boy alone in such circumstances.

“Bring them indoors,” she’d snapped. “All of them. Any who are not fighting. I care not about their ages or genders.”

“My lady, we don’t . . .”

“Don’t tell me we haven’t the room, Imp! Open the Great Hall and stack them in there. Find spaces in corridors. None of them are going to sleep in any event. It matters little whether they are comfortable or not. I would have them remain alive.”

“Young Samwell is using the Great Hall as an infirmary, my lady.”

“The Hall is enormous! How many wounded can there be all at once? It’s a siege, not a pitched battle.” She’d taken a deep breath and continued in a much quieter, almost desolate voice. “And if it becomes a pitched battle within the walls, an infirmary will likely become superfluous. I do not see any of us surviving an onslaught of any great number of those things.”

She was right about that, of course, and both of them knew it so neither had spoken for a moment.

“Did the wolf not warn you this time?” she’d asked then.

Tyrion had nodded. “Indeed it did. That’s why less than a dozen were killed. Your man Deryk was after that wolf like a shot when it took off toward those things."

“Did Summer attack them?”

At that, he’d shaken his head. “No. The beast ran toward the trouble and howled like it was being killed, but it made no move to join the fight.”

“Summer knows he can’t defeat them,” the girl had said quietly, opening her mouth for the first time. “He’s not stupid.”

“He attacked the one before quickly enough,” her mother had told her.

The girl had shrugged slightly. “He was guarding you. He’d die guarding you.” She bit her lip. “He knows you nearly died for Bran.” Those grey eyes met her mother’s blue ones, and Tyrion watched some silent communication pass between the two Starks he did not quite follow. The relationship between the Stark children and their wolves fascinated him as much as Daenerys with her dragons, but there was something about the Stark-wolf connection that unsettled him much more.

“No more have crossed the wall?” Lady Stark had asked then.

“No, my lady.” At the time it had been true.

“How many injured are there exactly?”

“Perhaps a score. Mostly accidental burns, to be honest, with all the flaming brands and arrows about. And arrrow wounds from the wights with bows. Four of your men were killed fighting the Others that killed the townsfolk. Three more took wounds serious enough to keep them from fighting any more.”

Catelyn Stark had sighed deeply and looked at her daughter before looking back to him. “I should go and help Sam.”

“Forgive me, Lady Stark, but you should not.”

She’d raised her brows at that.

“Samwell told me you’d offer, and he told me to assure you he did not require your assistance, and that you have pushed yourself too far already, and that if he had to worry about your fainting away, he’d not be able to concentrate properly on the wounded men.”

“He’s right, Mother,” the wolf girl had spoken up. “You need to rest. Sansa and I could . . .”

“No. You and Sansa will remain where you are.” Lady Stark had sighed heavily. “And I suppose I shall, as well.” Turning back to him she’d said, “Go now, Lord Lannister, and set someone to moving all the people indoors. If we can keep the incursions over the wall isolated, the buildings at least offer more protection than nothing at all.”

“Yes, my lady.”

As he’d turned to walk back toward the stairs, her voice had stopped him. “They are burning the dead, aren’t they?”

He stopped. He hadn’t told her how that woman had risen. Hadn’t told her of a mother trying to squeeze her dead hands around her own son’s throat. Hadn’t told her that the boy was already in the Great Hall with the injured, sitting as if catatonic--seeming neither to see nor hear. No. He would not inflict that particular image on Catelyn Stark.

“Yes, my lady,” he said softly without turning around. “Your men know well enough what will happen if they don’t.”

“Those poor babes,” he’d heard her whisper as he’d resumed walking away, and he’d known she blamed herself for the deaths of those little girls.

After those attacks, there had been several more breaches of the inner walls, but never by more than one or two Walkers at a time, and no one else had been killed by Walkers inside the castle although men on the walls continued to fall to arrows. Winterfell’s soldiers had been less than thrilled at the prospect of moving so many people into various buildings wherever room could be found, but they weren’t going to defy Lady Stark, so the removal of all the townspeople from the courtyards had taken place over the course of about an hour. The greatest number had been herded into the Great Hall, taking up about two-thirds of the available space with the remaining space under the control of the fat Tarly boy and some healer woman from the town who were overseeing the care of the wounded.

He’d reported to Lady Stark twice since then, always telling her that “Yes, more Others have come across, but they were all repelled,” and giving her a tally of the wounded and dead as far as he was able to keep track. She’d been particularly distressed by the numbers of deaths among one group of very young men, boys really, from the town. Such youths were not skilled in archery or fighting. This bunch could climb though, and they could run across the tops of the towers and walls with speed unmatched by their elders. They had volunteered to continually move along both the inner and outer walls burning the icy ropes the Others threw up. They’d been quite successful, too, but somehow the Others managed to get their wight archers to focus on them, and too many of these brave boys had been hit by arrows.

Arrows were their biggest problem at the moment. Specifically the lack of the dragonglass variety. Supplies had dwindled to a critical level, and the bowmen had been ordered not to shoot at any Walkers not actually throwing a rope or climbing the walls in an effort to conserve what ammunition they did have left. This meant more and more ropes were being successfully slung over the walls, and the credit for no new Walkers within those castle walls in the past hour belonged to the men and boys who kept risking and often losing their lives to take down those ropes.

Tyrion stomped the snow from his boots as he closed the door behind him in the entryway of the Great Keep and breathed through what was left of his nose for the first time since leaving the Great Hall. On this night, he devoutly wished that Mandon Moore’s blade had removed his sense of smell when it took off so much of his nose. The stench of burning human flesh was detectable even inside the Keep with its closed windows, but out in the courtyard it was overpowering, and Tyrion had seen more than one man lose the contents of his stomach.

Wearily, he trudged up the stairs and down the corridor to Catelyn Stark’s chambers. Nodding up at the guards outside her door, he started to knock softly, but one of the men held up his hand.

“Lady Stark said you’re not to knock if you arrived before she came out to tell us different. Just go on in . . . . my lord.”

Tyrion tried not to be irritated that the Northman nearly forgot to address him with any sort of title at all. He was more than puzzled that Catelyn Stark would actually welcome him into her bedchambers--particularly with all her precious pups in residence. He knew she regarded him as something akin to an unpredictable beast--one who had potential for usefulness yet remained far too dangerous to be trusted or left completely to his own devices.

As soon as he began to open the door, he heard her voice say, “If that is you, Lord Tyrion, please be very quiet and come over by me.”

He recognized the lilting sing-song quality to her voice as that she had used when suckling her infant in the solar. It came from a small room off the main chamber where it appeared a candle burned, although this large room was unlit except by dying embers in the hearth. Still it was quite warm. In the darkness, he made out three sleeping figures on the large bed. Sansa Stark’s bright hair was easily recognizable even in the dim light. She had her arm around what appeared to be the smallest Stark boy other than the babe, and on her other side lay a girl that Tyrion did not recognize. The enormous black direwolf was stretched across the foot of the bed. While the two girls and the little boy slumbered on as he walked by, the great green eyes of the wolf followed him, although it was otherwise still and made no sound.

He made his way around a pallet laid on the floor beside the bed which contained two boys, both well covered up, although he thought one was the crippled Stark, and walked into the lit room. He was not surprised to see Lady Stark sitting in a chair there, her youngest child at her breast. There was another pallet in this room, and he felt the grey eyes of Arya Stark watch him much as the wolf had. He looked at the girl who was lying on her belly, but had raised up on her elbows to watch him approach her mother.

“Lady Stark,” he whispered. “I hope I do not disturb you.”

“I am disturbed by a great number of things this night, Lord Lannister. You are hardly the largest disturbance.”

“I am rarely the largest of anything.”

She frowned at him, and he realized she had honestly not been referring to his stature and found his reflexive deflection of her comment flippant. “Tell me what has occurred since we last spoke,” she said, deftly detaching the infant from her nipple and placing him over her shoulder to pat his back. “How many more Others have breached our walls? How many of my men are dead now?”

Tyrion sighed. “No Others have crossed the inner walls in over an hour, Lady Stark,” he told her. _Might as well start with the_ _good news._ “The Others and wights outside the walls show no sign of abandoning their assault, however.”

She took a deep breath and looked him directly in the eyes. “How many more men . . . .or boys . . .have been felled by arrows, my lord? How many of my men are dead now?”

“At least three score have been killed this night so far,” he said, dropping his own eyes briefly. “Possibly close to four.”

She closed her eyes then and leaned her head back onto the high back of her chair. “Gods save us,” she whispered. The blue eyes glistened with unshed tears when she opened them again. “Are the attackers no less in number?” Her words sounded like a plea.

“Not noticeably so,” he admitted regretfully. “Although our side has certainly killed a great many of them.” He hesitated, but then decided to simply say it straight out. If he had learned one thing about Catelyn Stark, it was that she did not appreciate being coddled. “Our ability to continue killing them, however, is in question.”

She waited wordlessly for him to elaborate.

“To put it bluntly, my lady, we are nearly out of the dragonglass arrows. Your Deryk has considered fixing some of the smaller daggers to arrows, but the bowmen warn they won’t be accurate with such weapons. And we dare not lose all our daggers as well.”

Lady Stark’s hand quit patting the babe and went to touch the dagger that Tyrion only then noticed was laid beside her. “No,” she said softly. “We dare not do that.”

“The men are being very cautious about shooting now, my lady. We have hope to hold out until dawn.” _If bloody dawn ever_ _arrives!_ “More of the Walkers are reaching the tops of the outer walls because of that, but we’ve got more men there with obsidian knives to meet them, and so they still don’t have an easy time getting across.”

She closed her eyes again, and Tyrion knew she was picturing the Other which had attacked her. She knew how much longer its icy sword had been than any of the obsidian weapons her men had. She knew that many of the men stopping those Others on the tops of the wall did so at the cost of their own lives, able to get close enough to plunge their knives into the creatures only by allowing their own bodies to fall within easy range of those long white blades.

Slowly, she got to her feet and silently went to lay her son in a cradle nearby.

“I am coming down with you this time, Lord Tyrion,” she said.

“My lady, you cannot . . .”

“Do not presume to tell me what I cannot do, Imp,” she snapped at him, although she did not raise her voice. “You have the freedom of this castle and wear that blade at your side by my word, and my word only.”

“I doubt anyone can tell you what to do, my lady. After spending time in your company once again, I find I’ve discovered more sympathy for Eddard Stark than I ever thought possible.”

“How dare you speak to my mother that way?” The girl kept her voice even more quiet than her mother’s, but she was up on her feet far more quickly than Tyrion would have thought possible, her hand on the hilt of a narrow sword that she must have had in the bed with her.

“Arya Stark! We do not draw steel on guests in our home. Regardless of how rude they are.”

The girl hadn’t actually drawn the sword. She’d merely picked it up and now held it at her side as she glared at him, but Tyrion wasn’t about to point out the distinction.

“Put Needle down.”

 _Needle? This girl has her own sword named Needle?_ Tyrion stood very still, deciding for once in his life that silence was probably his best play at this point.

“He should not speak to you so,” the girl insisted.

“No, he should not. But he has been up all night, going all over the castle and bringing me news. Likely he is tired. Gods know I am, and you should be, too. For all I‘ve made you stay in bed, I know you haven’t slept, Arya.”

The woman’s face and voice softened as she said the last, and the girl relaxed her grip on the sword, although she didn’t lay it down.

“My lady,” Tyrion ventured, addressing this wild Stark child, “I apologize for any insult I gave your lady mother. She speaks truly. It has been a long and damnable night, and none of us are at our best.” Turning to Lady Stark, he said, “But I cannot think what you wish to accomplish by putting yourself at risk, Lady Stark. You aren’t an archer or a swordsman. What do you wish to accomplish?”

“I am the Lady of Winterfell,” she said to him. “These men are fighting and dying for Winterfell. They are fighting on my orders.”

 _They fight to save their own lives,_ Tyrion thought. But even as he thought it, he could not deny the unquestionable selflessness of so many this night in defense of the people in this castle. There was courage here. More than he ever had.

As if she had heard his thoughts, Lady Stark said, “The courage of the men on those walls is what has kept us safe, Lord Tyrion, as much as the dragonglass arrows. I cannot make new arrowheads. But I can go to the Great Hall and see the wounded. I can tell these men that they are the heart of the North. I can do my part to help them keep their courage. They deserve at least that from the Lady of Winterfell.”

 _Words,_ he wanted to tell her. _Words are meaningless, my lady._ Yet, as he stood there listening to her, he could see plainly enough that she believed what she was saying. Catelyn Stark, after all she had suffered, still somehow believed that the courage and honor of men could turn a battle. He’d spent a great deal of his life mocking the existence of any such courage and honor, but he had no desire to mock her now. Mayhaps, she could make those exhausted, terrified men believe her words as well. Mayhaps, that would help them hold out another hour or two or three.

“You cannot stay long. We will go to the Great Hall and return here. You may speak to anyone you meet upon the way, but we shall not linger.”

She surprised him then by laughing. “You sound very much like you are giving me orders, my lord. I would be careful of doing that while my daughter is armed.” She sounded more amused than angry, though. Her daughter didn’t look amused, but she didn’t say anything or offer to run him through.

“I will stay only briefly,” she said. “I won’t have Sam distracted from caring for the ill or Deryk too busy fretting over my safety to command the men.”

“Mother, you don’t really mean to go out, do you?” the girl asked then.

“I won’t be long, Arya.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Tyrion found himself wanting to laugh then for the girl’s tone was identical to her mother’s when Catelyn Stark had made up her mind not to be moved.

“You can’t, sweetling.”

“I can and I will.”

Then, much to Tyrion’s surprise, Lady Catelyn Stark walked back to her little obsidian dagger, picked it up by the blade, and offered it to her daughter hilt first. “I need you to stay here, Arya. Sansa cannot wield a blade. Rickon is far too young, and Dak is not as skilled as you are. Needle is a good sword, but it will not serve against the Others. I would leave you this.”

Arya Stark looked as surprised as Tyrion felt. “But . . .but that’s for you,” she protested.

“No.” Lady Stark shook her head. “I brought it here to protect my children. While I am gone, I am asking you to do just that. Do not leave them, Arya. And you needn’t fear that I go unarmed. You know I won’t be allowed to take three steps outside the Keep before I have soldiers all around me.”

The girl chewed her lip and then held out her hand. “Yes, Mother,” she said quietly, taking the dagger.

Lady Stark smiled and kissed the top of the girl’s head. “I love you, Arya, and I shall be back before you have time to miss me.”

The girl said nothing more as Lady Stark walked swiftly into the larger room to retrieve her cloak and gloves. When the two of them exited her chambers, she closed the door behind them and addressed her rather distressed looking guards. “I am going to see about the wounded men in the Great Hall. I will not be gone long. Do not leave this post, allow no one entry, and do not let any of my children leave, particularly Lady Arya.” One of the men coughed at that, and Tyrion strongly suspected he was hiding a laugh.

Lady Catelyn smiled ruefully at the man, confirming that suspicion. “She is armed, of course, so knock first if you need to go in for any reason.”

Without another word, she swept down the corridor, leaving Tyrion to follow in her wake, thinking that she had certainly gotten a lot stronger in the days since his arrival here. He hurried to catch up with her at the top of the stairs.

“I must say you are the last person I thought would encourage her little girl to engage in knife play,” he said. “You never cease to surprise me, Lady Stark!”

She whirled on him then. “I have no desire to have my daughter take up arms, Imp! I only wished her to remain here in relative safety, and I have no time to argue with her.” She glared at him more coldly than she had since his arrival in Winterfell. “I did not place that dagger in my child’s hand. The Lannisters did. When your sister arrested my husband and had his men slaughtered, my child had to flee for her life. All that she has suffered since; whatever she has been forced to learn and do to survive; you need not look further than your own House to see the cause of it.”

Those blue eyes blazed with a hatred so blatant that Tyrion almost stepped back away from her. He realized then that in spite of the tenuous understanding and even possibly grudging respect they’d achieved between them; in spite of Lady Stark’s obviously genuine wish for all the dying and killing to cease; this woman hated his family more vehemently than he had even suspected. Whether or not she was justified in her feelings, he chose not to think too long upon.

“Well . . .” he said, attempting to lighten the atmosphere in the corridor. “You tricked the little girl quite well then. She’ll stay there guarding the others all night now.”

She stood still, regarding him with those cold blue eyes for what seemed a long time before she spoke. “I did not trick her,” she said finally, her voice quieter, but no less intense. “I trapped her quite neatly, but one can be trapped by the truth as easily as by a lie, my lord.” She chewed her lower lip, looking remarkably similar to the child in question who had done the same earlier. “Arya does have skill with a blade, whether I would have it be so or not. And my children are better protected for her being armed with dragonglass.” She waved away his protest before he could make it. “Oh, I know well enough that if White Walkers breach our walls in numbers great enough to reach my bedchambers and overcome the guards there, the chances of any of us seeing the morning are slim. But my children are Starks of Winterfell. They are not sheep to be slaughtered. They will fight for their lives, whether they can succeed or not.”

Tyrion felt that he had never heard such fierce pride, crushing grief, abject terror, and stoic resignation in a voice all at once before. “The walls will hold, my lady,” he said quietly, unable to say anything else to this woman at this time.

She smiled a little sadly then. “Let us hope so. And, Tyrion, I would be careful about referring to my daughter Arya as a ‘little girl.’ She is a child no longer, I’m afraid, as much as I would gladly keep her one.” He must have looked disbelieving for she gave a harsh laugh. “She is no younger now than her sister was when you contemplated bedding her.”

Tyrion coughed when she said that and hurried to protest, but again she waved him off. “Oh, I know you never did, and I am grateful to you. But I also know you desired her, and if you tell me differently, I call you a liar.”

Tyrion wondered precisely what Sansa Stark had told her mother about their wedding night, but he wasn’t about to ask the woman. Instead, he once more decided silence was his best option, and after a moment Catelyn Stark smirked and turned to descend the stairs.

Over an hour later, Tyrion watched her in the Great Hall, moving through the crowds of people, speaking not only to the wounded men, but to the huddled, terrified smallfolk from the Winter Town. All of them seemed to respond to her voice, whatever the words she spoke. The soldiers she’d stopped and spoken with in the courtyard had been the same. She’d barely flinched at the stench of burning flesh in the air outside and seemed to take no notice of the mixed aromas of blood and shit and vomit permeating the Hall now. Mayhaps, she would bring these people courage.

She was tired, though. Tyrion caught Samwell Tarly’s eyes upon her more than once, and the not-maester looked dismayed. Watching her sink down wearily onto a bench only to have a woman thrust a babe into her arms which she dutifully smiled over, Tyrion decided it was time to get Lady Stark back to her chambers whether she wished to go or not. As he made his way toward her, though, a group of men burst into the Great Hall.

“Lady Stark!” shouted Deryk, who led the group. “Lady Stark!”

With a look of alarm on her face, Catelyn Stark handed the infant to its mother and stood. “I am here, Deryk. What news have you?”

The man ran to her and fell to his knees, causing Tyrion’s heart to sink. Yet, when the man raised his face to look at her, it held an expression of joy. “They are leaving, my lady. I cannot say where they go. But they are much fewer. The wights no longer attack. They . . .seem to disappear.”

Catelyn Stark began trembling where she stood, and the serene mask she had worn for the previous hour seemed to crumble. “Gods be thanked,” she whispered, and she sank again to the bench as if unable to support her own weight any longer.

Tyrion strode to the door where the men had entered and looked outside at the sky above him. It was cold, grey, and lacking in warmth. But it was light. Dawn had broken over Winterfell.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Daenerys Targaryen was cold as she leaned forward around Drogon’s great neck and kept her eyes on Rhaegal and Jon ahead of them. She couldn’t see Viserion who was too far ahead of them, but she couldn’t stop seeing him in her mind--chasing down Lord Royce’s horse to envelop the man and beast in a wall of flame, leaping into blue skies joyfully to play with his brothers, staring at Stannis Baratheon with rage in his golden eyes just before his flame erupted, cradled against her chest as he nursed from her teat.

Her face felt like ice, and she raised a hand to it, surprised to find it wet with tears. She hadn’t realized she was crying. She lay her cheek down against Drogon’s hot neck and closed her eyes. He was following Rhaegal without her guidance. She could feel the tension in his muscles and somehow sensed the tension and confusion within his mind as well. She wondered what Jon could sense in Rhaegal’s mind, for surely her green dragon was as distraught as Drogon and herself. She ran her hand soothingly along Drogon’s neck. _Jon does not love Viserion,_ she thought bitterly. _What comfort can he give to Rhaegal?_

She had no idea how far they had flown when she became aware that the sky was lighter. They were flying into the sun as it rose before them in the east. Silhouetted against it, she could now see Viserion, not as far ahead of Rhaegal as she had thought. _Hoped?_

She watched as Rhaegal suddenly moved forward with a burst of speed, closing the distance between Viserion and himself. Then the green dragon gave a loud cry, almost as if in warning, and Viserion turned, coming back at him so that her two children crashed together in midair almost before she realized what was happening. They came together not with playful nips and swats as she had seen them do so often before, but with claws raking as deeply as possible and teeth seeking to bite deeply into each other’s flesh.

“No!” she screamed, unable to remain silent. At her shout, Drogon burst forward more quickly without any direction from her, and she wondered, not for the first time, if her big black dragon could read her mind after all. Drogon was bigger, faster, and stronger than the other two, and he hurled himself into Viserion, knocking him away from Rhaegal.

Viserion spun wildly, falling a great distance before regaining control of himself and flying back upward toward his brothers, screeching angrily. Drogon bellowed a loud warning to him, but Rhaegal was silent. Dany turned to see the green dragon gathering himself for a dive, Jon’s face grim and determined as he sat upon his back.

Before she could say anything, Rhaegal was streaking downward toward Viserion like an arrow, and his claws raked his brother’s neck and chest. It was even lighter now, and Dany could clearly see blood staining the cream colored scales as Viserion fell away again. _Blood of the dragon._ Viserion’s pain-filled cry struck her ears, and she felt as if her own chest had been raked by claws. _I am the blood of the dragon._

Viserion had been injured badly now, and he descended all the way to the ground, landing awkwardly in the snow. Then he turned his face skyward and launched a powerful column of fire toward his two brothers. The flames did not quite reach Drogon and Rhaegal, but Dany could feel the heat of it. _Fire. Fire and blood. This is what dragons are. What I am._

Beside her, she heard a cry of anguish as deep as what she felt in her own heart. She turned to see Jon maneuvering Rhaegal to dive down upon his brother once more, and she understood all too clearly Rhaegal’s cry. Jon truly wanted to kill Viserion. He had known and cared about Stannis Baratheon and Yohn Royce in ways that she did not. And the gods knew he cared about Eddard Stark, who certainly would have died in Viserion’s flames had not Rhaegal intervened. Jon wanted Viserion dead. But Rhaegal did not. Rhaegal was angry and confused, but he did not want to kill his brother. And Jon was forcing him to do just that.

“Jon!” she shouted as loudly as she could. “Jon! Stop! Look at me!”

For a moment, she feared he had not heard her--that he was too far gone, too deep within Rhaegal’s mind, too bent on accomplishing his task. But then, Rhaegal’s head turned up toward her, and her green dragon changed direction to come along side Drogon as closely as he could. Jon looked at her then with his own eyes.

“Daenerys,” he said hoarsely, actually using her name, rather than her title. “We have no choice.” His face then looked as tortured as she felt, and she wondered if Rhaegal’s emotions affected him.

“I know,” she said simply, and those two words cost her more to say than any others ever had. “But Rhaegal cannot do this. You cannot make him do this.”

Jon stared at her. “But . . .”

“I will do it.”

“Drogon?”

“No. I could not ask this of Drogon any more than of Rhaegal.”

She looked at her green dragon. Drogon was tired, she knew, but Rhaegal looked beyond exhausted. He also had several cuts which were bleeding. His wounds were not as serious as Viserion’s and the blood did not stand out against his green scales as it did against the cream of his brother’s, but it was there, steaming in the cold air. _Fire and blood. My childrens’ very blood is as hot as flame._

“Land with him, Jon. Let him rest.”

Without another word, Dany turned Drogon downward, speaking to him in Old Valyrian the words she’d come to know so well. She brought him to a landing a good distance away from Viserion so that the pale dragon would know he wasn’t under attack. She then dismounted and bid Drogon stay. Feeling her thigh to be certain the slim blade was still secure, she began walking toward her wounded, terrified child.

She didn’t hurry. Viserion wasn’t going anywhere. She thought it possible that the wounds Rhaegal had already inflicted might be enough to kill Viserion, but she would not let that be the case. He lay in the snow, his nearly white coloring camouflaging him save for the for the gold on his horns, wings, and spine. And of course, the blood. He opened his eyes at her approach, and they were two pools of molten gold as well. He looked up at her without raising his head from the snow.

“You were always beautiful,” she told him. “I think you are the most beautiful of the three.” _I named you for my brother. He was_ _beautiful, too. Beautiful, and mad, and so very wounded._ Viserion gave a small snort, and twin columns of hot smoke escaped his nostrils.

Dany felt the tears falling from her own eyes as she stared at him. She realized she was crying for her brother as well. “Did I cause you to be like this?” she asked the dragon. “Did I do something or fail to do something? Why, Viserion?” _Why, Viserys?_

She sat down in the snow beside her wounded child and lifted his huge head to cradle it in her lap. It didn’t actually fit, of course, although once, not so long ago, she had held the dragon’s entire body on her lap. One golden eye looked up at her, trusting her as always, and she removed her gloves to run her hands along the scales of his face. They were very warm, but not hot. “You’re losing your fire, my sweet. It’s bleeding out of you.”

 _Fire and blood. And madness._ She wondered if madness was inescapable for creatures who lived by nothing but fire and blood. She had never known her father, but her brother had. And her brother had loved him, even if, as she suspected more and more, at times he had also hated him. She had loved her brother, in spite of the fact that she knew she sometimes hated him. _Fire and blood. Love and hate. Greatness and madness. What if there is no flip of a coin? What if it is all truly one and the same to us?_

Viserion made a soft noise then, and it struck her heart as well as her ears, for he sounded precisely as he had when he was a newly hatched baby, resting in her arms, suckling at her teat--unable to fly or make fire or hunt prey. Dependent upon her for everything.

It came to her then. She did not hate Viserion, and she never had. She could never hate her child. She had feared him and feared for him. But her love for him was not mingled with hatred. Dragons and Targaryens may forever be bound by fire and blood, and madness may forever nip at the heels of so much power, but love and hate did not have to intertwine.

She bent and pressed a soft kiss to her dragon’s face as she pulled the narrow sword from its sheath on her thigh. “I love you, Viserion,” she said softly. He was as dependent upon her now as he had been the day she had held him and his brothers in Drogo’s funeral pyre. “Be free,” she whispered as she raised the blade and plunged it swiftly into that trusting, golden eye, feeling it go through into the dragon’s brain. “Be at peace, my baby.”

Viserion’s enormous body shuddered once and then was still. The warm columns of smoke no longer came from his nostrils. Daenerys Targaryen sat in the snow for a long time after that, holding her dead child and crying softly until Jon finally came to lift her up and carry her away from him.


	63. Through the Darkness Once More

The scent of burning man-flesh assaulted her nose. Some of the small cousins actually whimpered at the scent. So much fresh meat so nearby, but they would not go near it. No. Much of the meat was wrong, and there were the firebeasts in the sky and the icebeasts on the ground. All of those beasts meant death.

With the light, the icebeasts had gone, but the great she-wolf knew they were only hidden. They would return. The great firebeasts had flown away, but she thought they would return as well. The men had killed each other throughout the night with the great claws they held, with the smaller claws that flew through the air, and with fire. She hated fire. Her brothers liked to curl up beside the fires inside the man rock, and sometimes she would stay beside them just to be with the girl or the mother, but she liked it outside better. She almost never felt cold. Her thick fur kept her warm enough when she ran and hunted, and she could always find some sheltered spot to sleep. Now, the small cousins would lie beside her and share their warmth as well, just as her brothers did in their small wood surrounded by the man rock at home.

 _Winterfell._ The man word came unbidden to her mind. It meant home for her pack. Not this pack with the small cousins--the other pack with her brothers and the pups of the men. It was one of the few words that had meaning to her when her girl was not whispering in her thoughts. _Arya._ She knew that word, too. The men used it to call the girl. The mother said it to her often. The direwolf needed no word for her. She was simply hers. They were together in their pack, and sometimes they were together in a way the wolf did not truly understand. It just was.

One of the small cousins howled behind her, and she growled a warning to stay back. There were many of them now in her pack. They had found her and joined her on her travels north watching over the father for the girl. They were less numerous than her pack had been before in the warmer lands full of rivers and prey, but still there were more than her brothers. Some were little wolves she remembered from before. Others were the pups of those wolves or even the pups of their pups, but they had come to her and she led them once more.

She would not lead them close to the man rock here. She did not know this man rock or any of the men. She didn’t trust men outside the place they called Winterfell. Even there, she only truly trusted a few of them. The girl had wanted her to stay with the father of her other pack, but she chose to stay with this pack. She would guard the father again when he left this place. Yet, she had come close enough once the firebeasts and icebeasts had gone to catch his scent. His flesh was not among that which burned on the big fires. When the girl came to her, she would know that.

She could see men now, sitting atop the big prey animals that she was not allowed to hunt. She kept her small cousins from hunting them as well. She could smell their fear, though. They smelled her and knew her to be dangerous. Growling another warning for the small cousins who liked to stay beside her to keep back and not follow, she moved closer to the large group of men as they neared the man rock walls.

There he was. She saw him approaching and she ran out to allow him to see her. Some men made startled sounds and the animals tried to turn away, but he only said, “Nymeria!” and caused the animal he sat upon to stop its jumping about. She could still smell its fear, though.

The father didn’t fear her. He was glad to see her, and she knew that would bring the girl joy. He said, “Nymeria” again and some words she didn’t know. He didn’t say ‘guard’ or ‘to me’ which were other words she knew.

Far behind her, unseen from here, one of the small cousins howled again, and the father looked up at the sound. She answered the howl, looking first at him, and then behind her. Then she turned and trotted back the way she had come. She would find the father again when he came out of the man rock once more.

Now, she had her own pack to attend to. And she intended to keep them far from any firebeasts or icebeasts.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn Stark stood atop the walls of Winterfell watching the activity outside the castle. She knew she needed to sleep. But then everyone needed to sleep, and none of them could for very long. No one could afford to sleep when there were so few hours of daylight.

Samwell Tarly had assured them that the dragonglass would not disappear as the Others did after being struck by it. She had seen the truth of that herself when Deryk had stabbed the Other that had grabbed her. Now, men, women and children were outside the walls of Winterfell searching through the snow for the arrowheads which had been fired the previous night, collecting them in baskets, and bringing them back within the walls.

Sansa, Arya, Dak, and Rickon were all out there. They had all demanded to help, and Sansa had pointed out that they were probably among the best rested people in the castle. Catelyn would have argued that point in Arya’s case, but she chose to remain silent, knowing that her younger daughter would never stand for being left out if she allowed the others to go. In the end, she had relented, provided that the four of them remained together, and both Shaggydog and Summer accompanied them.

Osha had gone with them as well, carrying that spear of hers, and Catelyn took comfort in that. The wildling woman kept largely to herself, and as Rickon had grown closer to his family, she had accepted drifting into the background of his daily life far more willingly than Catelyn would have expected. She knew how fiercely the woman loved her little boy, and she remembered well how she had felt watching Rickon with Osha when they’d first found him. If the wildling woman felt the same about her, she kept it well hidden and never hesitated to do anything Catelyn asked of her for any of the children. She would watch them out there as if they were her own.

Still, Catelyn’s heart had been in her throat when she watched them walk out the gate, but they had been at it for an hour now with no sign of trouble, and she had to admit they actually seemed calmer and more content by virtue of being outdoors and actually doing something. In truth, she was more worried about Bran now, who had gone very silent during the discussion about his siblings leaving the castle. She knew he felt useless, and being given the task of watching over Brien while she discussed plans for sunset with Deryk and the men, and met with Sam about the needs of the wounded did not really make him feel better.

She had talked as much as she thought she could now, and Sam had admonished her to go to her chambers and lie down. She had promised him she would, but first had climbed the stairs to look down upon her children and all the others working so hard to make certain the castle had weapons to defend itself again. _How many nights can we do this?_ she thought desolately. She feared the answer was not many more.

Sighing, she turned to go down the stairs and saw Ian standing there.

“Did Deryk send you after me?” she asked him. “Does he need me?”

“Deryk has gone to his quarters, my lady,” Ian said, frowning at her. “And he will remain there for at least an hour, hopefully two, depending on how long the light lasts. No one can go forever without rest, Lady Stark.” He looked at her reproachfully then.

“Ah, you are here to send me to bed. And what of rest for yourself, Ian?”

He smiled at her. “Did you not miss me when you sat down with Deryk and the others earlier, my lady? I was sent to bed as soon as it was clear the Others were leaving . . . .or vanishing . . . .or whatever they did as the sun rose. I have had a good hour’s sleep.”

“So much as that?” Catelyn asked. “My, you must be well rested, indeed.”

“I will sleep for a week when this is over, my lady. But now, I am here to see that you go and rest. Even the Lannister dwarf has retired.” Ian frowned. “I must admit he was useful through the night,” he said grudgingly.

“Useful,” Catelyn repeated. “Yes. He is that. As long as being useful to us benefits him, I shall be quite happy to continue making use of him.” To herself alone, Catelyn admitted that there were times throughout the horrible night when Lannister had almost made her forget how much she despised him. _Do I despise him? Or is it only his name still I hate?_

“I am going up to my chambers now, Ian. I need to see to Bran and Brien in any event.” She pointed then to the sun which hung fairly low in the sky to the south of them. It never rose high any more. “As soon as that sun moves at all to the west, I want my children back inside the castle. Accept no arguments, do you understand me? Do not wait until the damned thing is about to set.”

“Yes, my lady.” He then extended his arm, and Catelyn realized he intended to help her down the stairs.

She accepted his assistance without argument, and did not protest when he then proceeded to walk with her all the way to her chambers. “You are a good man, Ian,” she told him when they reached her door. “If we all survive this, Lord Stark shall hear of your service here.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Ian was likely one of the biggest soldiers in the castle, but the young man looked as young as Bran as he ducked his head with embarrassment, and Catelyn smiled after him as he left.

When she opened the door and entered her chamber, she saw Bran in his chair holding his infant brother. She smiled at her two sons. “Has he behaved for you, Bran?”

“He started crying a little while ago, but he stopped when I picked him up. I think he’s getting hungry, though.”

“Well, I can take care of that.”

“He’s all right for now. You should take your boots off and lie down, Mother. I’ll give him to you if he starts to cry again.”

She planted a kiss on top of her second son’s head. “You are a good boy, Bran.”

As she sat on the edge of her bed and began to remove the boots, he watched her carefully. “You look tired, Mother. Will you sleep now?”

“Once I’ve fed Brien, I shall try to sleep a bit.” She pulled off the second boot and raised her head to smile wearily at him. “I have been almost afraid I’d fall down these last couple hours. I had to hear what all our men had to say, though.”

She leaned back against the pillows, and thought she might just fall asleep instantly. “I believe you should give me the babe now, Bran,” she murmured. “I don’t know how long I’ll remain awake.”

He laid Brien in his lap and wheeled his chair close beside her bed, going carefully so as not to cause the babe to fall. When he was close enough, he picked up his little brother and handed him out to her.

“Your arms have gotten so strong,” she said, as she sat up to take the babe from him.

“If only my legs were strong as well,” he said bitterly.

“Bran . . .” she started.

“What did Deryk tell you?” he interrupted. “Does he think we can last another night?”

Catelyn lay back again, turning on her side so that she could nurse Brien as she lay there and look at Bran. “He doesn’t know,” she said honestly. “Nor do I.”

“Are they finding lots of arrows?”

“Yes, actually. That is one of the more encouraging things at the moment.”

“What are the not encouraging things, Mother?” Bran was quieter, more thoughtful in his manor of speech, but no less relentless than Arya when he wanted to know something.

She sighed. “The sheer numbers of Others and wights are staggering, Bran. We lost too many men last night. We cannot lose that many every night and last very long, even if we had an infinite number of dragonglass arrows.

“Did they finish burning the dead?” he asked her softly. “I mean, so they can’t make more wights? I don’t smell it anymore. I wondered if that meant they were finished or that my nose just got used to it.”

She looked at her son, realizing sadly, that he’d likely had more close encounters with wights than anyone in the castle even after last night. Ned had told her of their journey south from where he had found Bran and Meera to the Wall. Bran had suffered the loss of Hodor to wights and watched Meera lose her father. He’d met wights before that as well, as he’d told her they’d been attacked by the creatures before they’d reached the cave of the Children of the Forest. “They’ve finished,” she said softly. “None of our dead will rise at sundown.” After a pause, she continued. “I only wish I knew where those already resurrected have gone.” She sighed and looked up at her son. “The Others and wights both seemed to vanish as the sun rose. The Others can move almost more quickly than can be seen at times, and I swear it is like they are formed of ice itself. Certainly, they have magic. Mayhaps they even dissolve and reform when the darkness comes. I do not know. The wights, however . . .whatever fell magic animates them, they have bodies the same as ours. Where can they have gone so quickly or how can they have hidden? It makes no sense. Would that we could find them during the daylight when it is possible they are safely dead!”

Bran had listened to her carefully. As tired as she was, she watched him closely now, wondering if it had been a mistake to speak so freely to him. For all his intelligence, and in spite of all his experiences, he was still only a boy, and did not deserve to have his mother frighten him. As she watched she saw a change come over his expression. He did look frightened, but somehow certain about something as well.

“The snow,” he murmured.

“What?” she asked him.

“They hide beneath the snow. I’d forgotten. When we were climbing the hill to the cave, it was getting dark, and Coldhands wanted us to hurry. Then they started coming up from the snow.”

“They were buried?” Catelyn asked him. “How deep was this snow?”

“Deep,” Bran said. “It was hard for Hodor to walk through it as we climbed.”

“Wouldn’t the wolves smell the wights if they remained nearby?”

Bran closed his eyes, and Catelyn knew he went to Summer. He slipped away into his wolf so easily that it almost frightened her, but he always came back. He opened his eyes after only a few moments. “He doesn’t smell them. The snow around the castle walls is all torn up anyway. It’s all packed down or even pushed away. I don’t think anything as big as a wight could get under it. Would there be any really deep snow not too far away? The loose kind that hasn’t been disturbed by much?”

Catelyn thought for a moment, and then a memory made her smile. “In the fields to the northeast of the castle,” she said quietly, remembering. “If you ride far enough you come to a place where the ground seems almost to have been folded up. There are those long low ridges that run north to south.”

“I know the place,” Bran said. “We used to ride there.” He looked sad then. “If you started in the west, by the Wolfswood, and then rode east you would go uphill and down, uphill and down, over and over again as you crossed the ridges. We’d race.”

She nodded. “That’s the place. Your father took me there after my first real snowfall here. I had been shocked at how deep the snow was in the courtyard, and he’d laughed. It made me rather angry, to be quite honest. He rarely laughed then except with Robb, and I thought he was making fun of me.” She smiled a little now as she recalled how unsure they’d been of each other in those days. She’d analyzed his every word or action hoping to find a way to understand him, to find a way to reach some sort of contented coexistence with him. “He could see he’d upset me, and he apologized immediately. Then he took me riding and showed me how the wind blew the snow up against the western side of those ridges. The snow in the courtyard was no more than eight inches deep, but the snow piled there reached almost to my hips against the ridge. Ned had to get off his horse and make a path for us. I had never even dreamed of so much snow.” They’d smiled together that day, during a time when smiling together did not come easily to either of them. Now her heart lurched at the thought of never seeing his smile again. _Be safe,_ _my love,_ she prayed silently. _Come home to me._

“There’s a lot more than eight inches here now,” Bran said softly. “Well, there was before it all got trampled on, anyway.” He looked thoughtful. “Mother, if that snow is even deeper, and it’s loose enough, the wights could get under it as easily as Father moved it out of the way for you. If they are deep enough, I don’t think even Summer could smell them from this far away.”

It was a long shot, but even a small chance of ridding themselves of wights who lay for now as dead men should not be missed. “If we were to find them Bran, does anyone know that they will remain dead while it is light?” She felt vaguely guilty over seeking counsel from her eleven year old son, but the child seemed to know things that no one else did.

He shook his head now, though. “I don’t know, Mother. When we climbed to the cave, they didn’t move from the snow until it was getting pretty dark. But I think Others were coming as well. I don’t know if the darkness or the Others being there woke them up. I’ve never seen one during the day, though.”

“Go to the guard and have him bring Ian here,” she said. “We haven’t much daylight left.”

As Bran wheeled himself toward her door, she detached the now very drowsy Brien from her teat and slowly raised herself to a seated position, leaving him lying beside her on the bed. After lying down through her entire conversation with Bran, she found her body quite resistant to sitting up again, but she managed it. Ian arrived a remarkably short time after the guard had gone to find him, and he did not look happy with her.

“Why are you not asleep, my lady?” he asked her by way of greeting.

She frowned, but didn’t chastise him for addressing her in such a manner as she knew he was concerned about her. _Brienne_ _would have spoken more strongly to me than either Ian or Deryk would dare,_ she thought, missing the young woman from Tarth even more than usual in that moment. “I will sleep after I have told you what I must, Ian,” she said.

After she related her conversation with Bran, she said, “It is likely a waste of time, but if you take a few men and both wolves, you should know quickly enough, for I suspect the wolves will smell them if they are there, once they get close enough.”

Ian nodded thoughtfully, looking toward the window. “We can’t have more than an hour’s light left, my lady. Possibly not even that.”

“I know,” she said. “Go quickly. Take the wolves. Send my children to me now.”

The young man nodded and turned to go.

“And Ian,” Catelyn nodded, “Whatever you find, do not stay out there past sunset. Do you hear me? I want you back within the walls at nightfall.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said, and left without any further delay.

Catelyn lay down then, after handing her sleeping babe to Bran, who seemed content to keep him on his lap rather than put him in the cradle. Her eyelids were heavy, but she forced herself to remain awake until the children came back into her room.

Sansa quickly took note of Catelyn in her bed and Bran sitting beside it. “Where’s Jeyne?” she asked.

Bran pointed toward the sitting room. “Sewing.” More quietly, he added. “She’s been extra quiet today with you gone. Really hasn’t talked much.”

Sansa frowned and looked at Catelyn. “You should be asleep, Mother. We found lots of arrows. Most weren’t even broken, and Osha said some of the broken ones could still be used. We are all fine, and Ian says you know why he took Summer and Shaggy already. So, you should sleep.”

Catelyn smiled at her elder daughter wearily while her younger daughter exclaimed, “Gods, you are bossy! I don’t know why Ian likes you so much!”

Sansa blushed bright red at that, and Catelyn wondered if she’d missed something in her preoccupation with so many things lately. She didn’t have time to ponder it, but promised herself to look into it when they were safe once more. _If we are ever safe once more._

“That’s good news,” she said softly to Sansa. “Why don’t you take Brien back to his cradle and sit with Jeyne for a bit, sweetling. I will go to sleep now. I don’t think I can stay awake even if I try.”

“Can I get in your bed?” Rickon asked. “I’m cold. It was cold outside.”

“I thought Starks didn’t get cold,” Dak teased him, and Arya laughed.

Rickon glared at them both, but jumped up on Catelyn’s bed at his mother’s nod and began pulling off his boots. His little body was cold when he snuggled himself against her.

As Catelyn’s mind drifted into sleep, she heard Arya say, “You are going to help them, aren’t you?”

“I’ll do what I can,” she heard Bran’s reply softly. “I kind of wish Rickon wasn’t falling asleep, though. I don’t want him to dream.”

Catelyn’s sleep filled mind hazily registered her little son’s regular breathing beside her in the bed, and she thought to tell Bran that his brother was already asleep, but her mouth didn’t seem to work. Then she was asleep, not having had time to ponder the vague sense of unease she, too, felt at the thought of Rickon dreaming.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Jon could see the fires burning long before they reached the scene of the battle. All along the long line pyres had been kindled, and the dead were burning. He could smell the unmistakable roasting meat smell on his own, and he knew it must be overpowering to Rhaegal. The dragon was starving, too, after all the exertion of today. Unlike men, grief did not seem to steal a dragon’s appetite. And Rhaegal was grieving. Jon had felt the beast’s misery so acutely when he’d entered its skin as they’d taken off after dealing with Viserion’s carcass that he’d not been able to stand sharing his dragon’s mind and had pulled back completely. It was odd to fly and experience everything only with his own senses the entire time.

Now, though, he felt Rhaegal instinctively almost diving toward the fires and the burning men, and he entered its mind to hold it back. The Northmen would not look kindly upon the dragons devouring their dead, especially after what had happened with Viserion. Looking now through Rhaegal’s eyes, though, Jon saw that there were no live Northmen near the fires. Gazing southward through those great bronze eyes, he could see men in large numbers marching in the direction of Last Hearth. Looking downward again, he made made out several horse carcasses on one of the fires below and immediately flew downward.

As he landed beside the pyre, he could see that only horses burned here and thought it likely the men had thought it disrespectful to burn their comrades along with their beasts. Whatever the reasoning had been, it created an acceptable dining arrangement for the dragons, and Jon slipped from Rhaegal’s mind as he slipped off his back, leaving the dragon to dine on the already charred horseflesh. The big black dragon landed remarkably silently beside him, and Daenerys dismounted as well. His aunt’s face was expressionless, and her eyes looked empty. She had not spoken since he’d carried her away from Viserion’s body and explained what he had to do to it.

“There are only horses there,” he said now. “Let Drogon eat. The dragons are famished.”

Drogon had made no move toward the pyre, although its stomach had to be as empty as Rhaeagal’s. It simply sat on its hind legs and looked at Daenerys as if waiting for something. Jon had never seen the beast quite so still.

She spoke three words in Valyrian so softly that Jon did not catch them, but the dragon then turned and leapt upon the fire, tearing into the horseflesh like its sibling. Daenerys stood silently then, watching them.

“You had not choice,” he told her. “We had no choice.”

She slowly turned her eyes toward him. “No,” she said softly. “But that doesn’t make it right.”

Jon didn’t know what to say then, so he was silent.

After a moment, she spoke again. “Why don’t they hate me?”

He knew she spoke of the dragons. He knew Rhaegal’s feelings about Viserion’s death were complex. It grieved for Viserion and was angry about its death. Yet, it could never hate Daenerys. And it had understood that something was terribly wrong with Viserion--something it couldn’t understand. None of these feelings were precisely the same as human emotions, but Jon had only human words to frame them in. Fearing that he couldn’t explain them, he only said, “They will never hate you. You are their mother.”

She closed her eyes at that, and he saw a single tear escape and fall down her cheek. “What kind of mother murders her own young, Jon?”

He took her hands then, not really certain if he should, but somehow feeling he must. “A dragon,” he said. “A dragon who is brave enough and strong enough to do what must be done.”

She didn’t pull away from him. “A dragon,” she repeated. “Fire and blood.” She sounded tired. “I wonder if I shall ever know anything except fire and blood.”

“You will,” Jon said. “There is more to you than that. Otherwise, you could not have done as you did or it would not have pained you as it has.”

She did pull her hands away then, and walked a small distance away from him before saying, “Thank you . . .for taking care of . . .afterwards.”

She kept her voice so low the words were hard to make out with her back turned, and he wasn’t certain if she thanked him for taking care of her or for what he had done with Viserion’s body. He shuddered, thinking back on it. He didn’t want to think the Others could raise a dragon as a wight, but he couldn’t be sure. And dragons didn’t burn.

He’d said as much to her after he’d carried her back to Drogon while she stared right through him, saying nothing in return. He’d explained what he intended to do, and she hadn’t tried to stop him, instead leaning against Drogon and closing her eyes.

It had taken a great deal of time, even with Longclaw’s sharp blade. Dragon scales were tougher than anything he’d ever tried to cut through, but he kept at it until the task was finished. His muscles ached, but Viserion’s head was severed from its body and both wings were cut to shreds. If the Others brought it back to life, it would would not see, breathe fire, or fly. It had been a grotesque site, and he hoped that Daenerys had truly kept her eyes closed until he’d helped her mount Drogon to return here.

“We should go to Last Hearth,” he said now. “My father will be there. It will be dark again soon, and we need to make plans. I’m certain they’ll come back.”

She didn’t need to ask who he meant. She nodded. “As soon as they’ve finished eating,” she said, turning around. “I would at least have their bellies full. They’ll get very little rest.”

Jon ached to be going. He needed to see his father, to know he was well. He didn’t think he’d been injured by Viserion’s flames, but he didn’t know what had happened here after he had flown off after Viserion. But his aunt was right. So, Jon sat down in the snow and waited. The sun was low in the sky, to the southwest of them now. That meant more than half the daylight hours were behind them already. Life on the Wall had made him used to the shortened days, but he wished for more time before dark today more than ever.

He felt a sudden urge to be gone from this place that seemed to come from nowhere, and he realized with a start that it came from Rhaegal. He looked up to see the green dragon’s eyes turned upon him. It had come away from the fire and looked at him expectantly.

“Ready to go then?” he asked out loud.

The dragon screeched as if it understood the words, but Jon knew it was his thoughts the beast had responded to. Once more, Rhaegal had found its way into his mind without Jon’s invitation. He didn’t think the dragon meant any harm by it. He wasn’t even certain Rhaegal consciously knew what it was doing, but he had to be better at guarding against it. He trusted the dragon almost as he trusted Ghost, but he didn’t intend to be controlled by it.

Drogon gulped down a last, enormous chunk of meat and then raised its big, black head in an answering cry.

“Yes,” Daenerys said. “They are ready.”

They caught up with the men just before Last Hearth, and Jon watched some of them begin to run when they spied the dragons overhead. No one was cheering them now. He didn’t blame them.

“Let’s land here,” he called to Daenerys. “We’ll terrify them if we fly above them all the way to the castle.”

She nodded and turned Drogon downward. Jon followed on Rhaegal. As they landed well behind the men, Jon’s heart rose to see a group of five men riding back toward them. Greatjon Umber was easily recognizable, and beside him was Lord Eddard Stark.

Jon leapt off Rhaegal to go meet them. “Father!” he called out.

“Jon! Are you all right?” came his father’s deep voice in reply. Ned Stark pulled up his horse a good distance from the two dragons and dismounted to approach Jon on foot. He seemed to be limping worse than usual, but he came toward him quickly all the same and opened his arms to embrace him.

“I am well, Father,” Jon said as he returned the quick embrace. “But were you hurt? Your leg . . .”

“This damned leg will forever be a trial, I’m afraid. I took a small cut to it. Nothing to what’s been done to it already.” Ned Stark’s eyes then moved to look behind Jon. “Your grace,” he said, bowing his head.

Jon turned to see that Daenerys was walking forward to meet them. Behind his father, Greatjon Umber was coming forward as well. “Where’s the other dragon?” the big man said without preamble.

“Viserion is dead,” Jon said simply, and he watched his father and Umber react. Ned Stark simply gave a small nod without changing expression, but Umber looked frankly astonished.

“Your dragon killed it then?” he asked.

“I killed Viserion,” came a soft, but clear feminine voice. Daenerys was now standing at Jon’s side. “He is dead by my word. He deserved to die by my hand.”

At that pronouncement, Jon did see a change in his father’s expression, a brief flash of something that looked like recognition or even grief, and then unmistakable respect. “I am sorry it had to come to that, Your Grace,” he said gravely.

Daenerys acknowledged his remark with the slightest move of her head, but did not say anything.

“The other two. They’ll behave as they did before? Going after the Walkers, I mean?” Umber asked.

“They will,” Jon said. “Drogon will do as Her Grace commands, and Rhaegal will obey me. You and your men need not fear these dragons.”

“The white one’s really dead?”

“You have been told he is,” Daenerys snapped at the Lord of Last Hearth. She appeared even tinier than she normally did staring up at that enormous man, but she actually took a step toward him. “I am a queen, Lord Umber. I keep my word. If you doubt me, you may ride northeast and see his body for yourself, but I wish you luck in returning here before nightfall.”

“I . . .I . . .forgive me, Your Grace,” the big man said. “I meant no offense.”

“The body . . .” Ned Stark’s deep voice sounded suddenly worried, and Jon could see his father had thought of the same troubling possibility that had occurred to him earlier.

“It has been dealt with,” Daenerys said quickly, in a voice that said the subject was closed before Jon had a chance to respond.

His father looked back and forth between the two of them. “It is little more than a quarter hour from here to Last Hearth by foot. If you could have the dragons stay here, I believe all would be more easy. You may take my horse, Your Grace, and I can walk and speak with my son.

“He is not your son,” she said imperiously. “You’ve told me so yourself, any number of times.”

“And yet I shall think of him so always,” the man he called Father answered softly, not rising to the bait. Jon found himself warmed by the words. “Please, Your Grace, take my horse, and we shall all speak once we are within the walls of Last Hearth.”

“Your leg . . .” Jon started.

“My leg is fine,” his father insisted, and Jon didn’t speak of it again.

The Greatjon gallantly extended his arm for Daenerys, and Jon was relieved to see her accept it. The two of them walked back to the horses where he helped her into Ned’s saddle. Jon smiled as she refused his offer to shorten the stirrups, telling him that she had ridden without stirrups often enough in the Dothraki Sea. He knew she was still broken inside, but his aunt was nothing if not proud.

As they began the walk to the castle, Jon filled his father in on what he had done to Viserion’s carcass. Ned had nodded his approval, and told Jon how the battle had gone after he and Daenerys had left.

“We cannot hold them, Jon,” he said in finishing. “Yet those dragons of yours can burn large numbers of them in one pass.”

“They’re Daenerys’s dragons,” he insisted.

“The green one isn’t. In any event, having men in the field does nothing but hinder your . . .the queen’s . . .dragons. I intend to pull all the men behind the walls of Last Hearth. As many will fit, anyway. We may need to send some to take up positions on the far side of the castle. Then a dragon can do its worst against those damned creatures without limitation.”

“And we have two dragons, my lord,” Jon said with a grim smile.

His father stopped then, and put his hand on Jon’s arm to turn him toward him. “Do you think one would suffice?”

“I . . .I think one dragon, without restraints, could burn all the Others I saw. But why do you ask?”

His father’s eyes looked pained. “Winterfell,” he said softly.

Jon’s heart fell. With everything that had happened, he had nearly forgotten that letter from Lady Stark.

“I am certain Catelyn will have everyone within the walls of the castle,” his father continued. “And those walls have stood thousands of years. But Jon--these creatures do not seem to care if they are killed, and their wights are dead already. If numbers as great as we saw here through this night throw themselves against the walls of Winterfell over and over, heedless of their own casualties, I fear the castle will fall.”

The pain in his father’s voice was palpable, and as Jon thought of his brothers and sisters being swept away by a tide of White Walkers, his own heart filled with ice. “Rhaegal is spent,” he said. “Even if he could fly at his top speed, I could not reach Winterfell tonight.”

“No,” his father said. “But you can reach it long before I can on horseback. And your dragon can do more than I ever could to aid them there.”

“I could take him and fly just far enough south to be well out of the battle here,” Jon said softly. “Then if I let him rest for several hours, mayhaps I could fly through the rest of the night and day and reach Winterfell during the following night.” He shook his head. “But it wouldn’t be easy. I might not make it until the night after that.”

“Then we must pray that Catelyn’s defenses can hold until then.” His father’s grey eyes never left his.

“You want me to go,” Jon said. “You want me to go now--without speaking to Daenerys or Lord Umber or anyone.”

“You said yourself that you must get away from here and let the dragon rest. The sooner you go, the more rest it can have. The sooner you can reach Winterfell.”

“But Daenerys . . .”

“I will speak to Daenerys Targaryen,” his father interrupted. The pain in his eyes then nearly broke Jon’s heart. “I belong there, Jon, not here. I should be with Catelyn, with my children, defending my own castle! But I must remain here. I am the Warden of the North and I will do my part.” He swallowed hard. “I am asking you to protect our family.”

 _Our family._ He hadn’t said _my family_ , Jon realized. He had said _our family_. His heart swelled as he thought about it. _I am a Stark,_ he thought, _for all I ride dragons. The blood of Winterfell runs through my veins as it did though my mother’s. And my uncle’s._ But as he looked at the man standing before him, his mind and heart rejected that word. _My father, damn it! The only father I’ve_ _ever known or loved._ And that father stood before him asking him to go to the aid of the people they both loved best in all the world.

“Tell Daenerys I’ll see her soon. And that I know she and Drogon will conquer all the Others here.”

His father smiled at him. “I’ll tell her, Jon.”

Jon grabbed Ned Stark tightly to him then, surprising the only man who would ever be his father. “I love you, Father,” he mumbled quickly. Then he pulled away and turned to run back toward Rhaegal.

He climbed atop Rhaegal’s back and turned to look at Drogon, who had looked at him with questioning red eyes.

“Stay here,” he told the black dragon in his abysmal Valyrian. Drogon seemed to understand for it lay its head back down upon the ground and didn’t offer to follow them as Jon bid Rhaegal to take off.

As they rose into the sky, Jon looked down and saw Lord Eddard Stark walking slowly toward Last Hearth, favoring the bad leg, and looking upward at the green dragon and the son he had claimed since birth.

“I’ll not fail you,” Jon whispered. “I swear before the gods, I will protect Winterfell.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

He liked the snow, especially here where it was so deep that he could dive into it snout first and bury his entire body beneath it, emerging after a few moments in a different place, startling his grey brother and shaking the snow from his fur. This time, though, his grey brother snarled at him reproachfully. He didn’t want to play.

The woman put a hand on his head. _Osha is here to make us behave,_ came the boy’s thoughts. Wolf and boy shared the love of playing in the snow so completely that they had truly seemed to be one only seconds before, but now as he gazed up at Osha with great green eyes, Rickon knew she was speaking to him and not Shaggydog.

“This is not a time for play, little pup.”

His grey brother had run ahead and now had his nose down in the snow as if he sought a rabbit or something hidden beneath it. Three of the men with torches followed him closely. The wolf didn’t like the torches. Fire hurt. But the boy didn’t fear them, and he urged the wolf on toward their brother, sniffing as he went.

He could smell it now. Faint, but present. Not prey, but carrion. Something dead beneath the snow. He caught a particularly strong scent in one spot and began to dig. Now a man with a torch came beside him. _Ian._ The boy’s mind provided the name.

The deeper he dug, the stronger the scent. And the more wrong. It wasn’t good meat. It was bad. Wrong. Like those things . . _.wights._ Rickon’s fear as the word came to him caused the wolf to jump back and whimper softly, but the man encouraged him to dig again. He heard shouting, and looked to see that his brother had pulled something from the snow, and the men around him had put their torches to it. It burned brightly in grey light.

Reluctantly, he put his snout back into the hole he had made in the snow and worked with his front paws until he came upon something. He closed his teeth around it, _an arm,_ and tugged hard, growling as he did. It was a dead thing, and it didn’t move even as he pulled the entire body free and shook it roughly.

The big man, _Ian,_ exclaimed loudly and touched his torch to it causing the wolf to let go with a yelp and leap away from it. He ran to Osha.

“That’s a good boy, little wolf,” she murmured. The wolf’s fear of the flame made the man words hard to understand, but her voice soothed him. “You must find as many as you can, pup. Can you do that for me?”

Slowly, Rickon puzzled out the words. It was hard to know the man words when he was with Shaggy, but Osha always spoke slowly and carefully, looking at him as she did so. Like Mother.

 _Mother!_ For a brief instant, Rickon felt himself small and warm, curled against Mother in her big, soft bed.

“Pup?” Osha’s voice called to him, and the cold wind ruffled his fur. He understood what she wanted. Men were digging in the snow now, too, pulling the dead things up and touching them with fire. His brother was showing them where to dig. He went back to where he had found his dead thing. It was nearly burnt up now. He put his snout to the snow and began to sniff once more, the men following him as they did his brother.

He didn’t know how long they’d been doing this when the sun started to sink below the horizon in the west. Little fires bloomed everywhere around him as many of the dead things burned. He had his jaws closed around another one, dragging it out by the leg, when that leg twitched and then he felt a hand reach to grab at his snout.

With a loud growl, he let go of the leg and snapped at the hand, biting it clean off the arm that still waved at him. The big man, _Ian,_ was there right away, and the moving dead thing went up in flames.

“Back to the castle!” Ian shouted. “Get to the horses! Go now!”

Men ran for the horses who were making loud frightened noises. Osha was calling to him. Ian didn’t move, though. He stood holding his torch aloft. “Go!” he shouted again.

Rickon realized the man was staring out over the snow. He looked carefully at the snow stretching out before them and saw that it was moving. The surface of the drifts seemed to rise and fall, and from everywhere, hands or feet or heads began breaking through it. _Dead things. But no longer still. Wights._

“Go, Shaggydog,” said the man beside him. “Home. To Rickon.” It occurred to the boy that Ian was standing there to protect the wolf. He tugged on Ian’s cloak with his teeth to pull him back to where Osha stood with the horses.

“The wolves can take care of themselves!” Osha shouted. “Come on, Ian!”

Rickon saw that the other men had already fled on their horses. They were likely halfway back to the castle. It was getting very dark now. He wondered if the cold things would come, too. The cold things couldn’t be burned. He’d listened to enough talk to know that.

Suddenly, his brother leapt through the air beside them, landing on a dead thing that had come close to Ian. Ian torched it and began running to his horse. Just before he reached it, Rickon’s wolf eyes saw three tall white specters appear as if from nowhere. Two came toward Ian and the other toward Osha.

Without thought, he leapt at the thing closing on Osha even as she shouted for him to stop. It hurt when he touched it. The cold burned him, and when he tried to bite it, he thought his teeth would freeze and shatter. He did knock it down though, and as he rolled away from it, he saw Osha’s spear hit its body. The monster seemed to shimmer for a moment, and then it simply dissolved away. The shaft of Osha’s spear fell to the ground and Rickon could see the dagger lashed to the tip of it black against the snow.

“Get on the horse! Go!” That was Ian’s voice again.

The big, black wolf whirled around again to see one of the other white things now coming at Osha, who no longer had her spear. As she turned to climb upon the horse, it reached out to grab her, but the wolf slammed into it, knocking it away. His brother had somehow sunk his teeth into the other monster and was attempting to drag it back from Ian.

A tiny sliver of black flashed against the snow as Ian brought a dagger down into the Other Shaggydog had knocked away from Osha, but a long white flash came down upon his back from the one behind him, and Rickon heard him cry out.

The blow was only glancing as Summer had been pulling the Other backwards as he struck, but now the monster turned toward his brother, and Rickon felt his heart freeze with fear just as Shaggydog’s did. As one, they watched the white blade rise up above the grey wolf.

“No!” Ian shouted loudly and rose, staggering from the ground, brandishing the black dagger. The Other spun again to face the man and the white blade arced once more against the dark sky.

“No! No! Ian!” This time the voice was his own. He wasn’t with Shaggy anymore. He was screaming and kicking, and his mother’s arms were tightly around him.

“Rickon! Rickon, my sweetling! You’re here. You’re safe. It’s all right.” His mother’s voice was in his ear as she tried to soothe him, but he couldn’t be soothed.

“It’s not all right! It’s not all right!” He knew he was kicking her, and he tried to make himself be still. He didn’t want to hurt Mother. “Shaggy!” he screamed, but he couldn’t feel his wolf. He couldn’t go to him.

He began sobbing against Mother’s chest. He could hear a baby crying. His shouting must have wakened Brien. He knew he should be quiet, but he couldn’t. “Shaggy!” he screamed again.

“Shaggy is all right, Rickon.”

That was Bran’s voice. Rickon opened his eyes and raised up to see Bran sitting in his chair close to Mother’s bed. Sansa, Arya, and Dak all stood there as well, staring at him with terror in their faces. Bran’s face was white, and tears spilled from his eyes.

“I can’t find him, Bran!” Rickon wailed desperately.

“You’re too frightened,” Bran said hoarsely. “And so is he. But Shaggy and Summer are almost at the gate now. Osha is not far behind them. She should be all right.”

But Bran was crying. Rickon’s lip trembled as he tried to make himself ask the question, wishing he could forget the last thing he’d seen through Shaggy’s eyes. “Ian . . .” he said softly, his voice shaking on the word.

Bran pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head.

“No,” he heard his mother whisper as she clutched him more tightly to her. “Gods, Bran. Tell me, child. Do you mean that Ian is . . .”

“He’s dead,” Bran whispered, and Sansa uttered a wordless cry and sank to the floor. “I couldn’t save him.”

“Oh, Bran!” Mother cried, letting go of Rickon to sit up and reach toward him. “It isn’t your fault, sweetling!”

Rickon wanted his mother’s arms back around him, but he hated how sad his brother looked. As he wondered if Mother were strong enough to pick Bran up, Dak came up behind Bran. He put his arms under Bran’s shoulders and half carried him, half dragged him up onto Mother’s bed where Mother grabbed him and pulled him against her. She lay back with one arm around Bran and put the other arm back around him, holding them close to her.

Rickon didn’t know how long they stayed like that, all crying softly before a soft knock came at Mother’s door. “Milady?” Osha’s voice, Rickon thought with relief.

“Come in, Osha!” Mother called.

Rickon sat up and saw that Arya sat on the floor with her arms around Sansa. Even Jeyne Poole had come out from her corner in the sitting room and was sitting beside Sansa, Baby Brien in her arms. Dak stood over the four as if guarding them.

When the door opened, two enormous wolves bounded into the room ahead of the wildling woman, and Rickon’s heart leapt. “Shaggy!” he screamed. Both wolves jumped up onto Mother’s bed even though they didn’t really both fit, and Mother didn’t say a word about it as he and Bran buried their faces in their fur.

“I am very glad to see you safe, Osha,” Mother said as Osha came into the room.

“I am afraid that we lost Ian, milady,” Osha said bluntly. She always told the truth, Rickon knew. Even bad truths he’d rather not hear.

“The boys said as much,” Mother replied sadly. “Sit down. You must be exhausted.”

“We found them where you said to look. The wights. We must have burned at least a hundred of them before dark came.”

“A hundred,” Mother said very quietly, turning to look at the dark sky outside her windows. “I fear the cost was too high.”

She sounded so sad. Rickon let go of Shaggy and put his arms around her, pressing his face against her chest. Hodor and Ian were both gone. He wondered who would carry Bran around now.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Darkness fell over Last Hearth with almost alarming speed. Ned Stark stood upon the top of the north facing wall and looked out into the black expanse, unable to see anything. He wondered where the Targaryen girl and her beast were. He wondered if they would see the flames from here if she came upon Others as far north as they’d fought them last night. He thought it likely they would.

She hadn’t been happy when he’d told her Jon was gone. In fact, she’d raged at him as wildly as he’d ever seen his sister Lyanna do in her youth. He’d been extremely grateful that he’d chosen to take her somewhere private to speak of it, for he didn’t think her behavior would have endeared her to the other Northmen. They already mistrusted her greatly over the deaths of Stannis Baratheon and Yohn Royce in the flames of her mad dragon. Watching her rail at him would likely have convinced no small number of them that she was as mad as her beast.

Ned did not think her mad. He feared she was very young--too young, and now weighed down by grief and guilt. He understood her anger.

“Rhaegal does not belong to your bastard!” she had shouted at him finally, after screaming any number of things which were barely coherent and to which no reasonable response could be made.

“We both know he is not my bastard,” he’d said calmly.

“I don’t care who he is! Rhaegal belongs to me, and Jon has no right to abscond with him whenever he chooses! We are fighting a war here, are we not?”

“We are. Jon and the green dragon have gone to continue fighting the same war--simply on another front.”

“No,” she’d spit at him. “He’s gone to protect your precious castle. Your family. As much as he talks about his bloody Night’s Watch taking no part, he’s willing enough to take your part!”

Ned hadn’t denied that because he couldn’t. He knew Jon went to Winterfell because his family was there.

“The Night’s Watch defends the realm. All of the realm, Your Grace. Winterfell is part of that realm, and Jon‘s loving the people there makes no difference in that.”

She’d glared at him but hadn’t responded, and Ned had taken her silence as encouragement that her anger was abating somewhat. “He would not have gone had the need there not been dire,” Ned had told her then. “Nor would he have gone if he didn’t believe a single dragon could defend each castle.”

“He cannot get there before nightfall,” she’d told him. “He cannot get there any time this night. It would be impossible even if Rhaegal weren’t exhausted.”

“I know,” Ned had said gravely. “I can only pray they may hold out until he can get there.”

Her gaze had softened slightly then. Ned knew she had genuinely liked Catelyn and the children whether she had wanted to or not, regardless of her feelings about him. “I will pray the same,” she’d muttered. Then she’d sighed deeply. “If none of our men are in the way, I do believe Drogon is a match for any number of Others and wights. And I do not wish your castle to fall, Lord Stark. Truly, I do not. But I cannot allow you or Jon to make such decisions behind my back! How am I to rule over men whose liege lord shows me no respect?”

It had been a fair question. “They needn’t know it was done without your consent, Your Grace. I have spoken of it to no one else as of yet.”

“So, I must lend my support to your actions or make it appear that you have defied my wishes--in which case, if I do not punish you, I appear weak.”

Ned had simply remained silent. That was, in fact, precisely what he had done. He needed Jon’s dragon at Winterfell. He needed Catelyn and the children to have some chance of survival. And he hadn’t needed that to hinge on the magnanimity of a girl he did not trust or even fully understand. He’d gambled that she’d recognize her need of his support with the Northmen and mayhaps eventually the wisdom of what he had done.

She’d stared at him and then huffed, “You are insufferable. How does one argue with a man who will not speak?”

He’d nearly laughed then. This proud, angry child rarely called to his mind anything of his wife, but he could hear those words in Catelyn’s voice quite plainly. _Gods, let her be safe. Let them all be safe._

“Do you intend to give me anything?” she’d demanded then.

“The North,” he’d answered quietly.

“What?”

“I intend to swear fealty to you as queen, Your Grace,” he’d said gravely, thinking sadly of Stannis Baratheon’s hopes for his daughter.

“You . . .why?”

“I have seen your dragons, Your Grace. Even if I were able to pit Jon against you, dragon against dragon--which I have no wish to do--even then, the North would burn. I am no craven, Daenerys Targaryen, but I am not a fool, either. I sent Jon to Winterfell for the protection of my people. I shall bend the knee to you for the same reason.”

She’d looked at him rather sadly. “But you do not believe me the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. You would not have me be queen if you could help it.”

He’d sighed deeply. “If I have learned nothing else in my life, Your Grace, I have learned that ‘rightful ruler’ means little. The throne belongs to the one who can and will take it--and then keep it. I would only hope you prove to be a good ruler.”

“You have doubts?”

“Would you have me lie?”

“No.”

“You are young. You know next to nothing of the Seven Kingdoms. If we are successful against the threat here, you must go south and face a realm that has been tearing itself apart since Robert Baratheon died. You will find few friends, I fear. Edmure Tully is fully occupied in simply holding the Riverlands together after they have been ravaged for years. The Vale has a sickly boy for a liege lord and has now lost the one man who could bind all their lords together. The Lannisters are weakened likely to the point of breaking. I think it likely the Tyrells hold sway in King’s Landing, or mayhaps it is the Faith of the Seven with their army. I do not know. But the Tyrells have troubles of their own with the Greyjoys raiding in the Reach. The Stormlands have been taken by your alleged nephew, Aegon Targaryen, and the last rumors I heard had Dorne supporting him.” He’d paused. “Do I doubt that you can take the Iron Throne? No. Do I doubt your ability to deal with all of these things wisely once you’ve taken it? Yes.”

“You think you would do better?”

He had laughed at that, a harsh and bitter laugh. “No, Your Grace. I am not made to wear a crown. I fear I was not cut out even to be the Hand of the King. In truth, I doubt any man . . .or woman . . .is a match for all the Iron Throne requires.” He’d paused once more. “You have given me reason for some hope today.”

She’d raised her brows.

“You killed your dragon. You insisted upon doing it yourself, and whether you believe me or not, I know something of what that cost you. Yet, you did it anyway. And it was the right choice.”

“You have no idea what it cost me,” she’d hissed at him.

“I freely admit I do not know everything there is to know about you, Your Grace. Do not presume that you know all there is to know of me.” He could still see Lady’s eyes. He could still feel the blade going into her throat. Only now, having seen the other children’s connections with their wolves, did he truly understand what he’d taken from Sansa that day. Unlike Viserion, Lady was innocent. He should have defied Robert. Mayhaps, many things would have been different had he made the bolder choice that day. But, however different the situations were, he did understand Daenerys Targaryen’s guilt. And he respected her decision to take it upon herself alone.

She’d made no response to that. “You should rest, Your Grace,” he’d said then. “You will not get any rest come nightfall.”

“I’ll rest when the Others are all dead. Have food and drink brought to me. Then bring Lord Umber and whomever else you feel should be present, and we’ll discuss tonight.”

They had done just that, and then she had left to go back to her dragon, declaring that she could rest more easily with Drogon than anywhere else, for he would let no harm come to her. Ned was inclined to believe that.

Now, he stood on the wall staring into the dark. Below, the courtyard teemed with men. Last Hearth had never seen so many people within its walls. The buildings were full, the yards were full. Fires were scarcely necessary even outside as the press of humanity generated quite a bit of warmth on its own. Ned thought of Winterfell, where Cat would be sheltering the townsfolk. It was much larger than Last Hearth, and as small as the garrison left in the castle was, he thought it likely that even with the people from the town, it was not nearly as crowded as this place. He hoped desperately there were enough men at least to mount a decent defense.

His thoughts were interrupted by a brilliant flash of light to the north which lit up the night just above the ground, moving in a west to east direction and seeming to go on forever. The battle had begun.

It quickly became apparent that it wasn’t much of a battle. By virtue of sheer numbers, the Others and wights were able to advance forward toward Last Hearth until they could be clearly seen when the flames lit them up, but they never came within range of the archers set upon the walls. Daenerys’s black beast seemed capable of destroying scores of them with one breath, and she rode it down over them repeatedly. Ned marveled at the dragon’s stamina. It flew at tremendous speeds and rained down fire for hours without ceasing.

Finally, while it was still quite dark, the Others retreated. Or vanished. Or did whatever Others did when they went away. Daylight hadn’t been the cause of their flight this time, though. Dragonfire had. The wights continued to mindlessly advance on the castle, but the dragon made relatively short work of them, and after another hour or so, nothing moved outside Last Hearth save the dragon.

In spite of the crowded conditions in the castle, Daenerys then turned it and guided it to land atop the wall, not far from where Ned stood. The men below could plainly see it. Ned turned to Lord Umber beside him and dropped to his knees. The Lord of Last Hearth followed suit.

“Your Grace,” the Greatjon said, “Last Hearth is yours.”

Ned looked up and met the eyes of the exhausted, but triumphant young woman on the back of the dragon. “The North is yours, Your Grace,” he said in a voice loud enough to carry. There was no going back now. For better or worse, he had chosen a side.

Daenerys Targaryen slid off the dragon and walked to the two lords, indicating they should rise. She then shouted something at the dragon that Ned didn’t understand, and it rose again into the air only to settle in the snow a short distance from the castle. Turning to Ned and Umber, she said, “He knows what to do. If any of those things come back, he will deal with them. I thank you for your oaths, my lords. And now, I believe I should rest.”

She visibly swayed with exhaustion and looked as if she might fall down. Ned quickly extended his arm, and the Greatjon did the same. She took hold of them both, and so they escorted her down from the wall, supported between the two of them, to loud cheering from the throng of men. The cheering gradually developed into a chant of “Queen Daenerys! Queen Daenerys!” and Ned prayed that this girl could be a queen worthy of the power she undoubtedly had.

When they had seen her to her room, Ned looked at his friend. “You don’t need me here now, Jon. If they come back tomorrow night, that dragon will do the same as it has tonight. I shall order all my Winterfell men to sleep at once, for at first light, we ride for home.”

Umber had clasped his hand. “May the gods speed you, my lord. And keep you safe.”

 _May the gods keep Winterfell safe until I can arrive there. May the gods speed Jon and his dragon._ Having seen what Daenerys and her dragon did this night, Ned had no doubt that Jon’s beast could do the same at Winterfell. If he could arrive in time. _Hold on, Cat. Please, my love. Just hold on a little longer._

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Sansa Stark knew the Others and wights once more ringed Winterfell, assaulting the walls in an attempt to get over them. Deryk had come to Mother’s chambers not long after Osha had to inform Mother that battle had once more been joined. The defense plan was the same as the previous night. They had not quite so many skilled archers after the previous night’s losses, but Deryk assured her he thought there were enough.

Sansa thought he looked much too tired to just be beginning a battle, but his face bore a look of grim determination as he turned to go. Osha had gone, too. She intended to be on the castle walls with a dagger in her hand. Looking at her sister, who paced the floor of Mother’s room with Mother’s black dagger in her hand, Sansa thought that Arya would prefer to be out on the walls, too.

“Sit down, Arya,” Mother said quietly. “You’re going to wear a groove in that floor."

Arya glared at her, but she laid Mother’s dagger on the bedside table and walked into the sitting room where the boys were all talking quietly--Dak and Rickon on the pallet on the floor and Bran in his chair. Jeyne Poole sat silently in one of the chairs by the little table and stared out the window as if anything much could be seen there. Mother was in her bed, holding Brien.

“Come sit by me, Sansa,” Mother said.

Sansa went to sit on the bed beside her, and Mother tucked a stray lock of hair back into her braid, smiling at her as she did so. “Tell me about Ian, sweetling,” she said gently.

She shook her head. “There’s nothing to tell. Arya’s stupid.”

Mother laughed at her use of her sister’s favorite word. “Arya isn’t stupid, and neither am I. I saw your face when she teased you earlier. I am not accusing you of anything, my sweet daughter. I only know that you are sad.”

“We’re all sad. Ian was a good man.”

“He was,” her mother agreed, still looking at her expectantly.

Sansa sighed, leaning back against her mother. “It really wasn’t anything,” she said. “We’ve barely ever even talked except about something Bran might need or things like that. But . . .he always smiles at me.” She looked up at her mother then. “You know . . .a nice kind of smile.”

“I know,” her mother replied, smiling herself, albeit sadly.

“I forgot how nice it was to have someone just smile because they like you. Or think you’re nice. Or pretty. In King’s Landing, people only smiled when they wanted something from you. And in the Eyrie . . .well, I didn’t like most of Petyr’s smiles at all.”

Her mother’s arm around her squeezed her then.

“Arya told me Ian made excuses to be around me. I didn’t believe her, but then I noticed he was where I was a lot of times. And I would see him watching me.”

Her mother made a little sound.

“He never did anything wrong!” she said hurriedly. “He never even touched me except to offer an arm to walk me through the snow or something.”

“Oh, I would never think Ian would be improper,” her mother assured her.

“So . . .that’s all there is. It’s nothing really. He’s just . . .nice.” She felt the blush creeping into her cheeks. “He is rather good looking. And he’s so very nice--to everyone.” Her heart fell as she realized she was speaking in the present tense. “I mean . . .he was. Now he’s just dead. Like everyone else.”

“Oh, my sweetling,” her mother said, laying Brien down beside her so that she could put both her arms around Sansa. “I am sorry you are hurt. And I am even sorrier that Ian is gone from us. But I am happy he reminded you of how it feels to smile at a boy and have him smile back at you--for no reason at all. You deserve such happiness, Sansa. There is no wrong in how you felt. And you will feel it again.”

Sansa shook her head, thinking that it might be better to feel nothing.

“Sansa,” Mother said, almost sharply. “Pain makes you wish for terrible things. Don’t let it do that to you. I often thought I would not survive all that’s happened to us. I don’t know that we’ll survive now. But, Sansa, I would suffer all of it again for one moment with you children and your father. I miss Robb every minute of every day, but I would not have that pain gone if it meant I had never had him at all. Do you understand, sweetling? Don’t let all the evil things make you forget the good that exists.”

“I’ll try,” she mumbled. Then she looked up at her mother and voiced the fear she’d had since she’d heard about Ian’s death. “I don’t want Ian to be a wight, Mother! I don’t want that.”

“He won’t be.” Bran’s voice startled her, and she looked up to see he had wheeled himself over to them without her noticing.

“How do you know?” she demanded.

“Because Summer picked up a torch and dropped it on him before he ran back toward the gate,” Bran said softly.

“You did that,” Sansa said. “Summer would never go near a live flame unless you made him.”

Bran just swallowed.

“Oh, Bran,” Mother said, her eyes filling with tears.

Bran shrugged. “Sansa’s right. I couldn’t stand the thought of Ian becoming a wight.”

No one said anything for awhile after that.

“What are they doing in there?” Sansa asked finally, indicating the other room. It was awfully quiet.

“Arya and Rickon are asleep,” he said. “Dak’s looking at a book.”

“Thank the gods,” Mother said. “I don’t think Arya’s been asleep in more than a day, and Rickon can sleep without dreaming since Shaggy is right here.” She yawned. “I should sleep myself. Sansa, would you and Dak please drag Brien’s cradle over by my bed? Quietly.”

Sansa nodded and went to do as her mother had asked. Seeing that Sansa, Bran, and Dak showed no signs of going to sleep, Lady Catelyn bid them watch over the others and told Sansa to wake her when Lord Tyrion came to report anything. She fell asleep almost as soon as she finished speaking.

No one came for what seemed a long time. Sansa could hear shouting, and she saw fires along the walls and in the courtyard, but she couldn’t tell what was going on, really. Jeyne got tired and lay down on the pallet by Mother’s bed to sleep. Dak fetched the cyvasse set and put it on Mother’s table for him and Bran to play. Sansa just sat quietly, praying that the Others and wights would somehow just go away.

She must have fallen asleep in her chair because she almost didn’t hear the soft knock at the door. As she stood to open it, she heard Tyrion Lannister’s voice calling softly, “Lady Stark?”

She opened the door. “Lord Tyrion,” she said. “Come in. My lady mother is asleep, but she said to wake her when you came.”

Tyrion Lannister entered the room and stood just barely inside the door, looking somewhat uncomfortable to be there. Sansa couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable around him, but she tried her best to suppress it. Bran and Dak were looking up from their game.

“Lord Lannister,” Bran said courteously.

Lannister nodded to him and looked around the room. “Where’s the little she-wolf?”

“Arya’s asleep,” Bran said.

Lord Tyrion muttered something under his breath that sounded to Sansa like, “Thank the gods.”

“Mother,” Sansa said softly, shaking her mother gently. “Mother . . .Lord Tyrion is here.”

Her lady mother yawned and pushed herself up into a seated position, blinking to get her eyes to focus. She saw Tyrion Lannister standing against the door and frowned. “Well, don’t skulk about over there, my lord. I promise not to bite you. Come here and tell me what goes on.”

Bran caught Sansa’s eye and they both had to hide their smiles. Mother had a tendency to take charge of any situation immediately even if she was in bed and had only just awakened. Lord Lannister waddled quickly toward Mother’s bed, still looking uncomfortable about being here while she was abed.

“For the gods’ sake, Lord Lannister. I’m fully dressed. Shall I get up into a chair for you?” Exhaustion and worry were obviously taking a toll on Mother’s usually impeccable courtesy.

“That won’t be necessary, Lady Stark. I haven’t much to say. The siege proceeds similar to last night, except that they don’t seem to have nearly as many wights who can shoot arrows. That’s good for us. However, they seem to be going for a bit of new strategy, simply swarming the walls with large numbers of wights surrounding the Others so it’s hard to get a clear shot at them with the dragonglass. They’re getting a lot more ropes over the outer walls a lot more quickly, but so far none have made it to the inner wall. We’ve got a lot more men with daggers and torches up there burning the ropes and stabbing at the Others the arrows miss.”

 _And one woman,_ Sansa thought. _Osha is on the wall._ She suddenly missed Brienne terribly. Brienne would protect them from these things. In her mind’s eye, she saw Brienne once more slicing into the Frey men who attacked her mother and herself with her Valyrian steel sword. _Valyrian steel kills Others._

“And how many men have died burning ropes and stabbing Others?” Mother asked Tyrion.

“I would say no more than a dozen thus far, Lady Stark, with another dozen wounded perhaps. Your Tarly boy is far more organized in the Hall tonight and many of the women from the town are helping him. No townspeople save those who are fighting remain outdoors.

Sansa watched her mother nod slowly before replying. “That’s more than a score of fighting men down. In how many hours? I fear I have been asleep, my lord, and I don’t know how much time has passed since nightfall.”

“Mayhaps four hours, my lady,” Tyrion told her.

Mother closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Then we have more than twelve hours yet to go before light. We cannot afford to lose so many men. We haven’t enough.”

“I know not what else we can do, my lady,” Tyrion said simply. He sounded tired and resigned. His lack of banter frightened Sansa.

“Do you think I should come down, Lord Lannister?” her mother sounded weary and resigned as well. And she was asking the dwarf’s opinion as if she cared about it. That frightened Sansa even more.

Tyrion looked around the room at Sansa, Bran, and Dak all staring at him and shook his head. “No, my lady. All is under control as much as it can be. You should remain with your children.”

He took his leave then. After he had gone, Mother told Sansa, Dak, and Bran they should sleep.

“I am not tired, Mother. You close your eyes once more. I slept a long time last night,” Sansa said.

“Well, I could use some sleep,” Dak said. “I imagine we’ll be out in the snow finding arrows again tomorrow.”

 _That’s an optimistic thought, given what Lord Tyrion and Mother just said._ Sansa tried not to dwell on that.

“Well, there isn’t room for us on the pallet in the other room with Arya and Rickon both there,” Bran said. “And Jeyne’s in this one. Do you suppose . . .”

“You can’t sleep by Jeyne,” Sansa said definitively. “She’d die if she woke up to find you or Dak beside her. Dak, help me put Bran in with Mother, and then I’m certain that you can make room for yourself with Arya and Rickon.”

Dak looked at her oddly, and Sansa realized he was probably recalling her hestitation at letting him sleep outside with Arya at the cabin on the beach. Much had happened since then, though, and Sansa simply wanted to get through this night. She knew Arya wouldn’t care, and as Mother hadn’t voiced any objections, she likely didn’t care either. “It’ll be fine, Dak,” she said.

She and Dak put Bran in Mother’s bed, and Summer immediately jumped up as well, stretching himself across the bottom of it. Dak then walked into the smaller room and pushed Shaggy out of the way enough to make a place for himself on the pallet. Sansa smiled a little at the way the boy so nonchalantly shoved the enormous direwolf now when she remembered the apprehension on his face the first time he’d seen it.

Almost as soon as the boys were settled, Brien began to stir in his crib. “Give him to me, Sansa,” Mother said. “I’ll feed him now, and then try to close my eyes again.”

Sansa and her mother both remained silent as Brien suckled. By the time he had taken his fill, Sansa realized that both Bran and Dak were now asleep. Mother gently burped the babe and then handed him to Sansa to put back in his cradle.

“You should sleep now, too, sweetling,” she said.

“I can’t. I’m not tired, Mother. Honestly.”

“I am more than tired. But I fear I can sleep no more, either.”

“Do you worry for Father?” Sansa asked her.

“Yes. I pray he has Jon and the Targaryen girl’s dragons with him. I pray they can kill the Others as Jon Snow believes they can.”

“Mother,” Sansa said fearfully. “We have no dragons in Winterfell. Do you think our men can kill all the Others here?”

Mother sighed. “I can only hope and pray so, my sweet girl. There is nothing else to do.”

They didn’t speak after that, but Sansa thought her mother slept no more than she did. The shouts and other sounds continued from outside Mother’s windows. After a great deal of time, there came a tremendous shouting and screaming that sounded all too close. Sansa wanted to get up and go to the window to look, but she was afraid. Mother reached toward the table beside her bed and picked up the black dagger Arya had laid there when she’d gone into the other room. Sansa watched as her mother’s long fingers closed around it and held it tightly.

The screams died down after a time, and a little later came another knock at the door. Sansa nearly ran to open it. “Lord Tyrion?” she said breathlessly.

“Yes, my lady.”

She jerked the door open to allow the little man in. Mother was sitting up straight in her bed. “What has happened?” Mother asked without preamble.

Tyrion looked shaken. “Others,” he said. “A fair number of them came across both walls. Some made it to the very door of your Great Keep.”

Sansa went pale at his words. “A single archer finally took down most of them, shooting from the bridge which runs from here to the armory.”

“How many were killed?” That was always her mother’s question.

“Too many, my lady. Too many.” The dwarf shook his head. “I do not know if we can keep them out until light.”

“Then I must go down now,” Mother said softly.

Tyrion didn’t try to talk her out of it this time, and Sansa heard herself say, “Then I will come with you.”

Her mother started to protest, and she said, “Please, Mother. If this is to be our last night, let me help you do what you must.”

After a moment, her mother nodded. “You must do precisely as I say and return here when I tell you to, without questioning me.”

“I will, Mother.”

So, Sansa walked with her mother, accompanied by Tyrion Lannister and several soldiers through the courtyard and to the stairs of various towers on the inner wall. They did not go atop the walls. The soldiers said it wasn’t safe, and Mother did not argue. Finally, they went to the Great Hall and spent some time speaking with Sam and others there. Sansa watched how people responded to her mother and realized why she had insisted on coming down. Her presence mattered to these people, and Sansa found herself incredibly proud to be the daughter of Lady Catelyn Stark. Finally, Mother told her they should both return to her chambers. No Walkers breached the walls while they were outside, but it could occur again at any time.

Tyrion Lannister walked them back to Mother’s rooms. When they entered, Mother walked slowly first to the sitting room where she looked at Arya, Rickon, and Dak. She then spared a look for Jeyne in her pallet as she returned to her bed. She bent over the cradle to see Brien and then slid into bed beside Bran. “You should try to sleep now, Sansa,” Mother said wearily, her voice heavy with grief.

“I will see Lord Lannister out and then I shall, Mother. I promise.”

Lady Catelyn nodded, and Sansa turned back toward the still open door where Tyrion Lannister had remained.

She stepped out into the corridor with him and closed the door behind them. She nodded at the two guards and then walked toward the stairs.

“You needn’t come back down with me, Lady Sansa,” Tyrion said to her, cocking his head somewhat quizzically. “I do know the way.”

“I’m not going down the stairs. I wanted to speak to you.”

He continued to look at her, his expression questioning.

“I . . .I wanted to thank you. You were kinder to me than you had to be in King’s Landing, my lord. I do thank you for that.”

“I think you suffered quite enough at the hands of House Lannister without my adding to it,” he replied.

“I did,” she said simply. “But I never thanked you . . .and I might not get another chance.”

“We may see morning yet, my lady,” Tyrion said, sounding almost like his normal self, although Sansa thought the confidence was forced.

“We may,” she said without much confidence. “I wanted to thank you also for helping my lady mother.”

The dwarf actually laughed at that. “Your lady mother is a force of nature, Sansa. I am not certain she requires anyone’s help. Certainly not mine.”

Sansa smiled. “I thank you anyway.”

Tyrion returned the smile. “You are very like her, you know. In a great many ways. You have more courage than you give yourself credit for.”

“I am afraid all the time,” Sansa whispered.

“And you think your mother isn’t? Don’t confuse fear with a lack of courage. They aren’t the same thing. You’d better return to your lady mother now, though, before she accuses me of kidnapping you.”

Sansa left him then, and returned to her mother’s rooms.

“Is that you, sweetling?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“I want you to lie down. Brien will sleep for some time yet. Get into bed with Jeyne or climb up here with Bran and me. But you must try to sleep.”

“Yes, Mother.” Without hesitation, Sansa went to her mother’s bed and lay down beside her on the opposite side of Bran. “I’m glad you and Father didn’t die. I’m glad you found me in the Eyrie. Whatever happens, I am glad of that, Mother.”

Her mother pulled her closer to her. “I am too, Sansa. I love you, sweetling.”

“I love you, too, Mother.”

She must have slept then because when she next opened her eyes, there was a pale light coming from the high windows of her mother’s room.

“Mother, it’s daylight!” she exclaimed, sitting up.

A knock on the door sounded almost immediately. Sansa ran to the door, thinking to find Lord Tyrion. It was Deryk.

“They have gone once more, my lady,” he said to Mother.

Mother nodded, eyes glistening with tears. “How many did we lose?” she asked him.

Deryk shook his head. “Far too many, Lady Stark. I fear we cannot hold them another night.”

Sansa watched her mother sit up straight. “We shall not give up, though,” she said firmly.

“No, my lady. I have already sent men to the place where the sleeping wights were found yesterday. We have more time now. The sun has only just risen. Mayhaps, we can destroy greater numbers. I wanted to ask for the wolves . . .”

Lady Catelyn nodded. “You shall have them. Sansa, wake the others. No doubt you have arrows to find.”

Sansa smiled at her mother. If this was to be the last daylight she saw, she would spend it trying to be as brave as her lady mother. She would spend it doing whatever she could to get Winterfell through yet another night.


	64. Another Cold Sunset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even as I wind this story down, I find my sections that I thought were one chapter turning into two!! Anyway, a good part of the next chapter is already completed because of this fact so hopefully the wait for the next update won't be too long.
> 
> As always, this world and these characters sprung from the marvelous imagination of George R.R. Martin and belong entirely to him. I own nothing of them.

Catelyn Stark stretched as she stood upon the walls watching her children move about in the snow beneath her, picking through it for dragonglass arrows. There were many others out there as well, but her eyes were only upon the three she had birthed and the skinny boy who had miraculously sent her back her husband and then brought her back her daughter. A lump formed in her throat as she watched them--so young, so perfect, and so fragile. She could barely breathe when she thought about what sundown could bring to them, as well as to the son beside her now and the tiny son she’d left sleeping in his cradle under Letty’s watchful eye.

“Can we see where the men and the wolves are from the wall, Mother?” Bran asked.

She turned to look at her second son, held up by a strapping lad from the town by the name of Tom. Bran had been devastated by Ian’s loss, and the thought of leaving him indoors on what could very well be his last day was unthinkable to Catelyn. She’d sent word to find someone strong enough to carry him about, and Tom had arrived at her chambers, accompanied by his mother, a short time later.

“He’s a good boy, Tom is, milady,” the woman had assured her. “He ain’t smart, but he’s strong as an ox, I swear. He’ll not drop the little lord.”

Catelyn hadn’t needed to look at Bran to imagine his expression at being called the ‘little lord.’ “I’m certain he’ll do wonderfully,” she’d said. “We thank you for helping us, Tom,” she’d said courteously, turning toward the boy who looked to be about five and ten and towered over his mother. He wasn’t quite as tall as Ian had been, but Catelyn thought his shoulders might be just as broad. She couldn’t imagine how big he would be when he was truly grown. _If he gets the chance to grow more._

The boy had seemed shocked at being addressed directly. “Yes, milady,” he’d mumbled.

He’d lifted Bran easily enough, and hadn’t hesitated for a moment when Bran announced he would like to go atop the walls and see if he could see his siblings. He said very little, but answered questions readily enough, albeit with brief, sometimes barely audible responses. Regardless of what his mother had said, Catelyn thought him more backward than stupid.

She looked at the young man carefully now as she replied to Bran. “We cannot see them from the wall, no,” she said. “The hills to the northeast don’t look like much from here, but they are large enough to keep you from seeing all the way to the ridges.” She looked at Bran pointedly. “I am certain you can find out what occurs there if you wish.”

Bran smiled at her. “Summer and Shaggy know what to do, but I think maybe I should . . .”

“Go back to my chambers?” Catelyn interrupted before he could say anything that might confuse poor Tom. She saw no point in having the young man trying to puzzle out alarming references to direwolves or mentioning such references to others.

“Yes, Mother,” Bran said, quick to understand her. “I think I would like to go back.”

“I can take him, milady,” Tom said, and Catelyn was almost shocked at hearing him speak up without being specifically addressed. “I know the way.”

“Thank you, Tom,” she said. To Bran, she said, “Tell Jeyne and Letty that I’ll be there soon. And tell Letty not to feed Brien. I’ll be there to do that.” No one else was feeding her babe if today was all they had left.

“You know they’ll be all right, Mother. Osha’s with them,” Bran said softly, and Catelyn realized her worry for all of them must have shown on her face.

“I know, Bran,” she said softly. “I’m coming down, too, but I need to go see Sam before I come up to my room. I won’t be long.”

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Catelyn was almost shocked to see the large pyre in the center of the courtyard still burning as high as ever. She didn’t dare look too closely at what was in those flames and wondered that the stench didn’t even faze her anymore. _I am become far too accustomed to death._

As she started toward the Great Hall, she heard her name and turned to see Sam coming toward her from the direction of the maester’s turret.

“Lady Stark!” he called again as he hurried toward her, round face red from exertion. “A raven!”

“A raven?” she breathed, heart in her throat. “From Ned?”

He shook his head. “The wax is black, like that of the Night’s Watch, but the address isn’t the same hand as Jon’s . . .as the Lord Commander’s letters.”

He held a sealed parchment in front of him and she had to suppress the urge to snatch it from his hands. “Come to my lord husband’s solar, Sam,” she said. “We shall open it there.”

In spite of her anxiety about the letter, she noticed him watching her carefully as they made their way back to the Great Keep. “I slept, Sam,” she told him. “I slept most of the night.” _I slept off and on through the night anyway._

“You still look too tired, Lady Catelyn,” he started to say, but she whirled around on him.

“But I’m not dead, am I, Sam?” she snapped. “And tomorrow I may be. You know it as well as I. So don’t tell me to sleep now. Not while there is anything else I can do.”

Sam looked contrite. “Forgive me, my lady.” They continued to the Keep and on into Ned’s solar in silence where Catelyn sank into Ned’s big chair and held out her hand for the letter.

When she had opened it and spread it out on the desk before her, her eyes went quickly to the bottom to read the signature. “Perwyn!” She exclaimed. “This is from Perwyn Frey!”

She said nothing else then as she read Perwyn’s letter in silence.

_Lord Stark,_

_I know not if you remain in Winterfell for there was some talk of your riding to Last Hearth when I left there, but I have found only a single raven here, and it is trained for Winterfell according to the label on its cage._

_I have reached the Karhold. We were attacked three times upon the way, and I have lost a great number of men. I know not if the few of us remaining are enough to reach Last Hearth again. Indeed, I know not what has become of Last Hearth since I left there. Truly, I cannot say even what has become of the Karhold._

_There is no one here. It is almost as if no people ever were. I can tell they fought. There is evidence of battle, but I have found no man, woman, or child, living or dead. Whatever the Others wanted in attacking this place, it was not to possess it, for they are gone, too. We have been here two nights and have seen neither Other nor wight._

_There are plates and cups scattered in the dining hall. There are parchments and cloaks and washbasins and combs and all manner of items in all the rooms here, as if left for us to discover, but no people. I must believe there were no survivors. It appears House Thenn and all that sheltered here are gone from this earth._

_I know not what to to advise you, my lord, for I know not where the enemy has gone or what their purpose is. I only know that the situation in the North is even more dire than we had feared. May the gods have mercy upon us._

_There is food enough here for my small remaining force to last about a fortnight. We shall remain that long in hopes of a letter of instruction from you or the Lord Commander. If none is received, we shall ride for Last Hearth and hope for the best._

_My regards to Lady Catelyn,_

_Perwyn Frey_

Catelyn shook as she looked up from the letter. _There is no one here._ Sam was looking at her in alarm, but she couldn’t find words to speak with him at the moment. _There is no one here. Oh gods, Ned, is that what you will find when you return? No wights, no Others, but all of us simply vanished? You’ll return and never know what’s become of us?_

She began to cry then. She couldn’t prevent it. She hated showing such weakness in front of Samwell Tarly, but she simply could not stop the tears. She pushed the letter toward him and rose from the desk, imagining her husband coming home to such a grim discovery. She wandered to the window and looked out at the courtyard where instead of children playing, she saw dead men burning and live men working to fashion new arrows for the dragonglass arrowheads recovered from the snow. She didn’t see enough living men, though. Not nearly enough.

By the time she had composed herself enough to turn around, Sam’s face was ghostly pale as he looked at her. “These are evil tidings, my lady.”

“Yes,” she said simply.

“You know we don’t have enough men to fend off attacks the size of the last two,” he said, his voice shaking. “Would you like me to have horses prepared for you and the children? You could go to Castle Cerwyn, mayhaps in the daylight remaining. Then you could . . .”

“Then we could what, Sam?” she asked him. “Even Cerwyn is likely unreachable by dark in snows such as we have on the ground. The Others come at the castle from all sides by dark. We know not where they are now. There is nowhere my children will be safe in all the North. None that can be reached by nightfall, anyway.”

He looked at her sadly, but did not argue.

“We shall remain at Winterfell, Sam. This is our home. My children are Starks.”

“So are you, my lady,” he said with conviction.

She smiled at him. “Thank you, Sam,” she said. She sat back down in Ned’s chair and pulled the inkwell toward her. “Hand me a fresh sheet of parchment if you would, Sam,” she told him.

He turned to the shelves behind him and found what she required. “Are you going to write to Ser Perwyn?” he asked as she dipped her quill into the ink.

“No,” she said. “I have no instructions for Perwyn. If the worst happens, though, and we are overcome tonight, my lord husband shall at least have some word of us.” _There is no one here,_ Perwyn had written, but he had also written of finding parchments among the simple items left in the Karhold. “I am writing a letter for Ned.”

Sam had nodded in understanding. “Do you need me for anything else, Lady Catelyn?” he’d asked, and she knew he wished to give her privacy.

“No, Sam. When I finish here, I shall be going to feed Brien. After that, I’ll likely come back outside to see how preparations are coming.”

“Yes, my lady.” He looked at her a long moment. “Lady Stark?” he said hesitantly and his eyes went to the floor. “Would you mind if I wrote a letter, too?”

“Of course, Sam. You may use any of the ravens you wish.”

He’d nodded, blushing furiously. “I’ll be sending it to my mother,” he said. “To give to . . .Gilly.”

“Gilly,” Catelyn repeated.

“She . . .she has a boy, and he’s . . .well he’s mine, I guess . . .and my mother promised to look after her . . .” Sam couldn’t meet her eyes at all now.

Catelyn looked at him carefully. Never would she have imagined Sam as the type of man to leave some poor girl with a bastard, but she could certainly believe that if he had, he would see her and the child well cared for. He very obviously cared about her.

“That’s fine, Sam. Write your letter and send it off.”

He nodded, his entire face and neck red now. “And Lady Stark?” he said again. She looked back up from her parchment. “I am glad Jon wrote for me to come here. Whatever happens.”

With that, the boy turned and left the solar more quickly than Catelyn had thought him capable of moving. She smiled after him sadly, sorry for one more good person who, barring divine intervention, would be leaving this world too early. Then she put quill to parchment and began to write.

When she had finished her letter, Catelyn allowed herself a few moments simply to breathe and gather herself. She was tired, but not nearly as exhausted as she had been the previous day. Whatever sleep she had gotten in the past twenty-four hours had helped. She allowed her thoughts to dwell on her husband only briefly before forcing him from her mind. _I am not giving up. I cannot simply give up._

They knew how to repel the Others. Their problem lay in numbers. She needed every able bodied person capable of using a weapon up on those walls tonight. Any skilled fighter she could add to their ranks might make a difference. She had to believe that. Decision made, she left her husband’s solar and walked to the stairs leading to the topmost floor of the Great Keep. When she reached the heavy door of the small room, she took out her key and turned it as she knocked.

“Is it feeding time already?” came the voice from within.

She opened the door and looked at the last remaining prisoner in Winterfell. The black haired young woman looked up at her from her chair with some surprise on her face, and then she smiled. Catelyn wasn’t particularly fond of that smile. It reminded her too much of the woman’s brother.

“Lady Stark,” her prisoner said. “It’s been hardly any time at all since your last visit.” She put her finger up to her cheek and made a face as if she were thinking carefully. “Let’s see. I am well fed. I am not cold. I have no pressing needs. There. You can forget about me for awhile once more and get back to your little life.”

“Lady Greyjoy,” Catelyn said evenly. “I am glad you feel you are not mistreated, but that is not why I have come.” Catelyn had made it a habit to personally see about the girl at least once a sennight. She had no love for the Ironborn who’d taken advantage of the North’s weakness to invade their shores, and she particularly disliked Asha Greyjoy’s bravado which reminded her too much of Theon, but the girl was a highborn prisoner of war--the true heir to the Iron Islands. She would not have her abused or mistreated. Today’s visit had another purpose, however.

“Why are you here, Lady Stark?” Asha asked her. “I can’t imagine it’s for the pleasure of my company.”

“You commanded your own fleet, did you not? Led your own men into battle?”

Seemingly taken aback by Catelyn’s question, the young woman simply answered without any hint of mocking. “Yes, I did.”

“Then I take it you have some skill with weapons. Can you use a bow?”

The girl laughed then. “I know how to shoot an arrow, if that’s what you mean. Whether or not it will hit its target is debatable. I’m far better with an axe.”

 _An axe._ An image of Maege Mormont came unbidden to Catelyn’s mind, and she felt anew the sting of the loss of her friend.

“An axe,” she said, forcing herself back to the present. “You fight with nothing else?”

The girl stood then and walked up to her. “From a close distance,” she said softly, actually leaning in toward Catelyn a bit, “I’m quite deadly with a dagger.”

Catelyn did not back up or even flinch. She was not afraid of this young woman and would not give her the pleasure of even thinking she might be. “That is good,” she said evenly. “A dagger will do very well.”

“What?” the Greyjoy girl asked, taken aback again, and Catelyn rather enjoyed seeing her off balance. Even in her long captivity, Asha had remained alarmingly cocky, refusing to beg for information or even ask what they intended to do with her. She had courage. Catelyn would give her that.

“You may have noticed the castle is under attack,” Catelyn said dryly.

“Ah. That. I did notice some commotion the past two nights. The view from those two tiny windows is hardly optimal, however, and my jailers are not very talkative. Is it your Northern goblins assaulting your walls, Lady Stark?”

Catelyn longed to slap the arrogant smile of the girl’s face. She knew absolutely nothing of the Others, or she would not mock so. “Since you’ve asked for parchment to write your mother, I assume you can read,” she said.

That was unkind, and Catelyn knew it. Permission to write her mother at her uncle’s home had been the young woman’s only request. Ned had read those letters before they had been sent, of course, and he’d told her they read almost as if written to a child. Asha Greyjoy made no mention of Theon’s execution or her own captivity, merely stating that she would not be able to return to the Iron Islands for some time, but she was well. Ned thought the manner of writing confirmed rumors that Alannys Harlaw had lost her wits. In any event, no response had ever come to those letters.

Asha Greyjoy didn’t respond to the jab now, and Catelyn felt a small stab of guilt at the fleeting look of pain in the young woman’s eyes. “Here,” she said, holding out Perwyn Frey’s letter. “Read this. The creatures who did this are the same that attack us now.”

She watched the girl’s face carefully as she read. She kept it nearly expressionless, but she swallowed several times and looked a shade paler as she finished. “The Karhold. That’s Lord Karstark’s seat is it not?” I have never heard of House Thenn.”

Catelyn gave her an abbreviated history of what had transpired in terms of House Karstark.

“And they are simply gone? Where did they go?”

“I imagine most have become wights,” Catelyn said flatly. “For all I know, they are the ones attacking our walls nightly.”

“Women and children?” Asha asked, incredulously.

Catelyn sighed. “Some of the wights appear to have been quite young, according to my men, but no small children. No women either. I shudder to think what’s become of them.” Catelyn recalled the feel of that icy hand on her wrist which left her skin red and raw even through her clothing. Thinking of some of Old Nan’s more lurid tales of Others, she shuddered now.

 Asha stared at her a moment before seeming to put on her usual nonchalant arrogance like armor. “And what has this to do with me?”

“I would like you to help us fight them.”

This time, the shock on Asha Greyjoy’s face was almost comical, and then she laughed once more. “Why would I ever defend Winterfell from anything? I wouldn’t help my own brother hold this pile of stones. I certainly have no interest in helping his killers.”

“Theon deserved death for what he did!” Catelyn hissed between her teeth. “And he received a better death than he deserved.”

“It was an act of war, Lady Stark. I invaded your precious North. I took Deepwood Motte just as Theon took Winterfell. His actions were foolish, but no different from mine as far as your land is concerned.”

“No,” Catelyn told her. “Your invasion was despicable--a craven, dishonorable attack on a largely defenseless people to take what is not yours--but that is how reavers have always practiced warfare. Theon’s actions were treasonous. He was sent out as a trusted envoy from a king who considered him a brother, and instead of keeping faith, he betrayed his king, invaded his home, imprisoned his brothers, and murdered people who’d cared for him--including the very man who had made him the sword he wielded!”

“He killed his jailers!” Asha insisted. “And if you put a weapon in my hand, I won’t hesitate to kill mine.”

Catelyn sighed and even closed her eyes briefly. She’d had versions of this argument with the Greyjoy girl before. Asha Greyjoy took great pleasure in baiting her, and she too often found herself rising to the bait. The pain of what Theon had done to Robb was simply too deep. The guilt that she had not done more to prevent Robb from ever sending Theon to the Iron Islands too heavy.

When she opened her eyes, she saw Asha Greyjoy looking at her, proud and angry. She knew the girl was over twenty, but she did not think she was yet twenty-five. _At her age, I was a wife and mother. I believed in happiness then, even after all that had happened. What does this girl have left to believe in?_

“I am sorry to hear that,” Catelyn said softly. “I must tell you that we likely don’t have enough men to repel them again. Even if you were to join in the defense, we likely face defeat--and the same fate as the Karhold. I have no illusions about your feelings toward us, Lady Greyjoy, just as you have none about our feelings toward you. I simply thought you might prefer to die fighting, rather than trapped, defenseless in your cell. Good day, my lady.”

She turned to go. When she reached the door, the girl’s voice stopped her. “You would truly let me fight?”

Catelyn turned back around. “I find myself with very few options, Lady Greyjoy. I will make use of what weapons I have.”

The Lady of Pyke looked down for a moment. “Bring me a dagger, and I’ll fight,” she said after a bit.

Catelyn smiled thinly. “I’ll have men come for you after dark. There is no need to have an armed prisoner loose in my castle when there is no threat. You will be among my men at all times, my lady, and if your dagger should land where it should not . . .you will be killed instantly.”

Asha Greyjoy nodded. “And if we do turn back these fiends?”

“Then you shall be returned to your cell at daylight. I make you no offer except the chance to fight to preserve your own life, my lady. Make no mistake about that.”

The girl nodded grimly. “I understand.”

Catelyn turned back to the door, calling out, “I am coming out now!” In truth, there was no guard outside the door to alert. There hadn’t been in several days as the room was kept securely locked, and she had need of all her men elsewhere. Asha Greyjoy didn’t need to know that, however. The woman was certainly capable of overpowering Catelyn or any of the servants who brought her meals if she didn’t fear retribution in the form of armed men in the corridor.

From the Greyjoy girl’s cell, Catelyn made her way back down to her own chambers where she found Letty walking the floor with an increasingly unhappy Brien.

“Oh, thank the gods, my lady,” the maid said to her. “He acts as if he’s starved to death, poor babe. I took him to the lord’s solar, but when you weren’t there, I didn’t know what to do besides come back here and wait.”

“I’m sorry, Letty,” Catelyn sighed, reaching out for her son. She seated herself in a chair, freeing a breast from her bodice with practiced ease, and the boy did latch on as greedily as if he had not eaten in a week. No wonder he grew so fast. Catelyn closed her eyes against her tears at that thought. _Please gods, let him keep growing. Let me find a way._ “Where is Bran?” she asked after a moment.

Letty tipped her head in the direction of the smaller room. “He was talking to Vayon’s daughter for a bit, but he’s not made a sound in a long time. I think he’s fallen asleep in his chair, my lady.”

 _He’s not asleep,_ thought Catelyn. “Why don’t you go and get something to eat, Letty. Or at least rest a bit. I shall remain here for awhile, now.”

“Yes, my lady,” Letty said, dropping into a curtsey before letting herself out.

“Bran isn’t asleep, Lady Stark,” came a hesitant voice from the other room. “He’s with Summer.”

“I know, Jeyne,” replied Catelyn softly. The girl spoke rarely except to Sansa, but she was not a fool, and Catelyn had long ago realized that she listened to everything and forgot nothing. Likely, she’d learned to do so as a means to protect herself in Petyr’s brothel and as Ramsay Snow’s prisoner. Initially, it had bothered Catelyn that the girl was privy to so many of their conversations, but in her own wounded way, Jeyne had become as much a part of them as Dak had, and would no more betray their secrets than he would.

When Brien had finally taken his fill, she patted his little back until he belched and then laid him back down in his cradle although he was not asleep. The blue eyes looked up at her, crinkling just slightly as he opened his toothless mouth in a wide smile. It wouldn't be long now until he laughed out loud. _If he lives._

He made a sound of protest as she moved from his sight, and she called to Jeyne to see if she would come and play with him a moment. The girl’s complete refusal to leave Catelyn’s chambers meant that Jeyne actually spent more time with Brien than his siblings did, and she seemed to love the babe dearly. She came at once and picked him up from the cradle, and Catelyn smiled to see the look of affectionate pride on the girl’s face when Brien quieted in her arms.

“I need to speak with Bran,” she said. “If you would tend the babe while I do so, Jeyne, I would be grateful.”

“Yes, my lady,” the girl said quietly, not looking up from Brien’s face. She still had difficulty meeting people’s eyes.

Walking into the smaller chamber, Catelyn caught sight of her son, seated in his wheeled chair beside the window. His eyes were open, but far away. She went to him and laid her hand gently on his arm. “Bran?” she said softly.

He didn’t respond for a few moments, but then he turned his head slowly to look up at her, blinking those eyes that were a mirror of her own except for their slightly darker blue color. “Mother,” he said, almost in a whisper.

She smiled at him. “Are they finding more wights?” she asked.

“Hundreds of them,” he whispered, shaking his head slowly as if he could hardly believe it. “There are hundreds in the snow. They go on and on . . . .Where did they all come from?”

He sounded very young and very frightened as he asked that, and it broke Catelyn’s heart. _He is too young,_ she thought. _Far_ _too young for the things he sees, the things he knows._ “Those from the south think of the North as almost empty of people, Bran. But they are wrong. The North is simply vast enough that people may spread out rather than be stacked atop one another.” She sighed. “Between Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and Winterfell are many, many leagues, and the Others have hardly come here in a straight line. We know some of them went at least as far east as the Karhold. They could have encountered any number of mountain clansmen, crofters, soldiers--dwellers in little cottages and large keeps.” She looked at her son sadly. “They come from the North, Bran. They were once our people.”

Bran nodded. “It is better that we burn them like this, rather than battle them, I think. It seems more like putting them to rest.”

“I believe you are right,” she told him with a small smile. _And every wight that burns by daylight is one that cannot harm us by_ _night._ “So the men are burning them?”

Bran nodded again. “Hundreds of them. The sun has gotten very low, though. I think they will have to stop soon.” He looked worried.

“Deryk won’t let them stay out. I made myself very clear on that.” She leaned down to kiss his forehead. “I think it’s time I go back outside and see that your brother and sisters come in.”

“Mother,” he said, very slowly and thoughtfully, before she could go. “When you went to Kings Landing . . .after I . . .after I was hurt . . .you went on a ship, didn’t you?”

Catelyn felt cold. “Yes, Bran,” she told him. “I sailed from White Harbor. Why?”

“You had a knife. You were looking at it and wondering about it . . .on the ship.”

Now, she felt chilled all the way through. “Did Robb talk to you about the knife? After you woke up?”

He shook his head. “I saw you with it, on the ship.”

“Bran,” she said warily.

“It doesn’t make sense, I know. Even if I’d been a raven, you were in the cabin. How could I have looked down and seen you there? And I saw Father and the girls and even Jon on the Wall. I was dreaming, but the things I saw were real. Just like in my wolf dreams.”

Catelyn remained silent and waited to hear what more he would say.

“I can go to Summer whenever I want now, and I’m almost as good with the ravens. I can even find the heart tree in our godswood when I’m awake if I try very hard, although it’s hard to know when the things I see there actually happened. Trees have very long memories and don’t think of time like people or even animals do. It’s confusing.”

Still she waited as he looked up at her.

“Lord Brynden says the Children carved the eyes in the weirwoods because it made it easier, but that a true greenseer could learn to see even without those eyes. I think maybe that’s what I was doing, Mother, just before I woke up after I fell. It was like I could see everything at once, but I couldn’t take it all in. It was too much. I couldn’t understand it.” He looked at her. “If I could do that again--if I could do it when I’m awake and really look at what I see, I could know all sorts of things. I could know where Father is and what he’s doing. Maybe I could even see where the Others come from and how to send them back there.” He shook his head violently, and Catelyn saw tears forming in his eyes. “But I can’t do it! I told Arya I would try, and I have! But I can’t! What if I was wrong to come home to Winterfell? Maybe, if I’d stayed with Lord Brynden, I’d already have learned how to do that, and I could really help instead of just sit here useless in your chambers all day!”

He was almost shaking, and Catelyn bent down to take him in her arms and hold him tightly against her. “You were not wrong, Bran,” she said fiercely. “Winterfell is your home. You belong here. You belong with us. Never doubt that.”

He clung to her, keeping his face pressed against the fabric of her dress, but he said in a small voice, “But we are all likely to die, Mother. And what if I could have changed that somehow if I’d stayed with Bloodraven?”

Catelyn pushed her son away from her just enough so that she could look him in the face. “Now you listen to me, Brandon Stark. I do not know if we will survive this coming night or the next one or the one after that. I do know that I will do everything in my power to see that you and your brother and sisters do. I also know that nothing you could have learned from your tree man would have kept these Others north of the Wall. I presume your Lord Brynden can see ‘without eyes,’ and you seem to believe he intends you to act as a force for good. If it were in his power to stop this, don’t you think he would have?” She gave him a moment to digest that. “There is power in knowing, Bran. I will never deny that. But knowledge and power are not the same thing. And if all the knowledge obtained by a man who’s been a greenseer for generations does not have the power to prevent this invasion of the North from beyond the Wall, then it is foolishness to think a boy of barely one and ten could learn nearly enough to make a difference, even had you stayed in that cave.”

“I don’t know what Lord Brynden considers good. He talks about some things having to end and other things beginning. He says men think they can change things even when they cannot. But I can’t just accept that this is the end, Mother. I can’t.”

“Do you think I am doing that?” she asked him.

“No. It’s just . . .”

“It’s just that you don’t know what else we can do,” she said gently. “Neither do I, Bran. But you would know no more of what we could do if you remained in that cave. Mayhaps you would be able to watch us fight and suffer, but you would not be able to aid us, Bran. I think it is better that you are here with us. Can you not see that?”

“I do want to be here, Mother,” he said, and she realized then that what her child sought most from her at this moment was affirmation that he had chosen well when he decided to continue to be Brandon Stark of Winterfell rather than whatever that ancient half-dead man in a cave would have him be.

“Then worry on this no longer,” she told him. “You have a good heart, Bran. It would not lead you wrongly.” She looked up at the window, and found to her dismay that the light had grown quite dim, and still her other children had not returned. “I must go now and bring the others back here, sweetling. I won’t be long.”

Bran nodded but didn’t say anything, and she knew his thoughts were still troubled. As she walked back into her large sleeping chamber, she saw Jeyne Poole seated on a chair holding Brien up against her shoulder sound asleep. She smiled at the girl and received a brief, hesitant smile in return. Then she left to find her other children.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark drew his cloak more tightly around him. The wind was picking up, and he prayed it did not bring snow with it. His men could push on through dark and wind, but no one could move in the North through an actual blizzard. Heavy, blowing snow would call a halt to his march regardless of how desperately he needed to be at Winterfell. He wondered if Jon had rested his dragon enough to fly on toward Winterfell by now, and he hoped so. He feared that even a dragon would find it impossible to travel if winter did its worst, and he wanted the beast to arrive at the castle with its powerful fire while the weather held.

He had managed to sleep perhaps two or three hours at Last Hearth, but he’d risen before it was light. The Winterfell men, while understandably anxious about the journey seemed nearly as eager to be gone as he did, and as the sun rose, all had been ready for their departure. Daenerys Targaryen had not yet come out from her chambers, but Ned didn’t feel right about departing Last Hearth without taking leave of her, so he’d made his way to her room.

She’d answered after his second knock, a too-large fur robe wrapped around her tiny frame as she stood in the doorway with her large purple eyes blinking up at him. She’d looked so impossibly young that Ned wondered for a moment if he’d dreamed the fierce queen who’d driven away the Others from atop her dragon the previous night.

“You have need of me, Lord Stark?” she’d asked him, imperious as ever in spite of her visible exhaution, and with her words the queen had replaced the little girl.

“No, Your Grace,” he’d said softly. “I am sorry to disturb your rest. I only wished to bid you farewell.”

“Farewell?” She’d seemed shocked for only a moment. “Ah,” she’d said then, moving back to allow him entry into the room. “You wish to ride for Winterfell?”

“I do.”

She’d regarded him carefully. “You cannot get there for days, you know. Whatever occurs with Jon and Rhaegal and the Others that assault your castle will be long over before your arrival.”

“I know.”

She’d sighed. “I would prefer to have you remain here with me. You know how to speak to these Northmen, and I fear I do not. I could use your help in this.”

Ned had been somewhat surprised as he’d realized she wasn’t ordering him to remain. He’d publicly sworn fealty to her, so she could have done so. Yet, her words were phrased far more like a request. “You intend to remain at Last Hearth, then?” he’d asked her.

“For the moment. I cannot know whether or not those things will return tonight. If they do, Drogon and I shall drive them off again. We shall drive them off until they stop coming, and then I shall go east and endeavor to discover what has become of this Karhold of yours.”

Ned had nodded. She was thinking tactically, and that was good. “You will need to do more than fly to the Karhold, Your Grace,” he told her. “There are men spread over a great many leagues from Castle Black to the Grey Cliffs, and all of those positions will need to be checked. It serves us little to drive the Others from Last Hearth only to have them push southward elsewhere.”

She’d looked at him without speaking so he’d continued. “Once the threat to this immediate area seems conquered or at least significantly reduced, we can make better use of ravens and riders to communicate with other men in the field and with Castle Black. Eventually, you will have to go to Eastwatch, Your Grace, for that is where these creatures came into the Seven Kingdoms, and where they are likely to retreat, if they are retreating.”

“You say ‘we,’ Lord Stark. Does that mean you have changed your mind about leaving here?”

“No, Your Grace,” he’d told her. “My place is at Winterfell as long as it is threatened. And since we know the White Walkers have advanced there, we cannot be certain they have not advanced other places to the south of here. We cannot afford to look only northward.” He’d tried to choose his words very carefully. “I saw what you accomplished last night. I have no doubt that you and your dragon can secure the safety of Last Hearth and, indeed, stop any Others who remain north of our line. It is my task to discover threats already past that line and help direct defenses against them.”

“And to see to your family,” she’d told him flatly. “You want to go because you are worried about your family.”

Before he could decide upon a response to that, she’d actually laughed. “Oh, both your reasoning and your plan are sound, Lord Stark, and I do not intend to keep you here, but I know perfectly well what most compels you toward Winterfell.”

He hadn’t answered then. She was correct, after all.

“I expect a raven as soon as you’ve arrived, letting me know how things stand there. Or better yet, send Jon to me if Rhaegal is no longer needed. I do not intend to go to any of the castles on the Wall without him.”

Ned had nodded.

“I am concerned that these men will not follow me easily without your presence here, Lord Stark. And I have none of my own men here.”

“You have a dragon, Your Grace,” he’d reminded her.

The purple eyes had narrowed angrily for a brief moment, and he’d actually been glad of her expression then. He liked that she didn’t wish their terror of dragonfire to be the only thing that bound people to her. “You also have courage,” he’d told her quietly. “Northmen follow courage, Your Grace, more than anything else. You showed yours in the battle last night and in your actions toward the white dragon.” He’d hesitated to remind her of the white beast for he knew its death pained her, but she needed to know how valuable her actions there had been in gaining real loyalty from the North.

She’d looked at him very closely then, almost as if she were searching for some insincerity in his words. “I am still only a girl to their eyes,” she’d said finally. “Will they listen to me?”

“They will listen to Greatjon Umber,” he’d said. “And he will listen to you. He’s a brash man and has a tendency even toward recklessness. But he is not stupid. And he is loyal to House Stark without question. As I follow you, so will he.” He’d paused. “Among those leading men along the line, you will find Lord Davos Seaworth. He was Hand to Stannis Baratheon.”

He’d both seen and heard her sharp intake of breath at that. “He is a good man, Your Grace. One of the best I’ve come across. And I owe him for the return of my son, Rickon. I would encourage you to meet with him privately, and tell him the truth of what happened to his king. The plain truth. That is what this man will respect best. And he shall give you plain truth, in return.”

“You think he will bend the knee to me?”

“I do not know. I hope so. But he will give you an honest answer, either way. Likely, he will be most concerned about Stannis’s daughter.”

“No doubt, he would prefer to see that child on the Iron Throne rather than me. I know she is at Castle Black with her mother, and something must be done with them.”

“I would move cautiously there, Your Grace. When Aegon the Conqueror made the Seven Kingdoms his own, he replaced only those Houses that he had to. Others he assimilated or simply affirmed in exchange for their fealty. Storm’s End belongs to House Baratheon, and little Lady Shireen is the last of her line. You would do well to confirm her place there, and when some semblance of peace is achieved, you could endeavor to make a marriage for her which would be advantageous to all concerned.”

“You would have me promise Storm’s End to Stannis’s little girl when I speak with this Seaworth? You know that another Aegon holds Storm’s End at the moment. I shall have to deal with him before I give the place to anyone.”

“Indeed, you shall, Your Grace. I don’t pretend to know all of what occurs in the south or how you should proceed there. That is for you and your own advisors to decide. But you asked me of the men here in the North, and I tell you that whether you are dealing with Baratheon men like Lord Seaworth or the Northmen who learned to respect Stannis Baratheon when he came here and fought for them, you will win them more easily if you do not take from Shireen Baratheon all her inheritance.”

“You think Storm’s End will be enough to satisfy them?”

“Not the Lady Selyse,” Ned had told her honestly. “But she has no real options, does she?” _None of us does,_ he’d thought, looking at the young woman who held so much power. “Whatever her responses to your decisions, there is something to be gained by treating your opponents fairly and even generously when you have the power to do otherwise.”

Thinking back on that conversation now, Ned wasn’t certain how much Daenerys had believed him or what part of his advice she might choose to take, but at least he had left on good terms with his new queen. He turned his thoughts away from Last Hearth toward Winterfell. Had Catelyn and the children fared well through the previous night? The sun was already sinking in the west. Would they fare well through this one? Would this be the night Jon reached them?

He almost couldn’t bear to think too long on such things.

“Lord Stark!” A young man was riding toward him, and Ned struggled to come up with his name. Once he had known all the men who rode to war with him. He thought of the men who’d accompanied him throughout Robert’s Rebellion and on to the Tower of Joy--now all dead. He thought of the men he’d taken to King’s Landing--Jory Cassel and the others--all slaughtered. He recalled with fresher pain the losses of Hal Mollen, Donnell, and Catelyn’s Lady Brienne. All had been sworn to his House (or his wife). All had been his to protect just as they swore to protect him and his family. All had been good, and loyal, and brave. And all of them had died for it.

Too many Houses were now without their lord or lady--Reed, Mormont, Royce. _My friends._

He didn’t allow himself to think on the greatest loss of all, the absence of his son which left a wound in his heart which continued to bleed without ever truly ceasing. No. He could not think of Robb. He had to think instead on the five children that remained to him and the woman who’d borne them. He had to get to Winterfell. He had to think on Jon, and pray that the son of his heart could do for Winterfell with his beast what Daenerys Targaryen had done for Last Hearth with hers.

“Lord Stark!” the young man called again, now only a few feet away. He was young. Ned didn’t think he could be much older than Robb had been when he died. _I cannot think of Robb._

“Are we stopping to make camp, my lord?” the young man asked. “Or shall ride on in the dark?”

 _Torrhen! That’s his name._ It came to Ned suddenly. Stark names were popular with people throughout the north, and Torrhen one of the most commonly used. Ned wondered if its popularity indicated approval by the people of the actions Torrhen Stark had taken to avoid futile, unnecessary death and destruction. Considering his vow of fealty to Daenerys Targaryen, he hoped so.

“We ride on, Torrhen,” he said. “There are too few hours of daylight for us to make any good progress toward Winterfell if we do not continue into the night.” He looked grimly at the boy. _Truly, he doesn’t look to be more than a boy._ “And if we are beset by Others or wights, I do not see that our being encamped gives us any better chance against them.” He sighed heavily, looking westward where the sun was well below the treeline now. “We will pause long enough to light torches. We should not be without fire in the night.”

A wolf howled from not far away. Torrhen shivered. “That’s a fearsome sound, my lord,” he said. “There were lots of wolves howling around Last Hearth. I hope it’s only the one here.”

As if to mock the boy’s fears, two more wolves howled immediately, and his face fell. “I’ll see about the torches, Lord Stark,” he said, turning his horse away once more.

As the column slowed to a halt, Ned sat still for a moment on his horse listening to the wolves calling to each other in the twilight. _Are you out there, Nymeria?_ he thought. The presence of the wolves would bother him little so long as he could be certain that one of them belonged to his daughter.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“No.”

“Arya, you need to hear me out about . . .”

“No!” Arya Stark insisted more loudly. “Mother, I am not going down in those crypts. I will stay in your chambers just as I have for the past two nights, but I will not bury myself underground with no idea what happens up here.”

“I don’t want to go down there,” Rickon said, his voice nearly a whisper, his eyes large and terrified. “Please, Mother. Don’t make me.”

Arya watched her mother carefully, and she could see Lady Catelyn’s resolve weakening in the face of Rickon’s pitiful plea.

“I would prefer to remain here as well, Mother,” Sansa said then in her very grownup voice, and Arya could have hugged her sister. Everything Sansa said always managed to sound so reasonable. Surely, Mother would listen now.

“Please don’t make me go down there, Mother. Please,” Rickon said again.

“Rickon . . .” Bran started to say.

“It’s all right, Bran,” Mother interrupted. “Come here, Rickon.”

They were all standing in Mother’s bedchamber. Well, except for Bran who was in his chair, and Jeyne who sat in a chair over by Mother’s table. Osha had just brought them back into the castle from gathering arrowheads, and they’d met Mother and the Lannister Imp talking in the courtyard. Mother had dismissed the Imp and brought all the rest of them, including Osha, here immediately.

Rickon ran to her now, and she put her arms around him. “I will not force you to go down there, Rickon,” she said softly. “Osha? Will you and Rickon go down to the entrance of the Keep to bring the wolves in. Surely, the men are returning with them by now.”

“Yes, milady,” the tall woman said, holding her hand out to Rickon. He went to her easily enough, distracted from thoughts of the crypts by the prospect of seeing his wolf.

Arya knew well enough that Mother was just getting rid of him so she could talk to the rest of them more freely. “You shouldn’t lie to him like that,” she accused, once the boy was gone.

“Sit down, Arya,” Mother said crossly. “Sit down, all of you."

Arya flopped cross-legged down on the pallet laid beside Mother’s bed, and Dak joined her after a moment while Sansa took the empty chair beside Jeyne’s. Mother sank down onto her bed, and Arya was struck by how weary she really looked.

“You know the peril we face,” Mother said softly. “I cannot be certain our men can repel these creatures a third time. And if they come into the castle in great numbers . . .”

“We likely won’t live,” Sansa said quietly. “But, Mother, if they can get into the castle, surely they can get into the crypts as well.”

“But mayhaps, they would not enter the crypts. The crypts are for the dead, and these things seek to kill the living.”

“They are drawn to life,” Bran said quietly then. He looked up at Mother. “Coldhands told us that. Even if we went into the crypts, they might know we were there. They might be able to sense us somehow.”

Mother looked unhappy at that. “But they might not,” she insisted. “Mayhaps the distance below the surface would hide you from whatever senses they have.”

“Why do you keep saying _you_?” Arya demanded then. “Wouldn’t you be coming with us, Mother.”

Mother bit her lip. “No, Arya,” she said softly.

“What?” Arya shouted. “You’d shove us down in that hole because you think it’s the only place safe, and you wouldn’t even come? How can you even think of doing something like that? I’m not leaving you!”

“Arya . . .” she started.

“Mother, you’d have to come with us if we did go,” Sansa put in urgently. “Father would never want . . .”

“Your father isn’t here,” Mother snapped. Then she took a deep breath and spoke more calmly. “If he were here, you are correct. He would insist that I accompany you into the crypts. And he would refuse to come, himself.” Mother closed her eyes momentarily, and Arya thought she was trying not to cry. “And I would hate it. But I would do as he asked because he is the Lord of Winterfell, and asking him to abandon the people of his castle while they were under attack would be wrong.”

She was silent for a moment.

“And you’re the Lady of Winterfell,” Bran said softly then. “And it’s your place to do as he would. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

Mother nodded.

“But that’s stupid!” Arya protested. “Father would be on the walls, fighting with the men. You can’t fight, Mother! You don’t need to stay out here!”

“Arya,” Mother said with a sigh, “Only a moment ago you were protesting any of you going down into the crypts. Now you are protesting my not going. What precisely do you want?”

“I . . .” Arya closed her mouth, realizing she didn’t know what she wanted exactly, but she did know what she didn’t want. “I don’t want go where you aren’t,” she said, blinking back tears of her own. She remembered that night outside the Twins far too well to ever spend another night knowing that her mother was being attacked and likely killed while she was so close to her.

Mother looked at her, and Arya knew that she could tell what she was thinking about. “Sweetling . . .” she started to say.

“Mother, I agree with Arya,” Sansa said then. “I don’t want to die. But I don’t want to live only discover that everyone I love is gone. That Winterfell is an empty ruin.”

“Sansa . . .”

“No, Mother. Hear me out. Let’s say the Others do get in, that they kill everyone in the castle except us down in the crypts. Where do we go then? What do we do? If Winterfell is fallen, we have no protection, and we can’t simply stay in the crypts until we starve.”

“She’s right, Mother,” Bran said. “If rescue were imminent, if we knew Father were coming in a matter of days with a way to defeat the Others, then mayhaps it would make sense to hide us there. But none of us wants to starve alone in the dark, knowing you are gone and monsters have taken our home. Please don’t ask that of us.”

Arya shivered at the image her brother’s words conjured up. He had that faraway look on his face--the one that made him look so old even though he was almost two years younger than she was. Her distress must have shown on her face because Dak reached a hand out and put it on her shoulder.

“What do you think about it?” she asked him. “You haven’t said anything.”

“I’m not a Stark,” he said, reminding her eerily of her brother Jon. “It’s not my place to say anything.”

“Dak,” Mother said. “I included you when I spoke of sending the children to the crypts. You certainly have a right to speak for yourself.”

“I’m not going down there, milady. I’ll stay here if you like, but I’d like one of those black daggers if I could get one. If those things are going to kill me, I’d like to take one with me.”

Arya grinned at him, and then looked back at her mother, waiting for a response.

“I love all of you so much,” Mother said after a moment, her voice breaking slightly. “I would do anything to keep you safe. But if I cannot keep you safe, we shall at least keep together. We shall pass this night here as we have the last two.”

Arya jumped up off the pallet to run to her mother’s arms just as Sansa did the same, and Mother laughed as she hugged them both. “We shall not give up. We shall hope and pray to see morning again, and once we’ve eaten I would have you all go to bed in anticipation of that.”

Arya started to speak.

“Don’t tell my you aren’t sleepy. I cannot make you sleep, but I can make you lie down and close your eyes, and I intend to do so. Lord Tyrion will come and let us know when battle is joined once more. Now ready yourselves to eat, my children.”

By the time they had all washed their faces and hands, Osha had brought Rickon back with the wolves, and Letty and another girl came with food. There was never much anymore, as foodstuffs were rationed tightly, and not much time was spent on preparing what food was available. Once they’d eaten, they scattered themselves among the various sleeping spots--Sansa and Jeyne on the pallet by Mother’s bed, Dak and Bran in the other room, and Arya and Rickon on Mother’s bed. Mother, herself, sat in a chair feeding Brien who’d wakened just as everyone else finished eating.

Shaggydog lay across the foot of Mother’s bed, and Arya looked at him. She missed Nymeria. She hadn’t dreamed much of her wolf at all lately, but then she either hadn’t slept at all or had passed out in exhaustion the past couple days. She missed Father, too, and closed her eyes now, hoping to find her wolf and to get a glimpse of him.

She wasn’t as good at this while awake as Bran was, but if she lay still and quiet with her eyes closed long enough, she thought she could do it. Lying there, she was aware of Rickon beside her, his slow, regular breathing indicating he was already asleep. That wasn’t surprising considering how much running he’d done outside. Deliberately, she pulled her thoughts away from her brother and focused on her wolf, letting her mind reach out for her.

The wind picked up suddenly, causing ripples in her fur. The snow cushioned her paws as she ran noiselessly among the trees. She could smell the men and their animals nearby.

 _Father!_ The word came to the girl’s mind within the wolf’s, and she turned her head toward the scent, running faster. Even as she ran, she felt a slight resistance from the wolf, and she hesitated. There was another smell, not quite as near. A bad smell.

She became aware of the other wolves around her. _My pack._ That thought was the wolf’s, but the girl gave it the words. She wasn’t interested in the small cousins, though. She needed to see her father. Once more she began running toward his scent, and the wolf offered no more resistance. They moved as one, with one purpose, the smaller wolves trailing behind at a slight distance.

She emerged into a clearing, and she could see him. He carried fire and instinctively she jumped back even though he was not close to her. She hated fire. _Nymeria hates fire._ Keeping her thoughts separate from the wolf’s was difficult, but she concentrated on watching her father. All the men riding with him had fire as well, and slowly her mind swam through the wolf’s loathing of it to work out that they were carrying torches to defend against wights.

_Wights. The bad smell._

She raised her head and howled. Behind her, she heard some of the small cousins howl in reply. Still with her head raised, she sniffed the wind, searching for the bad scent. There it was. Closer than it had been.

“Nymeria.”

Father’s voice. He had ridden up toward her although the other men stayed well back, and Father’s horse shied away skittishly.

She looked at him for a moment, and then turned toward the bad smell and gave a low, menacing growl. Then she looked back at him.

He was looking off in the direction she had growled, and he shouted a word, not to her, but to the men.

Then she saw them. The bad-smelling meat. The wrong-smelling dead. _Wights_ came the word. She growled again and leaped toward the things as they moved toward Father and the men. She jumped on one and shook it by its arm. Some of the small cousins had come forward to jump on the bad dead things as well, but most of them hung back.

Then Father was there on his horse, touching the fire to the bad dead things. Those he touched blazed up, and the girl/wolf jumped backward once more, terrified by the intense heat of the flames. Other men on horses came now, too, waving torches at all of the wrong-smelling dead. The wolf wanted the flames to stop, but the girl rejoiced to see the dead things burn even as the heat frightened her. There were many of them, though, and more kept coming.

The horses were much faster than the dead men, but there were so many dead men, that they began to surround the horses, causes them to jump and scream, and preventing them from running. She saw Father’s horse surrounded, and she leapt forward again, paying no mind to the wolf’s fear of the fire. She began tearing at the dead things with her teeth.

He was shouting, whether at her or the men, she didn’t know. The words meant nothing to her. She knew only the need to protect him and to kill the things that were already dead. She knew only fear and fury. There was fire everywhere. Dead men burned in every direction. The horses liked the fire no more than the wolf did, and they screamed and snorted, stomping wildly. The heat of the flames was almost unbearable, and she felt the sting of it and smelled her own singed fur as she raced among the burning dead, tearing with her teeth at anything that still moved.

Suddenly, she was cold. She never felt cold, but she did now in spite of the still brightly burning fires. This cold was as wrong as the smell of these dead men who wouldn’t stay dead. Terrified, she howled a warning to her small cousins. _Stay back. Flee._ She was putting words to the wolf’s thoughts, but the wordless howls were understood well enough by the other wolves. They fled with great speed.

_Why am I cold? What is this?_

She looked for Father again, and when she found him, she howled louder than ever for on either side of him and his horse stood tall, pale figures, both raising long white claws. _Swords,_ the girl’s mind provided the word.

Father had his own sword raised to plunge into the creature he faced, but he could not possibly turn and pierce the other one before its blade fell. She lunged at it with all she was worth and felt the wolf’s desire to do the same as strongly as her own. She was the wolf, and the wolf was she in that moment. Both sought nothing but to remove the threat that white creature posed to Father.

She yelped with pain as soon as her paws made contact with the white creature. Nothing had ever felt so cold. The cold burned worse than the fire had, but she did not move away. She threw all of herself against the thing so that it was knocked backward, feeling that awful cold sink into her flesh as she did so. The long white claw slashed down at her and she jumped away then, but not quickly enough to avoid the claw entirely, and it struck her flank.

“Nymeria!” Father was shouting her name. The wolf’s name. She hurt badly, and she was so cold. She couldn’t put her right rear paw down. It hurt too much. “Nymeria!” Father was shouting at her again. Where was he? She didn’t feel quite so cold anymore, but then she didn’t feel much of anything. Father was still shouting from somewhere. She could hear her name.

“Arya!”

“Father?” It didn’t sound like Father.

“Arya! Wake up, sweetling! Wake up, my girl!”

Arya opened her eyes, her body shaking uncontrollably, and looked wildly around trying to make sense of what she saw. Nothing made sense, but just above her she could see her mother’s face. Mother’s blue eyes were wide with concern.

“Father,” she choked out, and Mother made a strangled sort of sound, and the hands that Arya hadn’t even realized held her tightened on her arms.

Arya shook her head. “No,” she stammered, slowly coming back to this world of words. “Father was shouting at me. At . . .Nymeria.”

Mother’s eyes closed, and Arya watched as she let out a long breath. “You’re safe, Arya. You are here with me. In Winterfell.”

 _Winterfell isn’t safe,_ she thought, confused by her mother’s words. _Winterfell is under attack by . . ._ “Others!” she gasped, looking up at Mother in panic. “Others hurt Nymeria! I think she’s dying!”

Mother’s face looked frightened again. “Your father . . .” she whispered, barely able to speak.

“They were attacked.” She closed her eyes both to make herself remember what she had seen and to keep from seeing the fear in her mother’s eyes. “They were riding--out through trees somewhere, not by the man rock. Last Hearth, I mean. They had fire. And wights came, and they were fighting. Then there were two Others, and Nymeria . . .” Her eyes filled with tears, and she couldn’t keep speaking. Was Nymeria dead? She had certainly been hurt. The pain had been almost unbearable. And then there had been almost no feeling at all.

She opened her eyes, and saw tears in Mother’s eyes. Mother didn’t seem to be able to speak, either.

“Father, Arya. What happened to Father?” Bran’s voice. She couldn’t see him, though. She only looked at Mother.

“He killed them. Father, I mean. He killed the one Other, and then I think he killed the one that hurt Nymeria. The cold went away. And he was shouting my name. Her name.”

“He’s alive?” Mother’s whisper sounded as if had been forced from throat.

Arya nodded, and Mother gave a soft little cry. She heard Sansa make a sound as well, from somewhere behind her.

“Nymeria isn’t dead, Arya,” she heard Bran say softly. This time she tore her eyes away from Mother’s and turned to look at her brother. She was surprised to see him at the foot of the bed rather than in his chair. Dak stood beside him. She realized Dak must have carried him here.

“How can you know that?” she asked her brother softly.

“Summer would know if she were dead. Like he did with Lady and Grey Wind.” He looked at her gravely. “I don’t know if she’s dying,” he said honestly. “But she isn’t dead yet.”

Arya looked around the room. Rickon lay beside her on the bed, hands over his ears and tears silently running down his cheeks. Sansa stood beside the bed near him, her face pale with tears shining in those blue eyes so like Mother’s. Jeyne stood a small distance behind her like a pale, silent ghost. Dak and Bran both stared back at her with concerned expressions, but no tears, and she couldn’t see Brien. He must be asleep in his cradle.

She turned back to Mother who was sitting on the bed beside her, and threw her arms around her waist. “She isn’t dead yet,” she echoed Bran’s words. “And Father’s not dead, either. He wasn’t even hurt, I don’t think.”

“Thank the gods,” Mother whispered.

“Mama,” Rickon said then in a tiny voice full of tears, and Arya climbed over Mother’s lap so that Mother was now in the middle between her and Rickon. Mother gathered Rickon up against her, hugging him tightly. Then she removed one arm from around him and used it to pull Arya tightly to her side as well.

Arya leaned into her mother and looked at the window. It was quite dark outside now. Likely the wights and Others were already assaulting the walls again. It could be their last night.

 _She’s not dead yet._ Bran’s words repeated in her mind, and as she thought about Father and all the people with her in this room, she realized those words were true for all of them. _We are not dead yet._ She pressed herself tightly against her mother and tried to force down her fear. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._

Lying on the table beside the bed, she saw mother’s dragonglass dagger. Wordlessly, she raised up and grabbed it, holding the handle of it in her palm as she sank back down against Mother’s side. Mother didn’t object. She didn’t say anything at all.

 _We are not dead yet._ Nymeria had fought the Others, and Bran said she still lived. Arya Stark took some small comfort in that knowledge and in the feel of the hard, black stone knife in her hand, and she silently repeated Syrio’s words to herself over and over. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ She closed her eyes and remembered what she had seen through Nymeria’s eyes. Remembered those cold icy blades raised up over her father. Icy fingers seemed to grab at her with the memory. _Fear cuts_ _deeper than swords. Even cold, white ones._ She held onto the dagger as her mother held onto her. _Nymeria fought. I fought,_ she realized. Lying against her mother in the warm bed, Arya Stark determinedly pushed her fear away. _We are all wolves. We will all fight._


	65. One Last Night

“My lord! My lord, are you well?”

Someone was shouting at him. Ned Stark realized his arm was still extended, holding Oathkeeper out into the empty space where the Other had stood before, swinging its blade down upon Arya’s wolf.

“Nymeria!” he called again as he slowly lowered his arm. The horse stomped beneath him, jarring him in the saddle, but he still did not see the direwolf. She had leapt on the Other and then fallen with it, remaining on the ground after it rose once more. He thought the animal had been struck, but the Other had been raising its blade again when he’d run Oathkeeper through its heart. If it had a heart. _Where has she gotten to?_

“Lord Stark!” the man called again, and Ned turned. One of the older men among the company had pulled up beside him. _Selwyn. A Northman with an inexplicable southron name._

“I am well enough, Selwyn,” he said, realizing that he was out of breath as he spoke. The battle seemed to have ended. “How many have we lost?” he asked tersely.

“None, my lord,” the man replied. “There were only four of them white devils, and two of our lads managed to stick the ones you didn’t get. I don’t know how many wights there were, but they’re all burning now."

Ned nodded heavily. No losses. That was better news than he’d hoped to hear. “The direwolf,” he said.

Selwyn nodded toward the trees. “It crawled off that way, after that thing stuck it. Done for, more than likely, my lord.”

Ned was already dismounting from his horse, cursing as the bad leg hit the ground, and limping in the direction the man had indicated. The leg was worse, he realized. It seemed the cut he’d taken in the earlier battle might be a bit deeper than he’d thought.

“Lord Stark!” Selwyn called after him. “A wounded direwolf can still likely kill a man! Leave it be, my lord!”

“Nymeria will not harm me,” he said too softly for Selwyn to hear. He was speaking to himself as he realized the truth of those words for the first time ever. He recalled Catelyn standing fearlessly before Shaggydog so long ago in the wilderness north of White Harbor. She had understood even then that whatever connection their children had with these beasts protected the two of them. Nymeria would no more attack him than Arya would.

He came upon her very quickly as she had not made it far. She lay in the snow, looking up at him with those dark golden eyes. She did not raise her head, and Ned saw blood staining the snow around her hindquarters. As he came closer and knelt beside her, he could see that the fur on her snout was singed slightly, as were patches of fur elsewhere. She’d gotten too close to the burning wights.

“You saved me,” he whispered to her. She made no sound, continuing to look up at him from where she lay. Bran’s Summer had saved Catelyn from the assassin, he knew, but he’d always thought that was more in protection of Bran than for herself. The gods knew Shaggydog was protective of his wife, but again he’d thought that had more to do with Rickon’s need of her. Arya was not here. Nymeria had acted for him alone, and she had sacrificed herself in doing so.

“Let me see,” he murmured, running a hand over the fur where the blade had struck. It didn’t appear to be terribly deep, but it had struck the muscles of the upper leg. She couldn’t walk on that at all.

“My lord.”

He looked up to see Selwyn, the young man Torrhen, and two others standing there a good distance away.

“It is all right,” he said. “She would not harm us even if she could. We likely would have lost men had she not given us that warning the wights were there.”

Selwyn came forward then, crouching in the snow and running his own hands over the injured wolf. Nymeria made a low, growling sound at his touch, but she didn’t snap, or even attempt to move.

“The leg is the difficulty, my lord,” he said after a moment. “She cannot walk on it, and even if she regains enough strength to stand on three, she’s easy prey if any more of those things are about. Or even other large predators.”

Ned sighed. “Perhaps we could fashion a sled of some sort on which to drag her behind a horse,” he said, recalling how Jon and Lady Brienne had brought her into Winterfell when she’d been wounded by Stannis’s men.

“She’ll never be whole,” Selwyn insisted. “That leg won’t ever heal as it once was, and trying to pull her will slow us down. She still might die, and even if she doesn’t, if she gains a little strength she’s like as not to attack the horses or the men, my lord. A wild animal in pain is a dangerous thing!”

He spoke truly, Ned knew. “I cannot simply leave her here to suffer,” he said through a clenched jaw.

“I can put her out of her misery, Lord Stark.”

Selwyn’s words were kindly meant, but Ned turned on him. “You will do no such thing!” Taking a deep breath, he said more quietly, “If it must be done, it will be done by my hand. Nymeria is a direwolf of House Stark.”

The older man nodded and stood back up, motioning for those with him to withdraw.

Ned sat looking at Nymeria, scratching the fur between her ears. He couldn’t allow his progress toward Winterfell to be slowed. He knew that. The wolf continued to gaze at him silently with those eyes, so like Lady’s had been, and yet so different.

Lady had looked at him with trust and innocence. She’d been a pup, after all, and as sweet natured as the little girl who named her. Even as he’d put his blade into her flesh, she had looked up at him, believing he’d do her no harm.

Nymeria’s gaze was different. She was a full grown direwolf who’d lived longer in the wild than at Winterfell. Her golden gaze was not hostile. She did not see him as an enemy. Yet, there was no innocent trust in this wolf at all. He had the uncomfortable sensation that she knew what he was contemplating, and that she had resigned herself to it.

He gently put his hands to the rear leg and tried to flex it just a bit. The wolf yelped with pain, but did not snarl or snap.

“Selwyn is correct. You will never run as you once did, even if I can get you to Winterfell. Even if you survive.”

He shifted position then as his own injured leg had begun to pain him badly as he knelt in the snow. “We are quite a pair, Nymeria,” he told the animal softly.

She actually raised her head slightly at that, and gave a brief, quiet, mournful howl, never taking her gaze from his. Ned wondered suddenly if his daughter could feel the wolf’s pain now, if she could see through the wolf’s eyes--if she would see her father take his blade and . . .

“I cannot do this,” he whispered in despair. “Gods forgive me. I cannot do this again.”

“I will take the wolf to Winterfell.”

The words were spoken very quietly, but they caused Ned to jump. He turned to see the young man, Torrhen, standing behind him. _Torrhen--the boy who fears the howling of wolves._

“Torrhen,” Ned said softly. “Nymeria is too injured to . . .”

“To get anywhere on her own. I know,” the boy said hurriedly. “And you have to get to Winterfell quickly with the men. But I can take her. My horse is strong, and my father always said I was clever with my hands. I can make her a sled.”

“You cannot possibly ride from here to Winterfell alone, Torrhen. It isn’t safe.”

“It isn’t safe even with all the men, my lord,” the boy said, sounding more confident as he spoke. “You said yourself we’d have lost people if that wolf hadn’t given us warning. It’s your daughter’s wolf, isn’t it?”

The question took him by surprise. “It is,” he said.

The boy nodded. “It had to be hers because it’s a bitch. The others still left are all male.” He paused again. “I remember when the wolves first came to Winterfell--all six of them. It’s all any of us boys talked about. We’d go out in the woods and hunt for wolf pups, thinking that there might be more. It was foolish, but we were young then. And we all wanted wolves of our own.”

Ned almost smiled in spite of his heavy heart to think back on those days right after the pups had been found when they’d all been together at Winterfell, and the children had been caught up in the dual excitement of the wolf pups and the impending royal visit. He could see all of his children as they had been then, each of them with their pups. The joy of that memory was tainted, though, by the ever present knowledge that even if Jon successfully drove the Others from Winterfell, even if Catelyn and all the children there were whole and safe, he would never have all of his own pups together there again. Robb would never smile at him again.

“My father rode south with King Robb’s men. My older brother, too,” the boy said now, causing Ned to wonder if this Torrhen could read his thoughts. “Well, he wasn’t a king then, or even the lord really, because you were still alive then and . . .well, I mean you are still alive, but then we thought . . .”

“I know what you mean, Torrhen. Go on.”

“I begged my father to let me go, but he said I was too young. I told him I wasn’t even a whole year younger than Lord Robb, himself, but he wouldn’t change his mind.” Torrhen looked away then. “They both died. In the tents with the other soldiers at the Red Wedding.”

“I am sorry, Torrhen,” Ned said softly.

“I was sorry, too,” he said. “Sorry that my father and brother were gone. Sorry that the whole North was turned upside down. Sorry the Greyjoy took Winterfell while my mother had me and my little brother and sisters hidden away in some cottage. Sorry that I never once did anything for House Stark. Not one time. My family has served Winterfell for generations, my lord. And my father always took pride in that. And then there was no Winterfell except for Lord Bolton’s bastard. And no Starks at all. I was shamed by that. That I never did nothing about any of it.”

“Torrhen,” Ned said quietly. “You were a boy.”

“I was of an age with King Robb!” he insisted. “And then you came back. And there was hope again. Even with winter coming, there was hope. And I had hope of honor.” He looked at Ned with a pleading expression. “Please, my lord. Let me do this. You said yourself she’s a direwolf of House Stark. She deserves to go home. She deserves to be escorted there by one who serves House Stark.” The boy drew himself up to his full height. “And that’s what I am, my lord. Just like my father and my brother. I serve House Stark.”

Ned stood up then, slowly and awkwardly on account of the leg, and held his hand out to this young man. _Not a boy,_ Ned thought. _He does not speak the words of a boy._ “Your service is gratefully accepted, Torrhen. I can think of no man whose fealty to House Stark is greater.”

Torrhen smiled at him.

“But if we are to even consider this,” Ned continued, “we must plan carefully, for I shall not let you go entirely alone save for the wolf. Let us return to the others and see if there is a feasible way to provide you at least a small escort. I would not have you entirely defenseless.

“There will be others who want to come with me, my lord. I can name them.”

Ned had to smile at the youthful enthusiasm in his voice. “Very well.” Looking back down at the direwolf lying in the snow, he said, “We shall do our best for you, Nymeria, as you have done your best for us. Rest easy, brave girl.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Tyrion Lannister never liked being a dwarf, but he had reached a point in his life where he was well past actively despising the fact most of the time. However, as he climbed the last of the ridiculously steep and uneven steps to the top of a turret along Winterfell’s walls to start a third frigid night of doing such things repeatedly, he cursed his stunted legs far worse than he usually did.

There were noticeably fewer archers on the walls, but he could see quickly enough that there were virtually no archers among the wights that pressed in upon them from the darkness. The Winterfell men stood straight up in their various positions showing little fear. Tyrion thought that was rather foolish. If there was even one wight out there with a bow, they were making themselves very easy targets.

As he scanned the landscape below, he realized there were far fewer wights of any sort than there had been the previous two nights. Apparently, this afternoon’s body burning affair in the snowdrifts north of the castle had made an impact. He would be certain to share that piece of information with Lady Stark.

Unfortunately, there appeared to be no shortage of the white spectral Others, rushing against the walls throwing those shining ropes over the top. The men shooting from the walls knew their business well, and he watched plenty of the demons dissolve away as they were struck by arrows, but there were simply too many of them to hit them all.

He heard a loud shout nearby, and turned to his left to see a man falling into the frozen moat, apparently struck by the White Walker which now stood atop the walls. As it turned its blade toward a second man, a third man lunged into it from behind. The Other shimmered a moment, and then melted away. The man had obviously stabbed it with one of the dragonglass daggers, and Tyrion reached reflexively for his own, assuring himself it was still strapped to his waist.

As he peered over the wall into the moat, a flaming arrow lit the air, striking the fallen man. No one was waiting for him to rise up as a wight. Tyrion heard no screams as the fire began to engulf the body, and he hoped that meant the man truly had been dead before he’d been burned. As he watched the man burn, it struck him that he was standing atop the inner wall of Winterfell. The battle was scarcely joined, and a White Walker had already reached the inner wall. Undoubtedly, if it had occurred here, it was occurring elsewhere as well. Tyrion felt a cold dread as he realized there would undoubtedly be Others within the walls in an alarmingly short time at this rate.

Sighing heavily, he turned and made his way down the accursed stairs to go and give his first report to Lady Stark. The woman had been almost eerily calm when he spoke to her earlier. He didn’t know if resignation to her fate or simple exhaustion was responsible, but she hadn’t insulted him once that he recalled or even risen to the bait when he’d said anything less than respectful about her husband or the North. He found that nearly as concerning as White Walkers on the inner wall.

She’d only shown any real emotion when they’d discussed her taking the children somewhere presumably safer than the Great Keep. The only place she’d been able to come up with were the Stark crypts, which he understood went well below the ground. Apparently, her younger boys had hidden there when Theon Greyjoy had claimed they were dead, and then had survived the burning of Winterfell there. The idea had merit. _And if they do die, they’ll already be where dead Starks belong,_ he thought darkly. He wondered if he would have gotten a more emphatic reaction from Lady Stark had he voiced that particular thought out loud.

When he knocked at her chamber door, he was somewhat surprised when Lady Sansa answered. “Come in, Lord Tyrion,” she said in her usual quiet, courteous voice. “We are anxious to hear what you have to say.”

As he followed her into the room, he saw Catelyn Stark seated on her bed with the wild little boy curled up asleep beside her, half buried beneath the big, black direwolf that also lay on the bed. Seated beside her was her younger girl, holding tightly to an obsidian dagger. The crippled boy sat at the foot of the bed, leaning upon the grey direwolf curled up behind him. There was scarcely an inch of empty space visible on that bed, and Tyrion found himself wondering how it managed not to collapse beneath the combined weight of four people and two direwolves.

Sansa walked immediately to an empty chair and sat down. The chair beside hers was occupied by the girl whom Tyrion didn’t really know, the daughter of some dead Stark retainer. The skinny Pentoshi boy was standing by the window.

“The gang’s all here, I see,” he said, raising a brow at Lady Stark.

“My children were not in favor of going elsewhere this evening,” she said pointedly. “As it turns out, they had little interest in sleeping, either, although I tried to convince them to do otherwise. Please, my lord, share with us what news you have.”

Tyrion looked around at the assortment of young people once more. If she wanted him to speak to all of them, he’d speak to all of them. “There are far fewer wights than we’ve seen before,” he said, starting with the most positive news he had. “The operation this afternoon seems to have been a success.”

Catelyn Stark nodded. “That is good, at least. Pray continue.”

Tyrion sighed. He should have known the woman would realize wights were the least of their problems. “There are at least as many of the White Walkers. Your men are doing an admirable job shooting them, particularly as they are not being shot themselves in any great numbers by wights, but there are simply too many to shoot them all. Some have already made it to the inner wall.”

“Beyond it?”

“Not that I have seen. But I was only in one place, my lady. I cannot speak for what goes on along every foot of the walls.”

“Are there still men on the walls burning down their ropes?”

He sighed once more, and realized he was developing a headache. Whenever he had contemplated his last night among the living, he had never imagined it would be spent in a frozen castle delivering increasingly bad news to a woman who barely tolerated his existence.

“Yes, but they have gotten far better at tossing the ropes at difficult places to reach. Difficult for men, that is. The Walkers seem able to climb anything as long they’ve got their icy ropes to grip. And I fear we’ve lost far too many of our quick and clever sure-footed boys already.”

“You need boys who climb well?”

The words took Tyrion by surprise, and he turned from Lady Stark to find the speaker. The skinny Pentoshi boy had stepped forward from his place at the window. “You need good climbers?” he asked again. Tyrion had never heard the child speak before. His speech was good, if obviously accented.

“Well, we certainly could . . .”

“You are too young, Dak,” came Lady Stark’s voice, hard as steel. “You will remain here.”

“But I can help,” the boy protested.

“He can help!” the little she-wolf piped up, leaning over until she was almost in her mother’s face. “He climbs as well as Bran ever did. And he’s faster than Bran was . . .well, Bran was younger then.” She added the last almost apologetically.

“Dak is barely two and ten,” Lady Catelyn protested.

“How old are the other boys?” the child whose name was apparently Dak put in quickly. “Lord Tyrion, how old are the other boys you mentioned--the ones who’ve been climbing on the walls to cut these ropes?”

“Burn,” Tyrion said absently. “The ropes can’t seem to be cut. They burn them.” He looked at the determined expression on the boy’s face. “And I’d say most of the boys from the town who’ve been doing it are your age or a bit older.”

“Dak,” Lady Stark started again, but the boy came all the way to the side of the bed then.

“Lady Stark, please,” he said. “I know you think I’m too young, and if it were fighting men Lord Tyrion told us they needed, then I would agree. I’m not even as good as Arya with a sword, and I know it. But I can climb. I climb better than anyone I’ve ever known.” He took a big breath as if gathering himself to make a speech of some sort. “Before I came here, I always pretty much took care of myself. I mean, I had my mother, but she had to work most of the time, and I . . .I was always on my own. I know what it is to look after myself. You’re really the first person who ever tried to keep me from doing things--just because I’m young, I mean. The things I did for Lord Stark in Pentos were dangerous, and he didn’t like me doing them one bit, I know. But he let me. Because he needed them done, and he knew I could do it. I can do this, too, Lady Stark. Please let me help.”

Tyrion stared at this boy, a mere child, envious of his courage, of his naïve desire to do something to protect these people, of his long, strong legs which would scamper up walls when Tyrion’s own could barely manage a staircase. This boy shamed many men he had known.

“All right, Dak,” Lady Stark said quietly. Turning to Tyrion, she said, “You will arm him. He isn’t to go anywhere near the walls without a dragonglass blade.”

Tyrion nodded.

“I’m coming, too,” The younger Stark daughter was on her feet before the words were out of her mouth.

“No.” Lady Stark spoke only the single word.

“Mother, I can . . .”

“No.”

“How can you let Dak go and not . . .”

“Dak is not my daughter,” Lady Stark said, sitting up very straight and turning to look at the daughter in question.

“So, because he’s not yours, you don’t care about . . .”

“I said nothing about his not being mine, Arya,” Lady Stark said. “I said he is not my daughter. I sent your brother, Robb into battle more than once, and he most certainly was mine.” Her voice nearly broke on the word mine. “I have given my father, my brother, my husband, and my son over to battles time and time again. I will not give over my daughters as well.”

“You know I can fight! You let me have Needle. You had Lady Brienne continue my training.”

“I would not have you defenseless, Arya. But I will not have you out on those walls. It is not your place.”

“Not my place?” The girl looked daggers at her mother and then stalked off into the other room.

Catelyn Stark said nothing else, and although she continued to sit upright with a grimly determined expression on her face, she looked to Tyrion as if she were weary beyond all reason. No one else in the room moved, and the little boy in the bed unbelievably slept on.

Without giving himself a chance to think on it, he followed the girl. He found her staring out a window into the dark in the little sitting room.

“Lady Arya,” he said.

She didn’t turn around or acknowledge him in any way.

“Lady Arya, I would like a word with you, if you please.”

She did turn then and glared at him with Ned Stark’s eyes.

“What do you hope to accomplish out there, my lady? Do you climb as well as your Pentoshi friend?”

She said nothing.

“Or are you so skilled with that dagger in your hand that your presence on the wall will make more difference than that of all the soldiers out there?” 

"I am not afraid,” she spat out. “This is my home. I can help defend it.”

“Yes,” he said. “And in that room in there is your family. Who would you have defend them?” When she didn’t reply, he continued. “Your mother gave you that blade for a purpose, didn’t she? A White Walker came to the very entrance of this Keep last night. This night, far more of those creatures will breach the walls in spite of the efforts of your little friend or anyone else. And the chances of them actually getting into this Keep are quite high. If enough of them enter, it is likely they’ll overwhelm the guards your mother has set outside. Who would you have defend your family then? Your sister or friend there? Has either of them ever even held a blade? Mayhaps you count on your crippled brother to fend off the Others? Or the little one who sleeps curled beside his mother or the suckling babe? Your lady mother will certainly not hesitate to use a blade if necessary. I’ve seen her do it. But she has no particular skill with it and certainly no training. Would you leave her alone to take on whatever monsters come to this door?”

When she still said nothing, Tyrion shook his head in disgust. “I had hopes that a daughter of your parents would know better what battles are truly about. Only fools think battles are about glory and honor, my lady. Battles are about staying alive, and doing your damnedest to see that everyone you care about stays alive as well. If you are lucky enough to have anyone you care about.”

With that, he left her and walked back into the larger chamber where all the inhabitants continued to remind him of statuary, so little had they moved in his absence. “Come on, boy,” he said. “Let’s get you a knife and a torch.”

The boy looked almost startled at being addressed, but then turned toward the sitting room. “Arya,” he said.

Tyrion turned to see that the dark haired Stark daughter was returning to the larger room. “I’m staying here,” she said flatly. “Don’t do anything stupid like get killed.”

“I won’t,” he said.

 _You probably will,_ Tyrion thought sadly.

“Come here, Dak.” Tyrion turned back toward the bed to see that Lady Stark had risen and now stood beside it.

The boy went to her and made as if he were about to kneel, but the woman instead pulled him into a tight embrace. She said something into his ear that was too low for Tyrion to hear, but it obviously affected the boy. He looked alarmingly as if he were going to cry for a moment.

“I’m ready, Lord Tyrion,” he said then.

“Is there anything else you have to tell me, my lord?” Lady Stark asked then.

She looked so exhausted, he thought it likely he could knock her over by waving in her direction, but she still managed to be imposing as she stood there.

“No, my lady. There’s nothing more.” He looked around at the various children in the room and then back to her. “Here,” he said then, pulling out his obsidian dagger and offering it to her. “I think the mother wolf should have claws as well as her cub, don’t you?”

She snorted slightly as she took it from him. “I would hate to leave you unarmed, my lord.”

“I have to get a knife for the boy. I can get another one for myself as well.” He gave her a cynical smile. “That is one benefit to having too few men, you know. Weapons are much easier to come by, at least.”

“Whatever would I do, Lord Lannister, without you to remind me of our blessings?” she said sarcastically.

For no logical reason, as Tyrion Lannister left the Great Keep trailed by a Pentoshi boy who almost certainly would be killed in short order, he actually felt cheered a bit by Catelyn Stark’s having found the energy to mock him.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

_Tell me I haven’t done wrong, Ned. Tell me I haven’t done wrong by not forcing them to go into the crypts._

Catelyn Stark patted her infant son’s back gently as she walked back and forth with him. He’d been fretful after his last feed, and she thought it was no wonder with all of the commotion. There was nearly constant sound of battle from within the walls now, and once already, three Others had gained entrance to the Great Keep. They’d been dispatched, but at the cost of two soldiers, and only after a half dozen of the people sheltered on the first floor of the Great Keep had been killed.

Still worse was Lannister’s report that nearly a dozen of the white demons had come over the eastern wall nearly on top of the Great Hall. They had swept inside it and killed gods only knew how many people before they were finally destroyed. The very women and children Catelyn had demanded be taken there for safety had found no safety there after all.

Lannister had asked her to come with him into the corridor for that report as the children remained awake, and he had no wish to share such tidings with them. She was grateful for that. When she’d bid the dwarf farewell and come back into her room, however, she’d been met by grim faces. Arya’s, in particular, was ghostly pale.

“It’s Dak, isn’t it?” she’d said. “He’s dead.”

“No!” Catelyn had said quickly. In truth, Lannister hadn’t mentioned Dak at all, and in her shock and grief about the slaughter in the Great Hall, she’d not thought to ask about him. Likely, Lannister knew little about his welfare if the boy were scurrying along walls and rooftops. The dwarf could hardly follow him there. Still, she felt a pang of guilt about not asking. “He gave me no news of Dak, sweetling. And that is good news. Everyone knows the boy is like a brother to you. If he fell, someone would have word sent to us.”

She truthfully thought that given the state of things in the castle, very few people were the least bit concerned with keeping her informed of anything. The defenders were now in much more of a survival mode than following any organized plan of battle. But her words seemed to mollify Arya somewhat, and that was all she wished for at the moment.

“I should be able to help!” Bran had nearly shouted then, in a voice so unlike his usual quite tone that Jeyne Poole had actually yelped.

“Bran . . .”

“No! I could have helped once. No one knows the walls of Winterfell like I do, Mother. No one! And there was no place I couldn’t reach. But now Dak is out there, and I’m just a . . . useless broken boy!”

Arya had turned on her brother then. “You don’t have to be useless,” she spit at him. “Why don’t you see . . .if you can see,” she’d said to him. “Maybe you can see where they’re coming in . . .if you even try to look.”

“Arya!” Catelyn had hissed at her. “Don’t speak so to your brother!”

It was fear, she knew. Fear, and lack of sleep, and feeling completely helpless that had them all at each other’s throats. If this night went on much longer, she worried they’d truly be snarling and clawing at each other like a pack of wolves. Yet, the night had to go on longer. That was the only way to reach the daylight.

“You could at least try,” Arya had said then to Bran. “I don’t know what you’re afraid of. It can’t hurt anything.”

Bran had looked hurt then, and asked Sansa to bring him his chair. She’d helped him into it, and he’d wheeled himself into the other room. He hadn’t come back out since.

Arya had proceeded to pace the room like a caged animal, reminding Catelyn so much of her husband that she’d actually laughed, shocking the three girls. She’d told them stories of Ned then, starting with the way he’d nearly worn a groove in the floor the night before they’d taken the Eyrie, and then others as they asked her questions.

Interestingly, it was Arya who’d asked about the song. Catelyn knew it well enough. It had been sung in Winterfell since their return pretty much any time someone sat down with an instrument of any type. Arya wanted to know if the song were accurate, and so Catelyn had told them of that day in the Twins. _The day I came back to life,_ she thought. _When I realized he wasn’t a dream._

“So the song isn’t really true,” Arya had said when she finished. "It didn’t really happen like that.”

“It’s close enough!” Sansa had cried. “Either way, Father rode in through his enemies and got Mother away from them.”

Catelyn had to smile once more at how young Sansa sounded then. She sounded like the innocent girl who believed in songs. The girl who’d lived in a Winterfell which was unburned and untroubled by creatures from nightmares.

The shouting from outside increased in volume, and Catelyn watched the fear grow on all three of the young faces in front of her.

“Mama!” She’d turned to see Rickon sitting up in the bed, looking terrified. Whether he’d been frightened by the sounds outside or some evil dream, she couldn’t be certain, but she’d gone to him and held him. Three verses of “Silver Ribbons” had gotten him settled once more, but Shaggy remained awake beside him, green eyes resolutely staring at the door.

She’d convinced Sansa and Jeyne to lie down in her bed beside Rickon even though she suspected neither would sleep, and it was rather crowded for sleep with the direwolf there in any event.

Arya had walked to the window and stared out into the darkness. Brien had awakened fretful and hungry, and then remained fretful, so Catelyn found herself walking the floor with him. “Hush, my babe,” she soothed as she patted him. “You’re all right.”

He continued to thrash about in her arms, so she rocked back and forth as she walked and began to sing softly to him once more. He calmed slightly, so she began the song again immediately upon finishing it.

“Please, Mother,” Arya said crossly from her place at the window. “Between Rickon and Brien, you’ve sung that stupid song a million times tonight. Can’t you do something else?”

Knowing how worried Arya was for Dak, Catelyn bit back the angry response her own exhaustion tempted her to make. Instead she laid Brien in his cradle and offered silent thanks to the gods when he did not scream, walked to the window, and laid a hand on her daughter’s shoulder which Arya did not try to remove.

“Now you know in very small part how tired I got of this song when you were a babe, sweetling. If you think your brothers require too many repetitions, it is only because you do not remember your own infancy.”

Arya didn’t smile, but her scowl lessened slightly. “Father has said something about that before. Was I really so awful?”

“You were never awful, sweetling, but you were not the easiest of babes to settle. Your smiles were always so beautiful, though. I’d forget hours of your crying when you gave me one smile.”

“I’m not beautiful.”

“You are. And I am sorry if I ever made you feel you weren’t.”

“You’re beautiful. And Sansa. I’m Arya Horseface.”

“You’re Arya Stark. And you are beautiful. Especially when you smile. Especially to me.”

“Why?” Arya asked her, her face looking younger in her puzzlement.

“You look like your father, Arya,” Catelyn told her, cupping her cheeks in her hands.

Arya frowned, and Catelyn laughed. “Arya, child, your father’s smile is the most beautiful thing in all the world to me, and you have his smile exactly. Neither of you grants that smile frivolously, so when it appears, it’s like long awaited sunshine, and it warms me like the sun.”

“I wish the sun would shine now,” Arya muttered.

“So do I, sweetling. So do I.”

“I thought you hated my face,” she said, looking down and almost mumbling. “Because I look like Jon.”

Catelyn felt both bitterness and guilt stab her heart at her daughter’s words. “No, sweetling,” she whispered. “I will not deny that I wished Jon had any other face, but I would never have changed yours. Not ever.”

Arya was quiet then although Catelyn thought she had more she wished to say.

Before she could press, Bran suddenly cried out, and Catelyn ran to the other room, alarmed.

He was seated in his chair as he had been, but his eyes were wide and staring.

“Bran!” she cried. “What’s wrong?"

“Jon!” he said, and for a brief moment, Catelyn thought wildly that he, too, was about to question her about her feelings for her husband’s bastard turned nephew. “He’s coming.”

“What?” Arya asked, pushing past Catelyn to grab her brother’s arms. “Did you see him, Bran? Did you figure it out?”

“I . . .I don’t know what I did exactly, but I saw him, Arya.” He looked back up at Catelyn. “Jon is coming to Winterfell,” he said. “On a dragon.”

Catelyn felt hope and dread bloom within her together. “Where, Bran? Where is Jon Snow now?”

Bran shook his head. “I . . .I’m not sure. Close, I think. He’s definitely coming here.”

Catelyn bit her lower lip. If this were true, mayhaps they would survive the night. She had to find Deryk, though. He had to know what might be coming.

“Where are you going, Mother?” Arya asked her as she grabbed her cloak and gloves and the black dagger Lannister had left her.

“To speak with Deryk.”

“I’ll come . . .”

“You’ll stay here. Do not argue with me, child. I haven’t the time.”

Surprisingly, Arya was silent then. Sansa, however, was sitting up in the bed. “You can’t go out there, Mother. It sounds terrible.”

“I shall be careful,” she promised, “And I shall take men with me.”

“Is Bran all right? Why did he shout?”

“Ask him. Or Arya. I must go, Sansa. Open the door to no one until I return.”

The guards outside her door tried to stop her. “It’s not safe, my lady.”

“Nothing is safe at the moment. I shall be careful, and I shall not be long. Remain here whatever you may hear, and guard my children with your lives.”

She barely stayed to hear their “Yes, my lady” in response, hurrying to the stairs and then down them. She could hear numerous voices as she reached the first floor, and she saw the corridors on that floor were jammed with people. A line of soldiers blocked the bottom of the stairway.

“Let me through,” she demanded.

“Lady Stark!” one of them exclaimed in surprise, and immediately a dozen voices echoed it. “Lady Stark! Lady Stark!”

Catelyn looked about at the people calling out to her and realized that most were townspeople. “What is going on here?” she asked the soldier who’d spoken first.

“They rushed the Keep,” he said, “and demanded to be let in.”

“Where have they come from?”

“The Great Hall mostly, but some other buildings as well. They fled the Others. They know the Great Keep is guarded well.”

“They barely fit down here. If we’re sheltering people in corridors, allow some of them up to the other floors.”

“But my lady . . .”

“Put extra guards around my chambers if you feel it necessary, but let them up the stairs, and then if others have need to shelter here . . .”

“We cannot keep the Others out forever, my lady. Once the other buildings are abandoned, they will all come here.”

“It isn’t the Others I’m concerned with,” she said grimly, looking around at all the terrified faces straining to reach her, but held back by the soldiers.

She hadn’t attended the Great Tournament of Harrenhal. Her father had kept her and Lysa at home much to the disppointment of them both. But she had seen illustrations in books of Balerion, the Black Dread, as he ravaged the enormous castle. Ned had told her that having seen the castle himself, he believed the illustrations to be accurate.

“No one can be outdoors,” she said. “No one. You are to let anyone seeking shelter enter. Do you understand me?”

He looked at her as if she had lost her mind. Of course, he didn’t understand her. How could he? But she was the Lady of Winterfell, so he only said, “Yes, my lady.”

“I need to find Deryk. Give me a couple men to accompany me.”

“Out there? You can’t possibly go out there, my lady!”

“I can and I must,” she said.

He looked terribly unhappy about it, but he had his men push people aside and clear a path for her. She closed her ears to the pleas of “Lady Stark” as she passed. She had no time to speak with anyone. Their fate lay in the hands of Jon Snow now, she feared. _Hurry, Jon. We haven’t any time left._

At the door, the four men assigned to come with her looked grim as they opened the door and surrounded her. “Deryk remains on the wall to the north, my lady. They are coming over the thickest there.”

“The inner wall or the outer?”

“The inner wall. No one is on the outer wall anymore.”

“Duck down, my lady,” said another man. “You don’t want to be hit by stray arrows.”

It was only then that Catelyn looked up a the walls and realized more archers had their bows turned in to the courtyard than outward now. _They are shooting at Others already within the castle._

She could see them, scattered here and there, white spectral shapes moving far faster than the men who battled them. There were wights, too, she realized. With a start, she knew that these must be the bodies of men who had been killed here tonight. In the midst of this battle, no one had time to burn the dead.

She tried to close her eyes and ears to the terror around her, focusing on the backs of the two men in front of her and on her purpose in coming. None of the Others or wights came near them, and they reached the stairs of the turret without incident.

Deryk cried out in dismay when he saw her. “My lady! What folly is this? Get back to your chamber! I cannot protect you here.”

Catelyn looked quickly out beyond the castle walls and saw that for every Other in the courtyard, there appeared to be ten more still making their way toward the castle, and the efforts to repel them were rather feeble as the men were forced to concentrate on killing those already inside. _Hurry Jon._

“Jon Snow is coming here,” she said without preamble. “On a dragon.”

Deryk looked at her as if she spoke gibberish. “A dragon?” he said finally.

“A dragon,” she confirmed. “I have hope it can kill these things, but I know it can kill you or any other man. When the dragon is over Winterfell, every man must take shelter. Do you understand me?”

Deryk had seen the two dragons with Daenerys Targaryen so he knew well enough that dragons existed, but he couldn’t possibly understand how she knew one was coming here now. “I know this makes little sense to you, Deryk, and I can’t explain it now, but it is truth. The dragon will be here, and your men must be prepared to take shelter.”

He stared at her a moment. “Yes, my lady,” he said finally. “I will send word . . . .they’ll think me mad, but I will send word.”

“They’ll know you aren’t mad when they see the beast.” She looked out at the attackers still beyond the walls once more. “I would imagine the dragon would be set upon those first,” she said. _If indeed the dragon can be set upon anything. If it is truly_ _ruled by Jon Snow. If its fire can do what Ned hoped._ “If this comes to pass, Deryk, you must all get inside or burn with them.” _Men burned within the buildings at Harrenhal, leaving the stone twisted and deformed._ She shivered at the thought.

“I will do as you say, my lady. But you must get back inside now.”

She did not miss the urgency in his voice. Nor did she miss that two Others had been shot by arrows as they crested the wall not twenty feet from where she and Deryk stood talking. She nodded. “Take care, Deryk. Of yourself as well as others.”

Then she went down the stairs to be immediately surrounded by her four men once more as soon as she reached the bottom. There remained a good deal of chaos and battle in the courtyard, but there were fewer men than she expected. She wondered how many men and Others were already within the buildings, battling there. Dragonfire could certainly not rid the castle of any White Walkers there without burning all of Winterfell and its inhabitants to the ground.

She caught sight of two figures atop the wall setting torches to something. _The ropes,_ she thought. _Dak! I must find him. He_ _cannot be outside when the dragon comes._ But both of the figures she could see here were too large to be Dak. She had no idea how to find him and doubted that her escorts would take kindly to her searching the entire circumference of the walls.

As she was considering what she could do about Dak, one of the men behind her shouted suddenly, and she turned to see two spectral Others rising above him. One of them cut the man down before he could even raise his knife, but the other man behind her stabbed the demon with his dagger before the dead man’s body even hit the ground.

The second Other was staring at her. Just staring at her with cold blue eyes, and it reached out a hand as if to touch her. Without thought, she plunged the dagger which she’d held tightly in her hand since leaving her chamber, the dagger Tyrion Lannister had given her, into it. Her entire arm immediately felt numb from cold, and her fingers could scarcely continue to grip the blade, but she did not let it go as the creature dissolved in front of her.

She stood there, frozen by both cold and shock, and the men who stood with her seemed shocked as well, but the one who had killed the first Other finally put his hand on her arm. “Come, my lady, we must get you back into the Great Keep.”

She moved as if in a dream, propelled by the three men through the courtyard which seemed to have more others within it now even as it had fewer men. They were attacked once more as they walked quickly toward the Great Keep, and while all three of these Walkers were dispatched before they reached Catelyn, another of her guards fell.

They were running now, as much as Catelyn’s heavy skirts allowed her to run through the snow, but as they approached the Keep, she stopped suddenly, terrified by what she saw there. A group of soldiers stood pinned against the entrance, battling a much larger group of Others attempting to get inside the Keep.

“No!” she shouted. _My children. Why didn’t I force them to go into the crypts?_ “No!” she shouted again, and several of the Others turned to look toward the sound of her voice.

“Hush, my lady!” hissed one of the men with her as they saw one of the Others actually turn toward her.

“No!” Catelyn screamed, even loudly. “You cannot be here!” she shouted irrationally at the monsters attacking her home, seeking to reach all the people huddled terrified within the Great Keep, seeking to reach her children.

More of the creatures turned and came toward her and her escorts then. _Yes,_ she thought desperately. _Come this way. Come_ _after me._ “Come after me!” she shouted, pushing at the man behind her so that she could begin backing away. Thinking quickly, she turned toward the east wall, toward the little guard room she knew to be in the turret closest to the Keep. “Come after me!” she continued shouting toward the Others as she moved away.

To her satisfaction and terror, she saw that more of them had turned away from the Great Keep and moved toward her now. The two men remaining to her moved along with her, daggers held up ready to defend her. She felt a stab of guilt at leading these men to their deaths, but not enough to deter from leading as many of the Others away from her children as she could. _They are doing their duty,_ she told herself. _I told Robb as much of the men who died for him in the Whispering Wood._

“This way!” she shouted again, as she and her companions now led close to a dozen of the Others toward the east wall. They could sweep down upon them in an instant, she knew, and yet they moved no more quickly than she did, seeming to be in no hurry.

“It is a brave thing you do, but a deadly one, I fear, my lady,” said one of the men. “We cannot take this many of them. Get inside the guardroom and we shall do our best.”

He had divined her destination, she realized. The guardroom would offer her no real protection, in truth, but she owed it to these men she was sacrificing to give them some hope of succeeding in protecting her. She started to run ahead into the guardroom when nearly half of the Others pursuing them began to dissolve away.

 _Archers,_ she thought. _Archers firing from the top of the east wall._

Her two guards took the arrows as some sort of signal, throwing themselves at two of the remaining Others in such a surprisingly sudden change of direction that both Others were felled by their daggers.

“Go, my lady!” the one man shouted again, as the remaining Others closed in on them. “Get within the wall!”

She did turn and flee that time, looking back only once she stood within the entrance of the little stone room. She didn’t see either of her guards now, but she did see that only one Other remained now. Its blue eyes were fixed upon her as it came closer. _All save one. Those brave men dispatched all save one._

No arrow struck this one as it advance upon her. Catelyn stood very still, barely inside the guardroom, clutching her own dagger tightly in her hand. As the White Walker reached her and began to raise its blade, she couldn’t help taking a couple steps backward in fear, but when the creature was inside the room with her, she forced her self to leap forward extending the dagger as she did so.

She felt the dagger sink into the Other just as she felt the cold, white blade strike her. She thought of Ned. _I’m sorry, my love. I’ve failed us._

Her vision blurred, and she felt that she was falling. Intense pain and cold bloomed from her left shoulder and overcame any other sensation. As she fell backward against the stone wall of the little room, she thought for the briefest of moments that she saw the night sky suddenly blaze into light. Then, everything was black.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The dragon was exhausted. Jon feared he had pushed the beast too hard, even though he had stopped three times to allow Rhaegal to rest, and remained on the ground longer than he wished each time. Joined with the dragon as he was now, Jon felt the sting in its lungs with each breath and the deep ache of its muscles with every flap of the great wings. Still, the dragon flew on. Whether it understood what they were about to do, Jon couldn’t tell, But it knew that Jon’s need was great, and it didn’t falter in its attempts to reach their destination.

All through the long previous night, Jon had prayed that Winterfell stood. He’d cursed every league that lay between him and the castle and raged against the feeling of helplessness the distance caused. When the sun had finally risen, he’d prayed equally hard that his brothers and sisters lived to see it.

He’d driven Rhaegal far too hard during the daylight, hoping against hope, against all reason, to reach Winterfell before nightfall, and just before sunset, he’d been forced to land once more and allow the dragon to rest. He’d watched the sun sink in the west, knowing that darkness descended upon Winterfell as well, and he’d wanted to scream in frustration as the dragon slept in exhausted oblivion.

He hadn’t slept. He’d given Rhaegal two hours. Two hours that his brothers and sisters might not have. Two hours that might see his childhood home overrun by Others. He could give the dragon no more time. He’d roused Rhaegal and they’d taken flight again. Within another three hours, he knew they were close. Five hours of darkness. Mayhaps six, by the time he got there. Had Winterfell survived another six hours of darkness? Could it?

His own eyes were useless to him in the dark. The moon didn’t provide near enough light to allow him to recognize landmarks from this height, but he had Rhaegal’s sharp eyes, and those saw the land clearly enough for Jon to know they were close now. He trained those eyes on the southwest horizon, and actually shouted out loud when he saw tiny bursts of flame.

 _Arrows!_ Those could only be flaming arrows, and arrows meant Winterfell still fought. They were not yet defeated. The sight gave Jon a surge of energy that Rhaegal seemed to feel as well, for the dragon shot forward with a burst of speed such as it had not given for some time.

As they neared the castle, Jon’s heart filled with fear, for Rhaegal could clearly see Others surrounding it on all sides. Jon shouted then, and all but became one entirely with the dragon, roaring over the snow, diving lower as he went and streaming fire from his lungs long before it was close enough to actually hit the Others.

 _Let them know I am coming,_ he thought grimly.

By the time he was filling his enormous, hot lungs with another breath, he was nearly at the walls. He turned parallel to the north wall and rained fire down upon all the creatures below him. He didn’t pull up at all at the end of his fiery exhalation. He simply drew in more air and allowed the fire to build again as he flew, circling Winterfell and incinerating White Walkers on all sides of it.

He became gradually aware of shouting from within the castle, the shouts of men, and he tried to pull his mind back from Rhaegal’s enough to make sense of it. There were a few cheers, but mostly these were battle shouts. _Battle shouts?_

He whirled around and flew directly over the castle and could plainly see Others within the wall. Outraged, he actually began a dive to burn those when he realized that these Others were in close combat with the men of Winterfell. He couldn’t burn the Walkers without burning the men. He pulled himself even further from Rhaegal’s mind, not wanting to be unduly influenced by the dragon’s instinctive overwhelming desire to burn all the Others immediately.

He turned Rhaegal slightly upward and took note of one man standing atop the wall shouting orders. “Get inside!” he was shouting. “Disengage and get inside anywhere!”

 _Yes,_ Jon thought. _Listen to him._

Frustrated by his inability to attack the Others within the castle, Jon turned the dragon back to the perimeter where the remaining Walkers still seemed intent on breaching the walls. Rhaegal rained fire upon them once more, coming so close to the castle itself that Jon thought the outer walls would likely be blackened in places. On and on he flew, sending the fire downward. When there seemed to be no further attackers outside the walls, he once more flew over them. This time, he saw far fewer men, but there were fewer Others as well. He wondered if they’d been destroyed or had pursued the men into the buildings. He had no time.

With a prayer that most had heeded the shouting soldier’s warning, he swooped down into the courtyard of home and rained fire upon it. He saw the thatched roof of one small building catch fire, and he gritted his teeth. He caused Rhaegal to turn this way and that, seeking out what Others they could find, attempting to send just enough flame to destroy the enemy without burning any more buildings. It was a far more difficult thing than dealing with the Others outside the walls had been.

He was having more difficulty finding Others when he saw a man running toward him waving his arms.

 _Get out of the way, fool!_ he thought. He was still too much in Rhaegal’s mind to actually form the words with his own mouth.

“Stop!” the man was shouting. “Stop!” It was the soldier who’d been directing the men to go inside.

Jon struggled to find his way back into his own mind and truly attend to what the man was yelling. He caused Rhaegal to land in the center of the courtyard and felt the dragon’s fatigue as it sank into the snow.

“They’ve gone inside!” the man was yelling. “The fighting is within the buildings now! The dragon can’t help us there!”

Jon was drawing Long Claw even as he slid from Rhaegal’s back. “My family . . .” he managed to stutter.

“The Stark children are in the Great Keep,” the man said breathlessly. “It is secure for now. Lady Stark led a number of the Others away from it.”

_Lady Stark?_

“There are Others in the Great Hall, though! The Armory! The Guards Hall! Come!”

Jon had no time to spare any further thoughts for Catelyn Stark. He followed the man into the nearest building, and the next hour was spent in hand to hand combat throughout the various structures of Winterfell. The men here fought as bravely as any Jon had ever seen, and it made him proud. Nearly all seemed to be armed with obsidian daggers, so Lady Stark’s attempts to procure the weapons from any and all sources had apparently been successful.

None of those daggers was as deadly as Long Claw, however, and Jon swung the bastard blade with a vengeance at these demons who’d invaded his home. Finally, when it appeared the battle was truly won, he stood panting just outside the Great Hall with the soldier he’d fought beside throughout the battle.

“Lord Commander Snow,” the young man said. “You likely don’t remember me. My name is Deryk. I’m captain of the guard here . . .since . . .”

“Lady Brienne’s death,” Jon said quietly. “My father told me. He also told me Lady Stark had chosen well. I see that he was right.”

A pained look came over the man’s face at the mention of Lady Stark, but before Jon could ask him anything more, he heard his name shouted joyfully, and looked up to see Samwell Tarly coming out out of the Great Hall to greet him. “Sam!” he cried, embracing his old friend joyfully. “Thank the gods you’re all right.”

“Thank the gods you came. We wouldn’t have lasted much longer, Jon. We lost so many. So many.”

While the joy at seeing him still showed on Sam’s face, the grief etched beneath it was so deep that Jon could feel his despair. “I am thankful you were here for them, Sam.” He swallowed then, forcing himself to think as a battle commander rather than a friend glad of Sam’s survival or a brother eager to see his siblings. “The dead . . .” he said. “The Others are gone for now, but they may return. The dead must be burned.”

Sam nodded, obviously familiar with this task. “I’ll have the pyres lit,” he said grimly.

“That won’t be necessary,” Jon told him. “Just bring them to the courtyard. Rhaegal will do it. It’s quicker, Sam. And I should think no one wants this drawn out.”

Sam hesitated. “He won’t . . he won’t . . .eat them?”

“No,” Jon said. “Rhaegal knows not to eat the flesh of men. It is hungry, though. If there is any animal that might be fed to it?”

Sam nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

Jon clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I know you will. It is so good to see you, my friend. Now, I should like to see my brothers and sisters.”

Sam’s face fell.

“Are they not well?” Jon asked in a panic. “Deryk said they were safe.”

“They are well,” Sam said, his face looking more distraught than ever. “But they don’t know.”

“They don’t know what?” Suddenly, it struck Jon who else he had not yet seen. _Lady Stark led a number of Others away._ “Sam,” Jon said. “Where is my father’s wife? Where is the Lady Catelyn?”

Sam pressed his lips together and shook his head. “She came to the wall to tell Deryk of your coming.” Jon startled at that. How could Lady Stark have known of his coming? “When she and her guards got back to the Great Keep, it was besieged by Others. She began shouting at them, causing a number of them to follow her and her men instead. The defenders at the Keep were able to dispatch those who remained.”

“And Lady Stark?” Jon pressed.

“The men on the wall tried to shoot down their pursuers, but there were too many. The Others fell upon Lady Stark and her guards as they fled toward the east wall.

“Where is she, Sam?” Jon asked quietly. If he was going to be forced to burn his father’s wife, he would look upon her first. He would do that for his father.

“I . .I’m not sure. There hasn’t been time really to . . .the dragon came then, and we’ve all been inside.”

“You haven’t found her body?” Jon knew it was foolish to hope, but he turned and ran in the direction of the Great Keep anyway. _She knew I was coming,_ he thought. _Somehow, she knew she only had to keep them safe a bit longer. Where would she have gone?_

As he reached the entrance of the Great Keep and looked toward the east wall, he heard someone else shout his name, and he turned to see the boy Dak, filthy and bloody, but looking otherwise well enough, running toward him. “Is it true?” the boy shouted at him with tears running down his face. “Is it true? The men said that Lady Stark . . .” His voice broke as he reached Jon.

Jon put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “What do the men say, Dak?” he asked gently.

“That . . .that she led the Others there.” He pointed toward the little turret in the east wall, “And that they killed her!” The boy’s eyes were desolate.

Jon looked around the courtyard. Bodies were strewn everywhere, but he saw none with that distinctive long, red hair. The living were only just now beginning to emerge from the buildings in earnest.

“I don’t know where she is, Dak,” he said firmly. “But I intend to find her.”

He walked purposefully in the direction Dak had pointed, forcing himself to look at the face of every corpse that wasn’t obviously a soldier. There weren’t many of those. It appeared most of the women and children were in buildings. When he reached the turret, he saw the black dagger lying in the doorway. When he stepped into the doorway to pick it up, he saw her.

She lay on the floor bleeding from an apparent shoulder wound. _If she is bleeding, she is not dead,_ he told himself. Her head was against the wall, and he wondered if she’d struck it when she fell.

“Dak!” he shouted as he bent down to her. She didn’t move or make a sound at his touch, but she still breathed.

“Is she . . .” the boy’s breathless voice came from the doorway.

“She lives. Go get Samwell Tarly and have him come to her chambers. I’ll take her there.”

He scooped the limp woman up into his arms, and it occurred to him that this was likely the most he’d ever touched her.

“Lord Commander!” That was Deryk’s voice, and Jon felt a surge of gratitude to Winterfell’s Captain of the Guard for using his title just then. Carrying an unconscious Lady Catelyn Stark through the courtyard of Winterfell made him feel oddly out of place and uncertain of himself.

“She’s alive.”

“Gods be thanked!” the man breathed, relief evident on his face. “How badly is she hurt, though?”

“I’m not certain,” Jon told him, continuing determinedly toward the Great Keep. “She’s a blade wound in her shoulder, but I’m not certain if it’s blood loss or a blow to her head as she fell that keeps her from waking.”

“Shall I help you with her?” Deryk asked, coming toward him with his arms outstretched.

“I’ve got her,” Jon said tersely. He felt he needed to do this. He needed to take care of this woman--for his father, for his brothers and sisters. He almost laughed as he recalled she was the one who had told him they would always be those things to him when he’d bitterly denied it after learning the truth of his parentage.

He allowed Deryk to open the door to the Great Keep for him, and stopped dead. The corridors were crammed with people. Even the staircase leading upward toward her rooms had people on it. They all stared, but moved respectfully back as he carried her. At the top of the stairs, there was finally a vacant area near her door. Three men at arms stood at the top of the stairs, and two more outside the door itself. He was halfway between them when he heard her make a small sound, and he stopped.

“Lady Stark,” he said urgently, looking into her face. “Lady Catelyn, can you hear me?”

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open, at first unfocused and oblivious to anything around her. Then the blue gaze settled on his face, and a remarkable change came over her features. She smiled. She smiled at him, and Jon felt his heart clench in spite of himself. He’d seen that smile countless times as he grew up, for she’d smiled often--at Father, at each of his brothers and sisters. This particular smile so full of love and warmth had come easily to her face for them. And it was beautiful. Even now, with her scarred face pale and her blue eyes still filled with confusion, her smile was beautiful. And she was smiling at him. She’d never done that. Not once. Not in all the years of his childhood. He had prayed that she might smile at him when he was very small, and had been ashamed he’d prayed for that as he grew older. He was half ashamed now that it still seemed to matter to him.

“Lady Catelyn,” he whispered. “You’re all right. You’re safe.”

Her hand fluttered as if she wanted to reach up and touch his face, but hadn’t the strength. The smile grew wider, though, and tears came to her eyes. “Ned,” she whispered.

Jon realized the source of her joy then and tried very hard not to feel anything. “No,” he said. “I’m only Jon.”

Her eyes clouded over then, and she seemed to recognize him. “Jon,” she repeated, and the word held no joy at all. The smile left her face as she spoke his name, and her eyes closed once more.

As Jon carried her into her room to be swarmed by his brothers and sisters, he knew she must long for his father. He knew she was barely conscious and had meant no hurt to him at all. Yet, in spite of himself, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, the dragon-riding savior of Winterfell, felt for a brief moment like a five year old boy who wished only to have Lady Catelyn truly smile at him. Just once.


	66. Aftermath

Tyrion Lannister poured the wine until the glass wouldn’t hold another drop before putting it to his lips and drinking deeply. He felt vaguely guilty at having let himself into Eddard Stark’s solar uninvited, but he had known he’d find wine there. And he needed the wine after the events of this night. He needed it badly.

It was still dark outside, and yet no sounds of battle rang through the air. That fact alone was unbelievable enough. The memory of Rhaegal swooping down over the Others repeatedly as he rained fire upon them seemed even more unreal. For all his reading and childhood imaginings, for all that he’d seen Daenerys’s three dragons breathe fire before, Tyrion had never understood the true magnitude of a dragon’s fearsome power. That power had undoubtedly saved Winterfell this night, but that power terrified him all the same.

He took another big drink and thought of Catelyn Stark. He hadn’t seen her stabbing Others with the dagger he’d given her or leading them away from the Great Keep, but he was inclined to believe even the most outrageous stories being told about the castle. The woman would do anything to protect her children. He knew that well enough. He’d been told Jon Snow had found her alive and taken her to her room in the Great Keep. He had not laid eyes on her or her husband’s erstwhile bastard since the battle ended, and he found himself far more distressed than he’d have thought at the prospect she might not survive.

“Don’t you dare die now, you seven-times-damned she-wolf,” he muttered under his breath. “Not now.”

“Your concern for my father’s wife is touching, my lord. I doubt she’d appreciate that title, however.”

Tyrion looked up from his glass to see Jon Snow leaning against the side of the open doorway to the solar. “Lord Snow,” he said, lifting his glass.

Before he could say more, the boy, who seemed to have aged far more than three years since Tyrion had seen him last, walked into the room. “I must say I am surprised to find you in my lord father’s solar, Lannister.”

Tyrion raised his brows quizzically. “Surely no more surprised than I was to see Ned Stark’s bastard come flying through the night sky upon Rhaegal’s back?”

The boy didn’t even flinch at being called bastard the way he had that long ago night outside the Great Hall. “Starks are not dragonriders, my boy,” Tyrion pressed. “How is it you have traded your direwolf for one of Her Grace’s dragons?”

“A Snow is not a Stark,” the boy said without emotion. “And I am not a boy. Not anymore. As for my direwolf, Ghost remains as much a part of me as Rhaegal is.”

“Ah, but you would continue to call yourself Snow, then?”

“You told me yourself, Lord Tyrion, to never forget what I am, for the world will not. It was good counsel.”

“And yet you still do not seem to take it. Or did I not hear you refer to Eddard Stark as your father just now?”

“Eddard Stark is my father,” Jon Snow stated firmly. “However I may have come into this world. He has been a father to me all my life, and I have need of no other.”

Tyrion couldn’t help feeling a grudging respect for the boy’s words, but never the less he responded, “Except of course, at those times when you have need to ride a dragon into battle. Your other father’s blood is rather helpful then.”

The younger man glared at him, but made no response.

“Oh, come and sit and have some wine, Snow,” Tyrion said then. “No doubt you’ve earned it this night. The castle won’t fall down now if you take a moment to yourself.”

Still without speaking, Jon came and sat across from him, and it didn’t escape Tyrion’s attention that the boy avoided Eddard Stark’s chair just as he did. Only Lady Catelyn seemed comfortable sitting in her lord husband’s seat.

His thoughts brought back to her, he asked, “How is Lady Stark? Is she seriously hurt?”

Jon shook his head, accepting the glass of wine he was offered. “I don’t believe so. She hit her head against the wall when she fell. It appears she was struck by a Walker just as she used her own dagger on it. That’s the only possibility that fits what I found in the guardroom.”

“But she will recover? Neither her head wound nor the injury she took from the Other is potentially mortal?”

Jon shook his head again. “She hit her head fairly hard, but it would seem she’s been hit in the head even harder before, and she managed to survive it. She’s already been awake just briefly.” He frowned momentarily, and his face looked so much like Ned Stark’s it nearly startled Tyrion. “As to the stab wound in her shoulder--it’s the cold more than anything else that’s the problem there. Frostbite has already set in, and she’ll likely lose some of the skin around it, but the wound itself isn’t too deep.” He looked at Tyrion carefully. “Speaking of frostbite, Lady Stark’s wrist has the marks of it--but not as fresh.” He left the question unspoken.

“Two nights ago,” he said. “That’s the first night the Others came into Winterfell. The crippled boy’s wolf knew it was here, and she followed the wolf. The thing grabbed her by the wrist before the wolf and Deryk dispatched it.”

Jon nodded and was silent. After a moment, Tyrion asked him. “Is Rhaegal still in the courtyard?”

“It is.”

“Is that wise? Without you there to control him, I mean. Even for Daenerys, the dragons are often . . .”

“I am always with Rhaegal,” Jon said simply, causing a shiver to run down Tyrion’s spine. “It is perfectly fine in the courtyard. It is assisting in the burning of the dead, as a matter of fact.”

Now, there was another image to fuel Tyrion’s nightmares. “What of Queen Daenerys and the other two dragons?” he asked, not wishing to press the issue of Jon Snow’s relationship with Rhaegal at the moment. He feared contemplation of that would require a good bit more wine. “How do things stand north of here? Where is Lord Stark?”

“The queen and my lord father were well enough when I left them,” Jon sighed. “Daenerys stayed at Last Hearth with Drogon to be certain the Others were driven from there. Where she intends to go next, I do not know, but my father will come here. Once I know Winterfell is truly secure, Rhaegal and I will go north once more. No one has heard from the Karhold or from any number of camps along the line, and we must take the dragons to all of those places.”

Tyrion had meant to ask him why he did not mention Viserion, but his mention of the Karhold drove all other thoughts from his mind. “You have not heard from your Frey, then,” he said softly.

“Perwyn?” Jon asked with interest. “Have you heard from Perwyn here?”

Resigned to being the bearer of evil tidings, Tyrion sighed and nodded. Wordlessly, he climbed awkwardly from his chair and went to the drawer in the desk where he’d watched Catelyn Stark place the parchment after she’d given it to him to read earlier. He took the letter from its place there and handed it to Jon Snow.

He watched the boy’s face as he read the words written there. His years at the Wall had given him a bit of Ned Stark’s ability to keep his features expressionless, but he was not quite so adept at it as his putative father. The grief and guilt he felt was plain enough to Tyrion.

“I sent them there,” he whispered, when he’d finished reading, although Tyrion wasn’t certain he spoke to him. “I sent all of them there. Sigorn. Alys. Now Perwyn.”

“Ser Perwyn is likely well enough,” Tyrion said optimistically. “As for Lady Alys, the Karhold was her home, was it not? Where else would she have gone? And the Thenn was a wildling. You offered him something more and he took it. There’s no fault for anyone in that.”

Jon looked up sharply at him then. “You seem awfully well informed on my actions.”

Tyrion smiled. “I am an advisor to Her Grace, Daenerys Targaryen. It is my duty to be as informed as I can be. I ask questions, Jon. I always have.”

“Your mind is your weapon,” the boy said with the hint of a smile, although the heavy grief remained etched on his features.

“Indeed,” Tyrion told him. He remembered that conversation in the Wolfswood on the way to the Wall as well as Jon Snow did. He remembered, too, the book he had been reading. “And my reading on the subject of dragons certainly proved itself useful.”

As if in agreement, Rhaegal suddenly gave a cry from the courtyard which was easily heard in the solar, and Tyrion laughed. “You may be certain that Rhaegal is no threat here, but I doubt that most here in Winterfell share your confidence, especially if he continues to make sounds such as that.”

Now, Jon sighed. “I shall go down and see to it," he said, rising from the chair and setting the glass down on the desk. “And then I shall go back to Lady Stark’s room. My brothers and sisters need to be moved back to their own chambers, but they are loath to leave her.”

“Do you blame them?” Tyrion asked him. “She is their mother.”

“No,” the motherless boy said quietly. “I don’t blame them at all.”

It occurred to Tyrion that they were both motherless boys. Joanna Lannister and Lyanna Stark had each given her life bringing a son into the world. He thought that Lyanna Stark would be proud of her son this day, and he wondered what the Lady Joanna would think of hers. He looked at the wine glass Jon Snow had left on the desk and realized he hadn’t taken a single sip. As his own glass was nearly empty, he decided it was rather his duty not to let it go to waste.

With far too many things which needed to be planned for and thought about, Tyrion Lannister sat in Ned Stark’s solar sipping wine and contemplating mothers and children.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The sky was lightening by the time Jon Snow climbed down from the western wall of Winterfell, having watched Rhaegal fly into the Wolfswood, which meant it must be nearly midday. The dragon would be more comfortable away from the castle to sleep through the daylight hours, and the inhabitants of Winterfell would certainly be more comfortable for having it gone. While every man, woman, and child in the castle was grateful to the dragon for their salvation, they all feared it in equal measure to their gratitude. Jon couldn’t blame them for that.

There were no more dead bodies in Winterfell. Only ash. A tremendous pile of ash that Jon had ordered interred in the lichyard, although he’d said any survivor who wished to take any of the ashes might do so. He intended to ask his father about erecting a monument to all those lost in this battle in the lichyard, and he thought it likely his father would agree.

 _Who will erect a monument at the Karhold?_ he thought bitterly. _Who even knows the name or the number of the dead there?_ He had thought that little could make him feel worse than receiving word that Sigorn and all his men had perished, but the thought of Alys, brave Alys who had ridden alone to Castle Black to escape a dishonorable fate, hoping to find aid from the ‘last son of Eddard Stark’ broke his heart in ways he hadn’t thought it could still break. _I failed you, Alys. I was not quick enough._

“Lord Commander!”

Jon turned to see Deryk striding toward him across the courtyard. He paused to hear what he would say.

“The wounded and dead have all been counted, as far as we can count the dead, Lord Commander. For too many, we must rely upon families and friends to let us know who is missing.”

Jon nodded. “How many?” he asked.

Deryk looked grim. “In all the nights since the wights first came, we have lost over six hundred soldiers and townspeople combined, my lord. There are seventy-three wounded being cared for in the Great Hall, and at least that number with wounds minor enough that they are no longer kept in the Hall. Of those that remain there, at least ten are not expected to survive.”

 _Over six hundred people,_ Jon thought. The Great Hall, filled to capacity would seat only five hundred people, although he had seen it even close to that full only two or three times in his life. Likely the number of dead would climb even higher as more people were missed and more people came forward to report them. He put a hand on Deryk’s shoulder.

“You have done remarkably well here. I feared that Winterfell would not be able to hold out long enough for me to reach it with Rhaegal after I saw how many Others attacked north of Last Hearth. If they come again tonight, Rhaegal can make short work of them. I’ve sent it to sleep through the daylight in the woods, but it will return to me before sunset. We should likely have whatever archers remain to us on the walls in case any slip through the fire, but I cannot see any great loss of life occurring with the dragon here before any battle starts.”

Deryk nodded. “I’ve already ordered the arrows to be collected once more. Although . . .” he smiled ruefully and held up a misshapen black lump which Jon could not recognize. “This is apparently what happens to dragonglass arrowheads when they are struck by dragonfire. As we’ve hardly time to carve completely new arrows from these, I fear we’ll have to make do with whatever arrowheads your Rhaegal managed not to melt down.”

Jon took the black rock from Deryk’s hand. “I believe you’re right. But as long Rhaegal can do this, we shouldn’t need too many arrows.”

“No, my lord. We shouldn’t.”

“Get some rest, Deryk. There is nothing more which needs done now. Go and sleep.”

The Captain of the Guard nodded. “I will. And what of yourself, my lord?”

“I will, too. I need to go see Lady Stark and my brothers and sisters once more. I thought I’d see if Sam can leave the Hall and come with me to check on her.”

“No need,” Deryk answered. “Samwell went to see Lady Stark just a bit ago. He’s likely still in her rooms.”

Jon nodded his thanks and watched Deryk walk away before continuing on to the Great Keep. That man had proven himself invaluable to House Stark over the past few days. He would certainly speak of him to his father. Of course, Lady Stark would likely do that once she recovered. Whatever else Catelyn Tully Stark may or may not be, she was a woman who rewarded loyal service. _Unless, of course, such service is provided by her husband’s bastard._

Jon tried to push such thoughts from his mind, just as he tried to forget the smile that had transformed Lady Stark’s pale scarred face when she’d thought him to be his father earlier. The woman was nothing to him. She was important insomuch as she mattered to his father and his brothers and sisters. He hadn’t spent this much thought on her in years. It was only that she’d nearly died, that thousands of people across the North had died and were possibly still dying, and that he was more tired than he ever remembered being before. It wasn’t that he actually cared whom Catelyn Tully Stark smiled at.

He knocked on the door of her room and Arya’s voice bid him come in. He pushed the door open to see Lady Stark lying with closed eyes on her bed. Sam stood over her, attempting to examine her, but having to work around Rickon who was curled up beside her and apparently not interested in moving. The boy Dak sat in a chair close to the opposite side of the bed, and Arya walked the floor holding . . .an infant. _That’s right. Lady Stark had another babe. A boy. She named him for Lady Brienne._

“Jon!” Arya said happily at the sight of him. “Sam says Mother should wake up any time now!”

His little sister flung herself at him, holding the babe with only one arm now so she could throw the other around him, and he became alarmed.

“Arya!” he exclaimed. “Careful that you don’t drop it!”

“It?” she said incredulously, backing up enough to narrow her grey eyes at him. “Did you just call our brother an ‘it’?”

 _Our brother_. He sighed. “I’m sorry, Arya. I didn’t mean it like that. But you know he’s not truly my brother. He’s . . .”

“Stop being stupid. Of course, he’s your brother. Just like I’m your sister. I don’t care one bit about Aunt Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen.”

His eyes widened at that, and she laughed at him. “Father and Mother told us, Jon. Before Queen Daenerys got here. They didn’t want to because they said it was your place to tell if you wanted. But with all the dragon stuff, they were afraid people would figure it out, and we’d hear some other way.”

“Then you know I’m not really your brother,” Jon said, and it made him very sad.

“You’ve been telling me you’re not really my brother for a long time, and I never believed it then. What makes you think I believe it now?” She shook her head at him. “You really are stupid sometimes. Here, hold Brien.” She practically shoved the infant at him. “Go on. He even looks like us! Well, except he’s got blue eyes like Mother’s.”

Reluctantly, Jon took the child from Arya and held it in his arms. He pulled down at the babe’s wrappings with one hand and nearly gasped at what he saw. The little face staring back up at him, even scrunched up in relative displeasure at the moment, did bear a remarkable resemblance to his own. The eyes were certainly blue, as Arya had said, the pure bright blue of Lady Stark’s or Sansa’s, _or Robb’s_. But the rest of this child’s face was entirely Stark.

 _My brother,_ Jon thought. _Cousin, brother. What did it matter?_ “He’s beautiful,” Jon said.

“Of course, he is. He looks like us!” She stuck her tongue out at him, and Jon laughed.

The babe began to squirm and fret in his arms then. “I don’t think he much cares for me, though,” he said.

“That’s not it,” Arya said. “He’s hungry. I was just getting ready to take him to Letty. Mother hates that but it’s not like she can feed him at the moment.” She bit her lip. “She is going to be all right, though, Jon. I know she is.”

“Of course, she is, little sister,” Jon assured her. “Your mother has come through far too much to quit now.”

Arya grinned at him. “I’m glad you’re here, Jon. And not just because you saved all of us with your dragon!”

Jon gave the baby back to her, smiling. “Where are Sansa and Bran?” he asked.

“Sansa’s in our room, helping get Jeyne settled back in. I stayed to help with Brien. Bran’s asleep.” She nodded toward Lady Stark’s little sitting room, and Jon noticed there was a pallet laid on the floor. His younger brother’s auburn hair was visible above the covers. “Whatever he did last night to see you . . .it really seems to have worn him out.”

“See me?”

“Oh. Nobody’s told you yet? Bran could see you. On the dragon. He knew you were coming.”

 _That explains Deryk’s comments about Lady Stark’s warning him of my arrival_ , Jon thought. _But how could Bran have seen me?_ He stared at the sleeping boy and wondered just what abilities his brother had that no one yet suspected.

“Come on, Rickon!” Arya called then toward the bed. “You come with me and let Sam do his job.”

Jon watched as Rickon stubbornly stuck his lip out.

“Come on,” she said. “Jon will look out for Mother, and Dak’s here, and I know you want out of this room.”

Half reluctantly, the little boy scooted away from Lady Catelyn and jumped from the bed to join Arya. “Can we go see your dragon, Jon?” he asked. “If it’s your dragon it will be nice to us and not try to burn us up like the queen’s mean white dragon did to Mother and Sansa.”

Jon flinched involuntarily at the reminder that Viserion could easily have done to his sister and Lady Stark what it had done to Stannis Baratheon and Lord Royce. “No, little brother. Not today. Rhaegal had a busy night and is off sleeping. But maybe soon.”

The boy nodded acceptance of that answer, and he and Arya left the room.

“Is she truly recovering, Sam?” he asked once they were gone.

Samwell had his head down against Lady Stark’s chest now that Rickon had gone, and Jon knew he listened to her breathing and her heart. When he straightened up, he said, “She is. She could wake up at any time now, Jon. She isn’t going to feel very well, and I’m afraid we’ll have to tie her to her bed in order to ever get her to rest long enough to be truly healthy again, but there is no reason she won’t recover fully with time.”

He thought of the babe he had held a moment ago. “My father says Brien’s birth was difficult for her.”

“She should have died from it, Jon,” Sam said bluntly. “I’m not entirely certain how she managed not to. But she hasn’t been well since. She pushes too hard. She insists on doing more than she should.”

Jon couldn’t help but hear the admiration in his friend’s voice, and he tried not to let it bother him.

“I’ll make sure she stays in bed,” came a young voice, and Jon looked down to see that Dak had spoken. “She won’t listen to me, I know, but I’ll run and get whoever you tell me to if she tries to get up, Sam. I promise.”

Sam chuckled. “Well, Dak, for the present, you can report to me, but if the queen’s dragons were as successful to the north as Jon’s was here, I suspect Lord Stark is on his way home now, and you know he’ll order her to stay abed. She listens to him . . .”

“Sometimes,” Sam and Dak then said together, both bursting into laughter, and Jon felt decidedly left out of their merriment.

Sam must have noticed how quiet he was because he looked up at him then. “I have to go back down to the Great Hall now, Jon, but Dak can sit with Lady Catelyn. You needn’t stay.”

“I’ll stay a bit, Sam. Thank you.”

“You need to sleep some time, you know,” Sam told him softly as he moved past him to the door.

“I could say the same to you, my friend,” Jon replied, and Sam smiled tiredly.

“Thanks to you and that dragon, we all will get to sleep more easily soon.”

When Sam had gone, Jon moved to stand behind Dak. “You are quite devoted to Lady Stark, aren’t you, Dak?”

The Pentoshi boy shrugged. “She worries about me. She wants to keep me safe like she does her own children. She doesn’t have to worry about me, but she does anyway.”

“You have a mother, don’t you?” Jon asked.

“Yes. And my mother loves me. She’s always done her best to take care of me. It’s just . . .my mother and I . . .we lived in a different world. Everybody had to look out for themselves, you know? Even children had to know how to look after themselves. So she never bothered with keeping me home or telling me not to do things so much. She knew I was smart.”

“And Lady Stark doesn’t think you’re smart?”

“No! Lady Stark doesn’t think children should have to look out for themselves. It makes me crazy sometimes, and I think it makes Arya even crazier, but it’s not because she doesn’t think we’re smart enough or brave enough. She just thinks it’s her place to keep us safe rather than our own. And that’s . . .kind of nice.”

“You were out on the walls . . .during the battle. I’d say you took care of yourself rather well.”

Dak grinned at that. “I can climb faster than most people can run.” He looked back down at Lady Stark. “She didn’t want me to go, but she knew I could help. And before I went out, she said . . .she said . . .that I gave her back two of the most precious things in her life and that made me precious to her as well.” The boy’s voice sounded thick, and Jon realized he was trying not to cry.

Jon stared down at the face of the sleeping woman on the bed and wondered if there were anything he could have given to Lady Stark that would have made him precious to her. He doubted it. As he stared, he saw her face twitch and then her eyelids begin to flutter.

“Dak,” he said, stepping back quickly. “I think she might be waking up.” He stood well back behind Dak as he had no desire to be mistaken for Eddard Stark by her again.

“Lady Catelyn? Lady Catelyn, can you hear me?” the boy was saying.

“Ned,” she whispered softly, and Jon wondered if she would actually confuse Dak with her husband as well. “Ned, where are you?” she asked in a confused voice as she tried to get her eyes to focus.

“Lady Catelyn, it’s me. Dak.”

“Dak?” she turned toward the boy, and as her eyes began to focus on him, a smile split her face. “Oh, Dak, thank the Seven! I was so afraid for you out on those walls!” She bit her lip then, as if she were confused about something. “But, what happened? How am I here in my bed? I . . .” Jon watched her struggle for the memories that would not quite come to her. “Ned was here,” she whispered then. “I saw him, Dak. Where is he?”

“No, Lady Catelyn,” Dak said worriedly. “You couldn’t have seen Lord Eddard. He’s gone off to the north, remember?”

“I . . .I thought . . .Dragons!” she said suddenly. “Jon Snow is coming with his dragon! Get everyone inside! Not like Harrenhal. I don’t want . . .”

Her eyes were wide, and she looked to be on the edge of panic. Not knowing what else to do, Jon stepped forward. “It’s all right, Lady Stark,” he said. “I did come. And the Others are gone. Your children are safe.”

She stared at him for a long moment, and Jon feared she was seeing Eddard Stark again. “You came,” she said finally. “With the dragon? As Bran said you would?”

“With a big green dragon, Lady Catelyn!” Dak enthused. “You should’ve seen it. It flew in and burned up all the Others like they were nothing!”

Lady Stark had not taken her eyes off Jon even as Dak spoke. Those blue eyes seemed to become more and more lucid as she looked at him. “He wasn’t here, was he?” she finally asked, and Jon didn’t have to ask who she meant.

“No, my lady,” he said softly. “Only me.”

“Only you,” she repeated just as softly. “Only you and your dragon. Only the lives of all of us.”

He looked at her questioningly.

“We would not have lasted the night. You saved us, Jon Snow.” And then she smiled at him. It wasn’t the loving smile she’d given him when she’d thought him to be her husband or even the smile she’d given to Dak moments ago. This smile was simply grateful acknowledgement of what he had done. But it was real. And it was for him. And he found himself smiling back down at her.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

It had been three days since Jon Snow’s arrival on Rhaegal had put the Others to flight. They had returned the next night, but fled even more quickly as the dragonfire rained upon them from the moment of their arrival. Catelyn had been able to see the fire lighting up the sky only from the high windows of her bedchamber, but even with such a limited view, it had been impressive. She had wanted to keep all the children with her, but they had begged to be able to watch from the courtyard just outside the Keep, and when Jon had sworn to her he would not bring Rhaegal within the walls of Winterfell, she had relented after extracting promises that they would come back inside the instant any of their guards commanded it.

Of course, there had been no danger to them after all. There had been no danger to anyone as the dragon destroyed the White Walkers at will, and for the first time in too many nights, no one died within Winterfell’s walls. The night after that, no Others came at all. The walls were approached only by a small number of wights who seemed not to realize their masters had given up the battle. They were easily destroyed. Arya had told her Jon Snow didn’t even bother to ride the dragon out. He simply called to it however it was they called their beasts, and it came in and destroyed the wights before flying off into the woods again.

Arya was far more worried about her direwolf than dragons or Others at this point. She wouldn’t say much except that Nymeria was hurt and with men she didn’t know, but she thought they were moving toward Winterfell. Catelyn worried desperately about what it meant that Ned was not with the wolf, and Arya didn’t know. She wanted to ask Bran if he could see his father the way he’d seen Jon Snow and the dragon, but Bran had been so quiet and withdrawn since then, she didn’t want to cause him any distress. She’d even considered asking Jon Snow to fly out and search for him on the dragon, but who knows how far he would have to go, and the dragon was Winterfell’s defense. She couldn’t send it away. So, she prayed ceaselessly that Ned was safe wherever he was, and worried about him in silence.

She heard Brien stirring in his cradle. “Give him to me, Letty,” she ordered the maid who was always in her room unless one of the children was with her.

“I can feed him, milady, and let you rest some more.”

“Give me my son.” The words were harsher than she’d intended, but not being allowed out of her bed for three days had left Catelyn feeling very out of sorts.

As she propped herself up on cushions and then put Brien to her teat, she wondered when Lannister or Jon Snow would come to her again and was struck, not for the first time, by the irony of her present situation. She found herself thanking the gods for the bastard and the Imp for they brought her news and patiently answered all her questions more reliably than anyone else in the castle.

Of course, Jon was no bastard. She knew that, of course. Sometimes, she wondered if he actually knew that as he still had a habit of entering her chambers almost apologetically as if he had no right to be there. The boy had nothing to apologize for. He had never been the guilty party in the deception which had been so central to their lives for so long. _But I was not guilty either._

While Jon seemed overly concerned with not giving offense, the Lannister Imp took great pleasure in being as offensive as possible. Without the threat of imminent death hanging over them, the dwarf had become nearly insufferable, but at least he was never dull. As frustrated as she was by the weakness of her body, she actually appreciated the opportunity to at least exercise her wits by sparring with the spiteful little man, although she’d never give him the satisfaction of hearing her say so.

It had been light now for some time today, and she could see the daylight already fading through her window, for daylight was a fleeting thing in the North now. She knew that quite a few of the townspeople had planned to go back to the Winter Town during the daylight hours today, and she suspected that might be what kept both Jon and Lannister away longer than usual.

Her suspicions were confirmed when both men showed up at her door not long after sunset.

“Have you had a restful day, Lady Stark?” Lannister inquired cheerfully, knowing full well how she hated being confined to the bed.

“Quite. Now, what has been taking place in the castle today. I’ve heard from no one since sun-up,” she responded irritably.

“You hear that, Snow? The lady hasn’t received any news in the five minutes between sunup and sundown in this godsforsaken place. We’ve been remiss!”

“About three quarters of the townspeople went back to their homes today, my lady,” Jon Snow said, ignoring Lannister’s comment. “We’ve had men riding back and forth in escort all during the daylight hours.” He smiled then. “Bran rode out to the town once, on the horse he’d ridden to greet Lord Tyrion.”

Catelyn was horrified. No one had spoken to her of Bran’s riding out anywhere. That horse was not thoroughly trained to his particular needs. “Bran should not be riding all the way to Winter Town! Who allowed him to go?” she demanded.

“He’s the Stark in Winterfell, isn’t he?” Tyrion Lannister asked. “Whose permission does he need?”

“He is barely one and ten! And he has no use of his legs! He needs my permission!”

“I am sorry, Lady Stark,” Jon said then. “I was riding out and he asked to accompany me. He said he had a horse he had ridden out to greet Lord Lannister upon his arrival, and that he hadn’t been able to ride in a long time because of the Others. It’s been a fine, clear day, and I thought it might cheer him up. I never let him more than five feet from me.”

She glared at him, wanting to lash out at him, wanting to leave this bed to go and find Bran. He knew better than to do something like this without asking her. _He never asked you before he climbed the castle walls because he knew you’d tell him_ _no._ She closed her eyes and tried very hard to simply breathe. “Did it?” she asked finally.

“Did it what?”

“Did it cheer him up?” she snapped.

“I hadn’t seen him smile since I returned to Winterfell until today, my lady.”

“Bran was smiling?” Catelyn asked, thinking of her troubled, quiet boy.

“Grinning is more the word I’d use,” Lannister put in then. “I saw him when they rode back into the courtyard, and I don’t think the boy could stop grinning.”

Catelyn looked at both men. She couldn’t tell them she was pleased they had gone behind her back. She decided to simply take a deep breath and move on. “How are things in the town?"

“Well, it’s certainly roomy,” Lannister said.

Catelyn glared at the little man. That was vile even for him. The loss of life among the townspeople had been nearly as great as among the fighting men and it sickened her. Nearly seven hundred people had lost their lives. It was nothing to jape about.

He must have realized he’d gone too far when she didn’t make any verbal response for he cleared his throat and said, “It appears the Others aren’t much for looting. Once the people abandoned the town, they lost all interest in it. The buildings are pretty much as they left them except for a few nearest the castle that got a bit scorched when our boy here was doing his thing with the dragon.”

“You rode out as well?”

“With the very first group. You needn’t worry, my lady. My horse is perfectly well trained to my particular needs.” When Catelyn huffed, he grinned at her. “I had to get out of this castle. It’s a terrible thing to be so confined for such a long time.”

“I suggest you learn to hold that insolent tongue of yours, dwarf. I fear you amuse no one but yourself.”

“As I seek to amuse no one but myself, that suits me, my lady,” he said, still grinning.

She sighed. “Are they settled well? The townsfolk, I mean. Or as well as they can be settled after what they’ve been through?”

Jon spoke up then. “I believe so, Lady Stark. Many who remain in the castle are families who have someone still wounded enough to need Sam’s care. I think all of them wish to be back in their homes.”

She nodded. “What of the wounded?”

“Well, with the removal of so many townspeople, Samwell was able to move the remaining people under his care to the Guest House so the Great Hall can be used once more only for dining, my lady,” Tyrion Lannister volunteered. “And before you ask, there are forty-six people he is caring for in he Guest House, twenty-four of which are Winterfell men and twenty-two are from the town.”

Catelyn nodded. “No more deaths since yesterday?”

“Sam says he doesn’t think anyone else will die, my lady,” Jon said softly. “Although a good number of those left in his care will never be fully well again.”

“Any ravens?” Catelyn asked.

“No, my lady.”

“ I should think we’d hear from Last Hearth soon. If what you told us is true, Jon, Daenerys and her black dragon should have done there what you did here. Surely, the girl has some plan of action after that.”

“Her Grace will send a raven,” Lannister said confidently. “But not until she has cemented her plans. Remember she is surrounded by contentious Northmen. She likely has her hands full at the moment.”

“She likely is thanking the gods she is surrounded by Northmen rather than Lannisters,” Catelyn answered. “Although the deaths of Stannis Baratheon and Yohn Royce will certainly count against her with my husband’s bannermen.” Catelyn honestly didn’t know how she felt about Stannis being dead, although the manner of his death had horrified her. When Jon had told her about Yohn Royce, however, she had wept. To think of that gallant man who had helped them take the Eyrie and recover Sansa without hestitation and then ridden north to aid them in their struggles being gone caused her great pain. It did not seem possible that she would never again hear him wax poetic about her hair or eyes until he got Ned to react.

“She could hardly do more to atone for those than she has done,” Lannister countered.

Catelyn sighed. It irritated her that the dwarf had seemed more distressed at the destruction of the mad dragon than the loss of brave men. “In any event, it behooves us to simply tend to our wounded, repair what weapons need repairing and wait--to hear word from your queen, Lord Lannister, and for the arrival of my lord husband.”

“You are certain Lord Stark is coming here?” Lannister asked. “And not riding on to some other castle or keep that may be threatened?”

“Yes,” Catelyn and Jon said at the same time.

“Very well then,” Lannister said, cocking his head sideways. “If you have no further need of me, Lady Stark, I think I shall go prepare for the evening meal which rumor has it will actually be served in the Great Hall this evening.”

She nodded at him. When he looked up at Jon, however, she said, “Stay a moment, Jon. I would like to speak with you.”

Looking clearly irritated to be missing something, Tyrion Lannister took his leave, and Jon stood there looking at her expectantly.

“Don’t ever do that again,” she said simply. “What you did with Bran.”

“Never take him riding?”

“No. Never presume to give him permission to do anything. You are not the Lord of Winterfell.”

She saw something very like resentment move through his grey eyes. She honestly did not know Jon well, but his face was similar enough to her husband’s, and the gods knew she’d had enough experience reading Ned’s face.

“I do not say that to hurt you,” she said. “I say it because it is the truth. Whether you are Ned’s bastard son or Lyanna’s son with Rhaegar, trueborn or otherwise, Winterfell is not for you.”

“You know I am not your husband’s bastard!” he said angrily, and Catelyn was almost grateful for the anger as his determinedly formal and respectful attitude toward her since she’d awakened after the battle had been almost as wearing as the dwarf’s insolence.

“I know it,” she said softly. “But there will be others who never believe it. The truth, Jon, is that your parentage will be debated far and wide now, and there is nothing we can do to stop that. What you must do is make it clear that whatever your parentage, Winterfell is not meant for you. Taking charge of this castle while Ned is away and I am confined to my bed is hardly the way to do that.”

“I am not . . .I am only trying to help!”

“I know that,” she acknowledged, and he looked surprised to hear it. “But you have your fath . . .Lord Eddard’s face. When you stride around his castle giving instructions to his men and permission to his children they see Lord Eddard. Surely, you can see why this is a problem.”

He simply stared at her, his face frozen into an approximation of Ned’s ‘lord’s face’.

She sighed. “Bran is a cripple,” she said baldly. “He is intelligent, and kind, and has a power I don’t begin to understand. He will make a fine lord. But many men will look at him and see only a cripple. You are the image of Eddard Stark. You are whole and strong and good with a sword. And you saved Winterfell by riding in on a bloody dragon!”

“I don’t want Winterfell.”

“You lie no better than your fath . . .than your uncle.”

“I would never take Winterfell from Bran. No more than I would have taken it from Robb! Or from Sansa or Arya or Rickon or Brien! I would not do that! No matter what you believe of me!” Jon nearly shook with anger now.

“I believe you,” she told him, and she watched the shock appear on his face once more. “I don’t blame you for wanting Winterfell, Jon. You were raised here. You were given everything that Robb was given--or at least as close to it as your father could manage. Younger sons wish they could inherit. Even daughters sometimes wish they could be sons and take the homes they love as their own some day. Winterfell was ever your home, however devoutly I wished it to be otherwise. Why wouldn’t you wish to keep it?”

“Lady Stark . . .” he started.

“And I feared that desire once. I feared it a great deal. But I don’t anymore.”

“Because I am no son of Eddard Stark,” he said bitterly.

“Because since I have learned the truth about your birth, I have allowed myself to truly see you. In particular, to see you with my children. I believe you, Jon, when you say you would not take Winterfell from any of them. Whatever you may wish, you know it is not yours to take. He may not have sired you, but you have enough of Eddard Stark’s sense of honor to not take what is not yours. Especially from someone you love. And you do love my children, Jon. I know that.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?” he asked her after a moment.

“Because while I believe that you would never seek to take Winterfell from Bran, I still fear there are those who would wish to take it from him for you. Northmen follow strength, Jon. You know it as well as I.”

“Bran is strong,” Jon protested.

“He is,” Catelyn agreed, “But it is not a strength easily recognized by soldiers who live for the glory of victory on the field.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Give your instructions to Deryk. He can speak to the men and give them orders which come nominally from me until Lord Eddard’s return. Refer questions to me. I promise to stay in my room, but I am well enough to answer people. And do not presume to allow or forbid my children anything. Send them to me.”

“Very well. Is that all, Lady Stark?”

He was still angry with her. She could hear it in his voice. “I do not intend to ignore your counsel, Jon. You have obviously learned a great deal about leading men in your time with the Watch. I have relied upon you these past days and I am grateful for your assistance.”

He nodded once, and turned to go. “And Jon,” she called after him, causing him to turn back toward her. “If you think I am wrong about something, tell me. Privately, of course. But tell me.”

He stared at her as if unsure how to respond to that. “I would have told Bran no to the horseback ride to Winter Town,” she said softly. “I would have been wrong.”

He didn’t smile, but his expression did soften slightly. “Yes, my lady,” he said formally, but not as coldly as his voice had been a moment ago. He walked to the door then, but stopped. “You were right, you know,” he said, without turning around. “In the godswood. You told me Eddard Stark would always be my father. It likely doesn’t please you, but you were right.”

He left before she could respond to that, and she lay back on the cushions and closed her eyes. _It likely doesn’t please you._ Nothing about the situation had ever pleased her. But having the boy acknowledge that he still considered Ned his father didn’t displease her, either. It would give Ned some peace, at least. As for her own peace, she would have to find that in the fact that Jon Snow did consider her husband and children to be his own family--a family he would protect rather than harm. _He even_ _named Brien,_ she thought with a small smile, when he’d likely spent less than an hour total with the babe in his life.

She was tired. It frustrated her to no end that she tired so easily from simply lying abed all day. Sam told her that was from her head injury combined with her weakened state before the injury. Whatever the cause, she needed it to go away. She needed her strength. She needed to move about the castle. She needed to spend time with her children outside this room. She needed to be seen as the ruler of Winterfell in Ned’s absence rather than Jon Snow. She needed Ned to come home. She prayed once more for his safe and quick return. _I need you, my love. I am trying, but I fear I am not managing it all as well as I should. I need you here._

With her husband’s name on her lips like a prayer, the Lady of Winterfell allowed herself to fall into slumber.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark’s leg throbbed. He knew it was swollen and red all around the area of the stab wound. He’d looked at it once two days ago. Whether it was better or worse now, he could not say. He’d grown so accustomed to the throbbing pain, he almost didn’t feel it except when mounting or dismounting from his horse. He cared for nothing except getting to Winterfell.

They’d been attacked twice more and managed to fend off the Others and wights both times, although not without losses. Ned had been particularly dismayed by the loss of Selwyn. The older man had practically thrown himself onto the blade of an Other who was coming at Ned, and that sacrifice had undoubtedly saved his life. Ned mourned the old man bitterly, but overall he had to be grateful the attacks had not been worse. In truth, they reminded him of the earlier attacks he’d faced north of the Wall, with mostly wights and a few isolated Others. He didn’t know what that meant, but each attack made him that much more desperate to reach his family.

“My lord!”

Ned reined up as the rider approached him.

“We likely have no more than an hour of daylight left. It’s possible we’ll reach Winterfell after dark. If it is still under attack . . .”

“It is not still under attack,” Ned said grimly. “They are either victorious or they have been defeated, but the battle will have been decided by now.”

The soldier nodded. “You wish to press on then? Even if it means arriving in the dark?”

“I wish to be there now. As that is not possible, I wish to be there as quickly as I can. We ride hard, and we may even make it by sunset.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Ned kicked his own mount, and his leg protested the movement mightily. As always, when a particularly bad pain struck his leg, his thoughts went to Arya’s direwolf. He prayed that young Torrhen and his four companions, all rather young men themselves, were making their way safely along with the injured Nymeria. He feared the fairly small attacks his party had seen could prove fatal to the much smaller group of men and prayed they had somehow escaped detection.

His thoughts quickly went back to Winterfell, however. He needed his wife and his children. He needed to hold them and know they were safe. He rode forward with haste, fear, and hope battling within him as the horse’s hooves pounded the snow. He knew the land here as well as he knew his own hand, and he knew that just over the next rise, the walls of Winterfell would be visible.

When he crested that rise and saw his castle, he nearly wept for joy, and a very short time later, when he heard a horn sound from the gate as the sun was sinking in the west, he let out a joyous shout which was echoed by all the men who rode with him. It took great restraint not to take this last part of the journey at a full gallop, but the horses were exhausted, and besides, the greater the speed of the horse, the more he felt it in his leg. Catelyn would kill him if he couldn’t stand when he dismounted in the courtyard.

After what seemed an interminably long time to Ned, he found himself riding through Winterfell’s gates to a great cheering just at the last light of the day. He could see his family lined up before him. Jon was there, beside Catelyn . . .no, Sansa. He had nearly mistaken his daughter for his wife in this light. Bran was easily spotted in his chair, and there were Arya and Rickon on either side of him. He even recognized Dak there behind Rickon as he drew closer. And Tyrion Lannister. So the Imp remained at Winterfell. Where was Cat? He didn’t see her anywhere.

He took his eyes from the waiting group to scan the rest of the courtyard. Where else could she be? He still did not see her.

“Welcome home, Father!” Sansa called joyfully. She looked so happy. Surely nothing could be wrong. He tried to smile at his beautiful daughter. So like her mother. Where was her mother?

Rickon was bouncing up and down now, crying out, “Father! Father!” but he didn’t run forward. As Ned dismounted, grimacing against the pain in his leg, he realized that was because Dak had a tight grip on the younger boy’s cloak.

Ned smiled in spite of his growing worry. “Come here, my son!” he called, opening his arms.

Dak let go of Rickon, and the boy sprinted into Ned, nearly knocking him over, but Ned found the pain in his leg didn’t bother him at all as he closed his arms around his son--a son he’d once feared lost and then feared would never learn to love and trust him again. “Father, Father! I saw Jon ride his dragon! Rhaegal is green and really big and he breathes fire and . . .”

“Father, we’ve missed you so much!” That was Sansa, for all the children were around him now, and he found himself trying to embrace entirely too many people at once.

“Jon saved us!” Arya was shouting fiercely. “He killed all of the Others and wights. They’re afraid to come back here now!”

Ned could barely speak as the girls and Rickon clung to him. He pulled their arms off him enough to turn to Bran. His chair would not go well in the snowy courtyard, so Jon had picked him up and carried him toward Ned when his siblings rushed forward. Now, Ned reached out his own arms for the son who, in truth, was growing much too large for him to hold this way, and Jon gave Bran to him.

“I tried to be brave, Father. I tried very hard to be brave while you were gone,” Bran whispered against his ear.

“I’ve no doubt you were, my son,” Ned answered him, finally finding his voice again. Then, meeting Jon’s eyes, he croaked out, “Where is she?”

Jon didn’t need to ask who ‘she’ was. “In her chambers, Father. She is all right. She awaits you there.”

 _In her chambers?_ Catelyn would not be awaiting him in her chambers if she was all right. He knew her better than that.

Jon must have seen the distress on his face because he quickly added, “Truly, Father. Your wife will be fine. She is anxious to see you.”

 _Will be fine._ _What has happened here?_ He tried to allow Jon’s words to ease his worry enough to attend to the myriad questions and exclamations still coming from his children and to give a moment’s acknowledgement to Jon himself.

“It would seem you arrived in time,” he said, hoping Jon could hear the pride and gratitude in his voice.

“Just barely,” Jon said tersely. “The battle here had been hard fought for days. I fear it was costly.”

 _Costly. Catelyn._ “I need to see Catelyn.”

“Oh, yes!” Sansa exclaimed. “Greet the others quickly, and let’s go up to her room. She’s furious with Sam. He stayed there with her for fear she’d try and come down if left her alone!”

“But why can’t she . . .” Ned started to ask.

“She was so brave, Father! She saved us, too. Before Jon even got here, she . . .”

Arya’s tale was cut off by a voice coming from somewhere below Ned, and he looked down to see that Tyrion Lannister had approached him. “Lord Stark, I am pleased to see that you have returned to Winterfell safely, and I look forward to speaking with you regarding our queen and events to the north. Yet, at present, I would suggest you take yourself to your lady wife.”

Ned had not laid eyes on Tyrion Lannister since the royal visit to Winterfell, and much had happened in the intervening years, but the Imp’s face had the same half-mocking expression he remembered so well. “Do you believe my wife to be in distress, Lord Lannister?” he asked coldly, half afraid that it was true.

“I believe she will be distressed if you do not appear before her very soon, and experience causes me to fear she might find some way to blame your tardiness upon me. Having been on the receiving end of your wife’s ire more times than I care to recall, I’ve no wish for that to occur.”

The little man grinned and bowed theatrically, and Jon reached out to take Bran from him once more. Thoroughly confused and too worried about Catelyn to even respond to the dwarf‘s discourtesy, Ned began to walk toward the Great Keep when a boy’s voice called out in dismay, “Your leg, milord! You’ve hurt it again!”

 _Dak._ The boy had hung back, respectful of Ned’s children, but he stood there with such concern in his face that Ned turned to go to him. “It’s nothing, young Dak,” he said, running a hand through the boy’s hair. “Sam will fix me up, and it won’t take nearly so long as it did in Pentos.”

The boy nodded and smiled up at him. “I am glad you are home, milord. Lady Catelyn is very brave, but she will be glad to see you.”

 _Lady Catelyn is very brave. She was so brave, Father. She saved us._ He swore under his breath. _What the devil had the damned,_ _stubborn woman done now?_ He recalled much too clearly the way she’d goaded Hosteen Frey into hitting her and the way she’d looked when he’d found her after that battle, covered in blood, barely able to stand on her own power, and still holding a dagger to Barbrey Ryswell--after having plunged another dagger into Roose Bolton. _The damned woman is determined to get_ _herself killed!_

He found himself nearly running then, or as close to running as the leg allowed, for he knew it was likely a bit worse than he’d indicated to Dak. The stairs of the Keep were almost unbearable, but Catelyn was at the top of them, so he had no option but to climb them. When at last he found himself outside the door of her chambers, he flung it open without knocking.

“Cat!”

She was sitting up on her bed, propped against pillows, looking somewhat pale, but otherwise whole and well, and indescribably beautiful to him. His breath caught in his throat, and he found himself unable to speak more or even move as he stared at her, looking upon her face after far too many hours of desperate fear and unbearable longing.

“Ned,” she gasped, and her blue eyes filled with tears. “Thank the gods you are home, my love!”

She held her arms out to him, and he remembered how to walk again. With a few strides, he had reached the bed and sat down upon it to take her in his arms. Then they simply clung to each other for a few moments in silence, and he felt the moisture from her eyes against his neck. He moved his hands to her face then, turning it up to kiss first those damp eyelids and then her mouth, tenderly but with all the feeling he couldn’t quite put into words.

She put her own hand to his face then, and gently broke the kiss. “You’re hurt,” she said with concern. “Your leg . . .”

“Damn my leg,” he interrupted her. “What have you done to put yourself back in this bed?” He grabbed the hand she held against his cheek and held it out in front of him, surveying the abnormally whitened skin with bluish blotches at the wrist. “This is frostbite, Cat. I know its appearance well enough. What has happened here?”

“Others,” she said simply.

“The Lady Catelyn’s wrist is healing well, my lord,” came a stammering voice from the side of the room, and Ned looked up to see Samwell Tarly, blushing furiously and trying to make his considerable bulk as small as possible against the wall of the room. When Ned looked at him, he did step forward slightly, however, and continued. “That injury is only skin deep, and while it may leave a bit of a mark, it won’t cause any lasting damage . . .my lord.”

“How did it occur?” Ned asked, still looking at Samwell, although he hadn’t let go of Catelyn’s hand.

“The same way you got the marks on your ankles,” she snapped at him, and he looked back toward her. “One of those things grabbed me. Bran’s wolf leapt at it, and then Deryk dispatched it before it could do me real harm.”

“A White Walker,” Ned breathed. “Here? In the Great Keep?” The image of one of those dreadful creatures walking the halls of his home and even worse, touching his wife’s tender flesh, filled him with rage.

“Gods, no!” she exclaimed. “This is one building they never made it into. Never past the entryway. No, the one who grabbed my wrist was near the godswood.”

“And what in bloody hell were you doing near the godswood in the dark?” The fear and rage threatened to overwhelm him now, and he found himself nearly as angry at her for being so reckless as with the monsters for attacking his castle.

She tightened her jaw and looked at him a moment. “Leave us, Sam,” she said then, without looking away from Ned.

Ned could feel the hesitation in the younger man’s response, “If you wish, my lady.” _Gods, does he think I’m going to hurt her?_

Ned forced himself to let go of Catelyn’s hand and turn once more toward Tarly. “We both wish it, Sam. We have much to discuss and would prefer some privacy.” He forced a calmness into his voice which he did not feel. No doubt Catelyn could hear the strain, but Sam looked reassured.

“I shall tell the children to give you some time, then,” he said, and started toward the door.

“Sam,” Catelyn called out to him. “Give us no more than half an hour and then return to have a look at Lord Stark’s leg.” Before Ned could say anything, Catelyn put her hand back on his face. “I will tell you everything of my injuries, which have all been well tended. I would then have your own injury tended. Do not argue with me, Eddard Stark.”

In spite of his anger and concern for her, he nearly smiled. “Tullys,” he muttered under his breath. “Half an hour, Sam,” he said more loudly without turning around.

“Yes, my lord,” Sam said quickly, and Ned heard him leave the room, closing the door behind him.

“Now, my lady, you were telling me how you came to be in the godswood at night while Others assaulted our castle.”

She frowned at him. “I wasn’t in the godswood. I’d been up on the walls to . . .” Ned swore involuntarily and grabbed her once more as if to keep her from running into battle at this moment. “Oh, stop it, Ned. I was only there briefly to see what precisely the attackers were doing and how we were defending it. Lord Lannister was with me.” Ned snorted at that that. He didn’t see the dwarf as much protection. “Summer was with me, too, but I’d left him at the foot of the stairs. He started howling, and I knew something was wrong. He wanted me to follow, and I did. I ordered men to follow as well. He stopped outside a gate into the godswood, and as I was telling Deryk to send men into the godswood, one of those things appeared and grabbed me. It was killed very quickly, Ned.” She looked down then. “The dragonglass daggers work.”

“I know,” he said darkly. “This would hardly keep you abed, my love,” he said then, indicating her wrist once more.

“No,” she sighed. “This happened on the first night.”

“The first night?”

“The Others assaulted us nightly, Ned. Jon and his dragon arrived on the third night. Had he not come when he did . . .” Her voice trailed off, and Ned felt a tremble run through her.

“Thank the gods he did come,” he whispered. “Three nights.” He swallowed. “How many were lost were, Cat?”

“Between six and seven hundred. That’s our men and the townspeople.”

Ned swore again, this time rising from the bed and stomping in anger only to nearly fall down from the pain in his leg.

“Sit down, my love,” she said quietly.

“I should have been here.”

“You couldn’t be here. You had to do what you did. And I had to do what I did.”

He looked at her, realizing that she dreaded telling him whatever she had to tell him, and that made him dread hearing it even more.

“I did stay in the Keep, Ned. I kept all the children, Dak and Jeyne included, here in my chambers. Lord Tyrion brought me news and took messages to Deryk and the other captains for me.” Ned nodded. This sounded sensible enough, although he might question the use of Lannister in any role. “I did go out a few times, with ample guards, to see the wounded in the Great Hall, and just to let the men see me--never on the walls. And I always returned safely.”

He didn’t like that very much, but he understood why she had done it. He forced himself to simply listen as she continued.

“We knew it was very unlikely we could last another night, Ned.” Her voice trembled. “I never gave up, you know, but I had to accept that . . .” She looked down and shook her head, long auburn tresses falling forward to hide her face. “And then I got that letter from Perwyn Frey.”

“Letter?” Ned asked.

She looked back up at him sadly. “I’ll show it to you. He made it to the Karhold, but there was no one there, my love. They were all gone as if they had never been.”

Ned couldn’t breathe. If Jon hadn’t come on the dragon when he did . . .He couldn’t breathe. He grabbed Catelyn then and held her tightly against him, unable to speak a word as images of an empty Winterfell filled his mind. He traveled back in time to when he’d believed Catelyn dead and all his children with her. He couldn’t breathe.

“I’m right here. I’m fine, Ned. The children are fine. We are all here together.” He gradually became aware of her murmuring those words over and over to him. He also became aware of a bandage beneath her dress over her left upper back and shoulder.

He pulled back from her. “What happened on that last night, my lady? Before Jon’s arrival.”

She looked at him. “We didn’t have enough men. More and more of the Others breached our walls and came into the castle. They killed a good many people sheltered in the Great Hall. Everyone who could fight, fought. Our men are brave, my lord, so brave. Even little Dak went out and climbed upon the walls to burn the ice ropes.”

“Ice ropes?”

She waved away his question. It could wait. “I was here with the children. We had guards outside the door, and Arya and I both had dragonglass.” Ned startled at that. “We would never have given up without a fight, my love,” she said fiercely, sounding for all the world like Arya herself. “But then Bran saw Jon on the dragon, and I knew we had hope. Real hope.”

“Saw Jon?”

“Greensight,” she said. “Ask Bran about it. I don’t understand it. Although I’m not sure he does, either. But I had to warn Deryk and the men. I couldn’t let them all be burned with the Others.”

She paused.

“Tell me, Catelyn.”

She looked at him for a long moment, and then she did. She told him all of it, and he made himself be silent for the telling. When she had finished, he was shaking, and he wondered, not for the first time, how it was possible to want to both protect and throttle a person at the same time.

“You could have been killed! It’s a miracle you were not! What, by all the gods, were you thinking, Catelyn?”

“I was thinking I’d have my children alive rather than dead!” she shouted at him. “I was not giving my children to those demons when help was so close, Ned! I couldn’t do that!”

“Catelyn . . .”

She shook her head. “Don’t you dare tell me I cannot risk myself, Eddard Stark. I know what it feels like to have you and all my children gone. I will not go there again, and any risk is worth preventing it.”

He looked at her, this woman who would lay down her own life or take the life of another in defense of their children. Who would do the same for him, although he’d prevent her from it if he could. “Would that I had never brought you to such a place,” he said finally.

“Oh, my love,” she said, “You are not responsible for the White Walkers or the winter.” She waved her hands to stop him before he could name all the things he was responsible for. “Oh, you have committed your sins, Ned, and so have I, but we have more than paid for them. Robb was too high a price. I will not pay any more.”

She opened her arms to him again then, and he went into them willingly, holding her close and breathing in the scent of her, thanking the gods for every beat of her heart, for every safe and healthy child who had greeted him in the courtyard. _I will not pay any more, either._

Suddenly, he realized he had not seen all his children. “Where is Brien?” he said, holding her back far enough to look at her.

“Letty has him. The children will bring him when they come.” She raised one corner of her mouth and tilted her head. “I was afraid you might need to shout at me a bit, and I didn’t want you to frighten your son.”

He chuckled softly, and pulled her to him once more. “You know me well, my Cat.”

“I should. I’ve been wed to you half my life now.”

“And I thank the gods for that.” He pressed his lips to hers once more and felt the last of his anger melt away in the warmth of her touch. Gods, he wanted her, and he cursed himself for it. After Brien, after these new injuries, she could not be used so, and he should have better self control.

“Cat,” he said against her lips, trying to break the kiss, but she only used his open lips as an excuse to slide her tongue against his and moan as she pressed her body more tightly against him. Just as he was about to forget himself entirely and lay her down on the bed, a loud knock came at the door.

“Who is it?” he growled, pulling himself back from her, panting.

“Sam,” came the tentative reply. “I’ve come to see to your leg, my lord.”

“Gods be good,” he muttered, not knowing whether he cursed or blessed the boy.

Catelyn laughed. “Lie back, my lord, and we shall let him come in.” Leaning into his ear, she whispered, “And we shall continue this later.” She must have noted his look of concern when she pulled back to smile at him because she added, “I assure you I am not so injured as all that, and I have had ample time now to recover from Brien’s birth.” She laughed at him, and he knew she could likely read both his doubt about that and his desire for her in his face. “Poor baby,” she said then. “I’ll prove it to you. Lie back, and I’ll walk to the door and let Sam in. Unlike you, I don’t even limp.”

He lay back in his wife’s bed then and watched as she rose with seeming ease and walked to the door with her usual grace. _Gods, I love you, Cat. And I do want you._ But the terror her tale had struck into his heart was still fresh, and he would never forget the terrible days she had lain in this bed as if dead after Brien’s birth. _How can I risk you? How do I somehow get you back from the White Walkers only to kill you myself in childbed?_

He tried very hard to make his face expressionless as she let Samwell in and turned back to face him, but he did not miss the fleeting look of puzzled concern that crossed her face. She had long since learned to see through his ‘lord’s face’ as she called it, and knew he was troubled by something. Gods knew they had enough things to be troubled over, and he hoped that she laid his worry to any one of those rather than anything to do with her, for he had no wish to mar her joy in his homecoming with his own fears.

As Samwell tugged on his boot, however, he found himself screaming in pain, and she ran to take his hand and grip it tightly. When the boot and stocking had been removed and the leg of his breeches rolled up, he didn’t need to look at the leg itself. Catelyn’s stricken face told him the leg was far worse even than he had thought.


	67. Treating the Wounds

“Is Father going to die?”

“No!” Catelyn spoke much more sharply than she intended and cursed herself when she looked into Rickon’s terrified eyes. “No, Rickon,” she forced herself to say more calmly. “Your father is not going to die.”

“But he could lose the leg, couldn’t he, Mother?” That question came from Bran who alone of all the children could truly understand what that would do to Ned.

“No,” she said to him, aware of how much less certain she sounded on this point. “Sam doesn’t intend to take the leg.”

“Sam didn’t intend for you to nearly die when Brien was born, either,” Arya said darkly. “But you almost did.”

“I didn’t,” Catelyn said, hoping her voice sounded much calmer and more certain than she felt. “I recovered. And so will your father.”

Arya scowled at her a moment and then turned away to pace back and forth by the window. _You are so like him at times,_ Catelyn thought.

She had gathered the children in Ned’s solar when Samwell had adamantly refused to allow her to stay beside Ned while he did whatever he was doing to him. She had argued strenuously, wanting to be present for her husband the way he was for her when she brought their children into the world, but Ned himself had refused to take any milk of the poppy until she gave him her word she would leave him and stay with the children while Sam worked on his leg. Sam had refused to so much as touch the leg until Ned had taken the poppy, stating that it would be too unbearably excruciating for him without the drug. Knowing that time was of the essence, Catelyn had reluctantly agreed, kissed her husband, and gone into the corridor to find her children practically with their ears pressed to the door.

They had only gotten to see their father for a very few moments once Sam had gotten a look at the angry red flesh around the stab wound in Ned’s calf and the sickening yellow-green material oozing from the wound itself. Ned had demanded he tell them himself that his wounded leg had putrified, and that he would be perfectly fine once Sam took care of it. He’d put on a brave face, but the children were not stupid. Even Rickon had quickly grasped the seriousness of the situation.

Once they’d been chased from the room, Sam had gravely told Ned and Catelyn that the only thing to do was to open the wound up, clean out as much of the pus as possible, and to cut away any tissue that was dead or dying. Otherwise, the putrefaction would surely worsen and spread. He’d then called for poppy, stating that Ned needed to drink enough to make himself insensate in order to tolerate the procedure. When Catelyn had offered to help hold him, Ned had actually laughed, and Sam had looked distressed.

“You will not be able to, my lady,” he’d said softly. “I doubt your strongest men could, although I shall need the strongest we can find. We shall lash Lord Stark to the bed and have men hold him.”

“But he will be sleeping from the poppy,” Catelyn protested.

“Even with the poppy, he will likely scream and attempt to get away from the knife, my lady. This is not an easy thing to bear.”

Catelyn had felt sick, and Ned had reached up to grip her hand. “I will be all right, my love. Please, Cat. Take the children somewhere else. I would not have them hear me cry out.”

“I should stay with you.”

“You must go with the children.”

Finally, she’d agreed to his terms, taking the children to Ned’s solar, hoping it was far enough away from her chambers because she was not willing to remove herself any further from him. They’d passed Jon Snow leading four men to her chambers. _Men to bind my husband and hold him down,_ she’d thought, and again felt sickness wash over her.

Now, she sat in Ned’s chair trying to wrap her mind around the impossible fact of going from the elation of having him home to the fear of losing him again all in the space of an hour.

“I don’t think Sam will have to take his leg, Arya,” she heard Dak say quietly. The Pentoshi boy was with her children, of course, and had been with them at Ned’s bedside. “The leg didn’t stink.”

“He wouldn’t even let us see it, Dak!” Arya turned and shouted at him.

“No, but . . .I didn’t even see _him_ the night they brought him to the house in Pentos, Arya. But I could smell his leg then. It was a horrible stink, and it stayed that way for days. And he didn’t lose the leg then.”

“You said the man who treated him there was a wizard,” Arya insisted. “Not some half-trained Citadel maester.”

“No. I said I called him a wizard. I think he was just a man who knew what he was doing. And Sam does, too. And Arya, however bad his leg is now, I’m telling you it’s nothing like it was then. Honestly.”

Arya didn’t respond, but Catelyn smiled at the boy. “Thank you, Dak,” she said. “That is good to hear.”

Sansa sat quietly in a chair nearby holding Brien. Her older daughter’s silent stillness worried Catelyn as much as Arya’s angry outbursts, but Catelyn didn’t know what to do for either of her daughters. Or for Bran, who sat in his wheeled chair with a faraway look in his eyes. She wondered if he had gone to Summer or to some other creature. She would not be surprised if a raven had perched itself in the window of her room if any windows were opened.

Rickon, at least, was still young enough to believe a mother’s embrace had some power to ward off evil, so she pulled him into her lap and wrapped her arms tightly around him, praying fervently to Ned’s gods and her own for her husband’s life and limb.

 

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Samwell Tarly had opened every window in Lady Catelyn’s room once she’d departed, but still the sweat ran down his face and soaked his shirt. He didn’t know if he could do this, especially with Jon staring at him with one of Lord Stark’s own grimmest expressions. He’d asked Jon to leave, but his friend had adamantly refused, and as he’d only returned with the men after Lord Stark had been rendered unconscious by the poppy, Sam could not enlist the lord’s help with evicting Jon as he had Lady Catelyn.

Jon had come into Lady Catelyn’s chambers initially with the Stark children, and when they had been sent back out, Sam had whispered to him that he would need strong men. Jon had been around enough battles by now to know without asking what that meant, and he had merely nodded, clenched his jaw, and left without a word to find some. He wasn’t leaving now, though.

“Won’t the chill air cause his lordship to sicken?” one of the men around the bed asked.

“He’s a Stark of Winterfell,” Jon said sternly before Sam could reply. “He only ever has these windows closed out of respect for his lady wife. Get on with it, Sam.”

Sam swallowed. Lord Stark was snoring softly, sprawled on his belly on Lady Catelyn’s bed in only his shirt and smallclothes, bound around his wrists and ankles and with a man holding each extremity. His calf was swollen to at least twice it’s normal size. It was red over the entire back of it and a putrid deep purple in a good 4 inch area surrounding the wound which was just to the side of the old incision. Sam pressed down hard around the wound, squeezing the swollen calf. Lord Stark bucked and moaned incoherently as a steady stream of green pus streamed out over Sam’s hands as he squeezed. Jon quickly placed his own hands over the back of his father’s thigh to help hold the leg still.

Feeling nauseous and breathing hard, Sam turned to wash his hands in a basin and then to wipe the purulent material from Lord Stark’s leg. _Please help me do this,_ he prayed. _I cannot be a craven now. Please._

Lord Stark had stilled back into deep slumber as soon as Sam had ceased the pressure on his leg, but Sam knew the worst was still to come. Endeavoring to keep his trembling hand as steady as he could, he picked up the sharpened knife from the table. “Hold him tightly,” he admonished the men surrounding the bed.

Then, consigning his soul to whatever gods there may be, Sam plunged the knife quickly into Lord Stark’s flesh and made a deep incision right through the original wound, extending it throughout the purpled area. An inhuman sound escaped the man on the bed then, and he struggled desperately against his bonds, and the men who held him.

More green, putrified material ran from the opened wound, now mixed with blood, and as Sam pulled the edges of his incision apart, he saw pockets of blackened tissue within it. He poured almost the entire contents of a flask of strong spirits into the open wound and began to cut away at all the blackened flesh, wishing desperately that he could be struck suddenly deaf and not have to hear the continuing agonized screams of Eddard Stark.

 

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The damned wolves wouldn’t stop howling. That unnerved Tyrion Lannister as much as the screaming coming from the open windows of the Great Keep. He’d heard that Ned Stark had a bad leg wound requiring the immediate attention of Not-a-Maester Samwell from a chamber maid he’d finally stopped and quizzed as no one had bothered to tell him what had transpired since Stark had gone into the Great Keep to see his wife. He understood that he was not at the top of the Starks’ priority list, but he’d been irritated by his lack of information all the same.

Now, he was strolling fairly aimlessly through the courtyard, thinking to escape the tension which seemed to have descended over everyone in the castle. He was an outsider here, and had never felt it more than now. During the long terrible nights of the Other attacks, at least he had made himself useful. Now, he served no purpose whatsoever. Now that Winterfell was no longer threatened, his only role here was once more to gather information and further the cause of Daenerys Targaryen by speaking with the Starks and their people. No one had the least interest in speaking with him now.

As he heard Lord Stark cry out again, he thought he couldn’t possibly go into the Great Keep. Nor could he walk in the godswood. Surprisingly enough, he had found that forbidding walled forest a rather restful place on his last visit here, but that’s where the damned direwolves were. Considering that the beasts didn’t seem to care for him at the best of times, he had no desire to be near them now. Instead he decided to walk toward the Great Hall. It was always open, and perhaps he could escape all the mournful sounds within its walls. If he were very lucky, there might even be a serving girl about who could find him wine or ale.

He wondered if the fat boy was taking off Stark’s leg. He wondered if Jaime had sounded like that when his hand had been severed from his wrist. That made him frown for he preferred not to think of Jaime at all. On the one hand, he took satisfaction in knowing his brother was locked up in some cell at Riverrun, unable to escape the punishment Daenerys would most certainly hand him for the murder of her father. He had promised Jaime that he would pay his debt after all, and nothing short of death could pay for Tysha. On the other hand, he still felt a stab of pain at the memory of his strong, golden brother holding up that awful stump in the Black Cells for him to see. A proud lion, the strongest of them all, declawed and left with nothing.

He realized suddenly that he had stopped walking. He was simply standing in the snow in the middle of Winterfell’s courtyard. _Wounded lions! Wounded wolves! What are any of them to you?_ he asked himself bitterly. _You are with the dragons now. The_ _rest are only as valuable as they are useful._ Yet even as he thought it, he laughed, thinking that such sentiments were more reminiscent of Tywin Lannister than Daenerys Targaryen. _What would you think of me now, Father? I am to be Lord of Casterly Rock after all. Soon, I will be the only one of your line left_.

Another howl rose up from one of the wolves, quickly followed by another from its brother, and the mournful sound prodded Tyrion to begin walking toward the Great Hall again. He realized then that Eddard Stark had stopped screaming. Still the wolves howled, just as they had so long ago when Bran Stark had lain hovering at death’s door within that Great Keep. Tyrion tried not to think too hard on what that might mean and trudged on to the Great Hall in search of some sort of comfort for his own wounds, old as they were.

 

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Arya Stark thought she would certainly lose her mind the first time she heard her father’s cry, and her mother simply got up from Father’s chair and walked to close the heavy door of the solar. Mother did not return to the chair, though. She simply sagged back against the door and closed her eyes. After a moment, Arya heard both Summer and Shaggydog howl from the godswood.

“Are the windows closed, Arya?” Mother asked quietly.

“Yes,” she said through gritted teeth without turning to check. She’d been walking past all the windows over and over. They were closed. The wolves were simply loud.

“That’s what they did when you fell, Bran,” Rickon whispered, and everyone turned to look at him. He remembered so little of his time in Winterfell before, it hadn’t occurred to any of them that he would remember such a specific detail about the time of Bran’s fall.

“I wouldn’t know,” Bran said dully. “And I don’t know why they’re howling now. Summer is . . .worried or frightened. It’s hard to say in words. But I can’t tell why. And I can’t think why he’d even know what occurs with Father.”

“Shaggy’s sad, too,” Rickon said with a pout, and Arya knew her little brother was upset that he had no escape from his fears about Father. Ordinarily, he would escape to his wolf when frightened or sad, but if the wolf was equally distressed, he had no place to go.

Before anyone could say anything in response, they heard Father cry out again. It was quieter now, with the door closed, but Arya was certain it was actually a far more terrible scream, and had the door been open, it would have been unbearable.

Mother drew in her breath sharply and closed her eyes tightly once more, still not moving from where she stood against the door. Sansa must have gripped Brien too tightly, for the babe let out a loud wail of his own and proceeded to cry loudly.

Arya was grateful for that because she realized dully that Father had not stopped screaming. Whatever they were doing to him seemed to be causing pain that just went on and on. She went to take Brien from Sansa, thinking that perhaps her baby brother’s cries in her ears would keep her from hearing her Father, but Sansa would not give him up. She sat in her chair, holding the babe tightly, seemingly oblivious to his cries as silent tears streamed down her face.

Arya looked around to see Rickon curling himself into a ball on Father’s chair, where he’d been sitting with Mother only a moment ago, his hands clamped over his ears and his eyes shut as tightly as Mother’s. Dak stood so silently in a corner of the room, she could almost forget he was there, but his face was whiter than she’d ever seen it. Bran once more looked faraway, and Arya became irrationally angry at him for going anywhere else. She got angry at all of them.

“How can you stand this?” she demanded furiously of no one in particular.

“I can’t,” her mother whispered hoarsely. “I cannot stand it. But we have no choice but to be strong for your father now as he has always been for us.” Mother took a deep breath then and walked toward Bran’s chair where she put one of her hands on his shoulder. “Come here,” she said. “All of you. You are wolves, aren’t you? And wolves draw strength from each other. I’d have all my pups around me now.”

Rickon’s ears must not have been very effectively closed for he launched himself from Father’s chair into Mother’s skirts. Even Sansa rose then and walked silently to stand close against Mother who took the crying infant from her arms. Arya started to walk to them herself, but then turned to where Dak stood alone in his corner.

“Come on, Stupid,” she said.

Dak looked at her in surprise and then looked up at Mother.

“Of course, I mean you, too, Dak,” Mother said. “Come here.”

Arya and Dak went to stand in the little group, each of them touching someone else, and while Arya could still hear her father’s cries of pain, she did find it easier to breathe in spite of it now that she was surrounded by her brothers and sister and close to Mother. She couldn’t say how long it went on, but finally she heard Mother sigh heavily, and realized that the screaming had stopped.

“Is it over?” Rickon asked.

“It would seem so,” Mother said. Somehow she managed to look relieved and terrified at the same time. “I am going to see about your father,” she told them. “Stay here, and I will send word right away, and I will allow you to see him as soon as I am able. I promise.”

Arya started to protest, but she saw Sansa simply reach out and take Brien back. The baby had actually fallen asleep on Mother’s shoulder. “I’ll watch him here, Mother,” her sister said more calmly than Arya would have believed possible. “You’ve held him too long. You’ve been standing too long.”

Arya looked closely at her mother and realized it was true. She’d forgotten that Mother was only days from her own brush with death, and that Sam hadn’t even allowed her out of bed to come greet Father today. Mother had stood there bravely for them through it all, but she looked now like the smallest thing might cause her to crumble. Instead of arguing, she reached out to pull Rickon from her mother’s skirts. “We’ll be fine, Mother,” she said. “But you must promise to sit down when you reach your room.”

Mother smiled at her and Sansa both. “I promise,” she said. She kissed each of them, including Dak, and then left them there in the solar.

“It isn’t about Father,” Bran said suddenly. He’d been very quiet as Mother had left, and Arya looked at him now.

“What?” Arya asked him.

“The wolves. Listen. They’re still howling.”

Arya did listen then and realized Bran was right.

“Why isn’t Nymeria here?” Bran asked her then. “She was with Father, and Father is home.”

Stunned, Arya realized she hadn’t even given her wolf a thought, first in the excitement over Father’s return and then in her fear for him. Guiltily she recalled that Nymeria was hurt and being pulled through the woods by men she didn’t know. She’d meant to ask Father about her, but then everything had happened so fast after his arrival.

She realized she was still holding onto Rickon after pulling him away from Mother, and she ruffled his hair the way Jon used to do hers before walking back to the window furthest from everyone else where she stood listening to Shaggy and Summer. She closed her eyes and thought about Nymeria. She wished it were as easy for her as it was for the boys--wished she could just close her eyes and run with Nymeria any time she chose, but it didn’t always work that way. She could find her when she was awake now, sometimes, if she really tried. But it seemed to require Nymeria’s cooperation as well, and that didn’t always happen. Arya didn’t resent that in the wolf. She wouldn’t like anyone just sliding into her skin whenever they pleased, either.

She held onto the window sill and breathed very slowly, trying to move away from everything and everyone here with her in Father’s solar. _Where are you?_ she asked in her mind. Then she tried to forget words altogether, just seeking to feel her direwolf, to feel what she felt.

Her hind leg hurt. She wanted to get off the tree branches. They scratched her skin even through her thick fur, and they bumped painfully along the ground making her leg hurt more each time her body was jarred. But she couldn’t get up. The leg would not allow it. She hadn’t eaten enough either. The men had given her bits of meat, but it wasn’t enough to make her strong. She snapped at them when they came near, but she hadn’t bitten them. She knew she couldn’t hunt for herself. Not now. The father had gone. She was supposed to stay with him, but he had gone. The small cousins of her pack were gone, too. They had been frightened away by the dead things and the cold things and the fire. She was alone with these men who were not part of her pack. The father was gone.

 _Father._ The girl’s mind within the wolf slowly began to think separately from the wolf without leaving her. The wolf’s pain was so intense, it was difficult for the girl to remain with her without losing herself in the pain and the thoughts of the wolf. She could hear men talking, but the man words were too difficult to make sense of until she heard one very clearly. _Winterfell._

The wolf raised her head from her litter. It was difficult, requiring nearly all the strength she had, but she looked around her intently and slowly realized she knew this place. As she recognized it, her knowledge of it came to the girl who gasped out loud.

“Arya? Arya, are you all right?”

Her sister’s voice seemed to come from a long distance away. “Arya!” Sansa’s voice was louder then, and she felt a hand on her foreleg . . .no. Her arm.

Arya jumped at Sansa’s touch, and looked at her sister almost uncomprehendingly for a moment, trying to get all of her mind back here in this room. “Nymeria,” she finally said, struggling to find more words. Wolves needed no words. Only men used them.

Sansa nodded as if she understood and simply waited for her to continue speaking. _Father does that_ , Arya thought. _He waits_ _until you find the words._ She’d not really noticed Sansa doing it before and wondered if that was because she rarely took the time to express anything terribly difficult to her sister.

“She’s hurt,” she said finally. “But men are bringing her here. She’s on a . . .on a litter of sorts. Do you remember when Jon and Lady Brienne brought her in from the Wolfswood?”

Sansa nodded, and Arya realized that Dak and Rickon had walked over to her as well. Even Bran had wheeled his chair closer to hear what she would say. “She’s on something like that. And they’ve brought her a long way. They must be Winterfell men because that’s the one word I heard them say. Her leg is hurt, and she can’t walk.”

“You’re certain they are bringing her here?” Bran asked.

Arya nodded. “I recognized . . .well, she recognized where she is, and she knows it’s not far.”

“How far?” Dak asked.

“She doesn’t know,” Bran said, and at the same time, Rickon said, “Wolves can’t count” by which Arya understood him to mean that wolves don’t measure distance, not like people do. Sansa and Dak looked at her brothers and her with confusion, though.

Arya sighed. “I didn’t recognize anything special about the place, and I certainly couldn’t see Winterfell, but it felt close to Nymeria, so it’s likely not more than a day or so. I mean, she doesn’t understand leagues or even count days in numbers so if it’s not a place I know, I can’t tell exactly how far it is.”

“And Summer and Shaggy are howling,” said Rickon. “Do you remember how Shaggy and Ghost acted when Nymeria was hurt before? When that grumpy king’s men came here?” Rickon had never cared for Stannis Baratheon.

“We have to go find her!” Arya said then. “She’s hurt. I don’t know how badly, but I think it’s bad. She can’t walk.”

“Arya, you can’t leave the castle and look for a wolf that you don’t honestly know where it is!” Sansa said in exasperation. “If the men are bringing her to Winterfell, then we simply have to . . .”

“What if they’re attacked? What if she’s too weak and they can’t get her here fast enough? Anything could happen, Sansa! She’s close enough that we can help her!”

“Mother said to stay here.”

“Mother didn’t know any of this!”

“Mother wouldn’t let you leave the castle in any event!”

The two of them had raised their voices almost to the point of shouting as the boys simply looked on. But before it could become a full blown argument, Bran intervened. “Find Jon,” he said simply, and both Arya and her sister looked at him.

“Find Jon,” he repeated. “Sansa, Mother won’t get upset at Arya for simply leaving the solar. There’s no threat here now. And Jon’s a man grown. He can leave the castle if he wants. Mother doesn’t care what he does. And Nymeria knows him. You said he’s the one who brought her in before when she was hurt.”

Arya nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Jon will help me.” She looked at Sansa, waiting for an argument.

Sansa looked at her for a moment, and then simply said, “Go. But after you find Jon, come back here, Arya. You do want to see Father as soon as we’re able, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do!” Arya was already half out the door of the solar. “I’ll be back as soon as I can!”

She was still terrified for her father. She didn’t want to go into Mother’s room to find that he no longer had his leg, and she certainly didn’t want him to die. But she couldn’t do anything for Father now, and perhaps she could see to it that Nymeria made it home.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn did not knock on the door. It was her room after all, and her need to see Ned was overpowering by this point. Had it not been for the children, she would have been here the first time he cried out. She’d seen him in pain more than once in the long years of their marriage, and she’d held him at night when he’d shouted at some terror she couldn’t see from one of his wars. But she had never heard him scream like that. Never. And every cry from his throat had ripped a piece of her soul from her.

She was not prepared for the sight that met her eyes. Ned lay face down on her bed, so still he appeared dead. He had a gaping hole in his lower leg large enough that she could fit her hand in it. Samwell Tarly stood over him dipping long strips of cloth in some conconction and stuffing them into the hole.

“Ned?” she breathed, almost involuntarily. She felt dizzy. The sight of Sam’s fingers deep in Ned’s leg as he pushed the cloth down into gaping wound made her head swim a little.

All the men around the bed turned to look at her then, and Sam frowned. Before he could say anything to her though, another voice said sharply, “Lady Stark! You should not be here!”

Catelyn looked up to see Jon Snow standing over Ned beside Sam. “How dare you tell me when I should be in my own chambers,” she said angrily. “This is my room, Jon Snow, and he is my husband. I do not take orders from you in my home.”

The entire room seemed to be spinning now and little black dots danced before her eyes, slowly merging into larger black spots until she couldn’t see at all.

“Jon!” she heard Sam’s voice call out in alarm. “See to her!”

The next thing she heard was Sam’s voice again. “There she is. She’s coming around. Stay beside her. I have to finish packing this leg.”

“What . . .?” she asked vaguely. She blinked several times and realized she was looking up at the ceiling. Then she realized she was lying on her bed. “How . . .?”

“Keep still, Lady Stark. You fainted.” The male voice, deeper than Sam’s came from above her. She looked up to see Ned’s grey eyes. Not Ned, though. Jon Snow. “Ned!” she exclaimed, remembering.

“Right beside you,” Jon Snow said softly. “He’s asleep, though. And likely will be for some time.”

Catelyn turned her head and saw her husband’s face turned toward hers, eyes closed and jaw slack. She reached out a hand to touch him. He was cool, but not cold. “He . . .he will be all right?” she asked hesitantly.

Jon Snow raised his eyes from hers and looked across her bed. Catelyn followed his gaze to where Samwell Tarly stood bent over Ned’s leg. Sam looked at her. “I am fairly certain I got all the bad tissue, my lady, and he is not feverish or shaking so I don’t believe the poison of the wound had reached his blood. He should not die of this.”

Catelyn closed her eyes and offered a brief, silent prayer of thanks. “His leg?” she asked then, recalling precisely how it had looked when she’d entered the room.

Now, Sam frowned. “I had to open it wide to get at all the putrefaction, and there was more diseased flesh than I would have liked. I had to take only a very small part of the muscle, however, and that is good.” He shook his head. “Unless there is still some sickness in it which I could not find, he should keep it, my lady. But I do not know how well it will work. I do not believe I removed nearly as much flesh as was taken when the leg was hurt before, but as this is the second time . . .I simply do not know. I do know his recovery will not be quick. Nor will it be painless.”

“Dak said as much,” she said quietly. When Sam looked puzzled, she clarified. “He said the leg was much worse in Pentos. It stank for days, he said, and could be smelled throughout the house where Ned was held.”

Sam looked shocked. “It is a wonder they did not take it off then,” he exclaimed.

She looked at Ned again. “When will he wake?”

“Not for hours,” Sam said. “And we won’t let him truly wake for days. Only enough to make certain we get some sustenance into him. This wound will need to be packed and repacked many times, and it will be very painful. It will be best that he has no memory at all for the next several days.”

She nodded. “I understand.” She sighed tiredly. “Do we still require all these men?” she asked, looking at all the people in the room.

“I don’t believe so, my lady. He should slumber peacefully for now. We’ll need someone here to see that he doesn’t move about and fall from the bed when he does start to wake.”

“I can do that.”

“Lady Catelyn, you are in no condition to care for Lord Stark. You should never have been out of bed today, yourself!” Sam exclaimed in a rather exasperated voice.

She smiled at him. “I don’t intend to leave this bed, Sam. I can have my meals sent here, and I can watch over my lord husband well enough if I am right beside him.”

Before Sam could protest, she pressed on. “I shall need someone to sit there on that side of the bed to help watch and to feed him when I haven’t the strength. Cannot Letty do that? She would be here to help with Brien in any event.”

Sam shook his head. “Lady Catelyn, I truly think that . . .”

“Let her do it, Sam,” came Jon Snow’s voice. She looked up at him. “You aren’t going to leave this room, are you, Lady Stark?” he asked her then. “As you stated so clearly, these are your chambers.”

“They are,” she agreed. “And no, I am not going to leave.”

Jon looked back up at Sam. “You aren’t going to change her mind.” He shrugged. “Mayhap the only way to keep either of them in bed is to keep them here together.”

One of the men in the room coughed loudly at that, but Catelyn was much too tired and too concerned about her husband’s wellbeing to care about innuendos. “He has a point, Sam. I won’t rest for worrying about my lord husband, and once he is allowed to wake from the poppy, I assure you he will not rest if he is worried about me. If we’re together, you have both patients more content, and you can look in on us at the same time. I’m more than willing to have Letty or whoever else you feel is necessary here to actually care for my husband. But I don’t think we need an entire company of soldiers at this point,” she said pointedly, looking at the man who had coughed.

“I’ll see the men out, Lady Stark, if Sam thinks he can finish here without any further need of them.”

“I’m nearly finished,” Sam said. “For now, anyway.”

“Very well,” Catelyn said. “I do thank you men for your assistance. I know it was not a pleasant task. Lord Stark will thank you himself when he is well.”

The men mumbled acknowledgment of her thanks, nodding their heads and backing toward the door. Jon Snow made to follow them, but Catelyn reached up to grab his wrist and he looked back down at her.

“I could hear him,” she said, and she saw the pain in the boy’s eyes at her words. “I know it was hard for you to be here. It was good of you to help him, Jon.”

He looked at her a moment. “I could not do otherwise, my lady.”

 _You love him,_ she thought. “I know,” she said softly. “But I thank you anyway.”

He looked at her again and then nodded. “You should sleep, Lady Stark.”

“Oh!” she called after him when he was almost at the door. “The children! They are in the lord’s solar, and I promised I would send word to them. Could you tell them their father lives and that he still has both his legs?”

Jon nodded. “I’ll go and see them. They’ll want to come see him, though.”

Catelyn and Sam both shook their heads. “Tell them he will sleep for some time, but I promise I’ll let them in tomorrow even if he’s sound asleep just so they can see for themselves that he’s all right.”

Jon actually smiled at her then. “They won’t like it, but I’ll tell them.”

When Jon and the other men had gone, Catelyn turned back to Sam, who was now wrapping Ned’s leg in linen.

“Must he stay on his belly, Sam?” she asked him.

“No,” Sam said. “Once I finish wrapping the leg, I’d prefer to turn him so that anything that needs to drain will come out easily.”

“Good,” she said, and Sam looked at her. “He never sleeps on his belly,” she explained. “He usually sleeps on his back, and occasionally his side. But never on his belly. He looks unnatural like that. I can’t imagine he likes it one bit.”

Sam smiled at her. “I’ll go get Letty, and she and I will turn him. And no. Before you ask, you are not to help us. You lie right there and get some sleep yourself.”

The young man looked exhausted. His shirt was soaked as if he’d run for miles in spite of the chill in the room. Catelyn realized for the first time that all her windows were open. When Sam finished tying the bandage and drew back his hand, she saw that it shook.

She sat up then in spite of her dizziness and reached out to take that hand in hers. “Thank you, Sam,” she said.

“My lady?”

“Thank you,” she repeated. “For my husband’s life and for his leg.”

“Lady Catelyn, I only . ..”

“Don’t say anything, Sam. Simply accept my gratitude. It is a poor thing in comparison to what you have done today, but it is all I have.”

“I . . .thank you, Lady Stark,” he said, looking down. “I’ll . . .I’ll go get Letty now.”

When he left her room, Catelyn lay back down and rolled on her side to reach out and touch Ned’s face. “I will not let you go, my love,” she whispered. “No more than you would let me go.”

She shivered in the cold air in spite of being fully dressed. She knew the wintry breeze would not bother Ned, of course, and she did not begrudge Sam any measure of comfort he needed this day. Once Ned was turned and made comfortable in the bed, she would have Letty shut the windows after Sam had gone. _Thank you gods_ , she prayed, _that Jon Snow thought to send him to us._

Then she lay silently beside her husband and simply allowed her body to relax in the knowledge that he lived and would continue to do so.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Jon’s legs felt weak as he left Lady Stark’s room. He didn’t think he’d ever done anything more difficult in his life than hold his father down as he screamed incoherently while Sam carved pieces out of his leg with that knife. He’d been very glad when Sam announced he was finished because he honestly had begun to fear he could not do it for one more instant.

He’d been furious at Lady Stark when she’d lashed out at him, but then she’d fainted, and he’d realized that likely her anger and his both came from their fear and exhaustion. _And you did all but order her out of her own room._ In any event, he simply didn’t have the energy to remain angry at his father’s wife, and it appeared that she had no more energy to expend on being angry with him either. He supposed they could leave it at that for the moment. She did seem to be honestly grateful for what he’d done here at Winterfell, at least.

As he contemplated what precisely he would tell his brothers and sisters, he was nearly tackled by Arya who came running down the corridor at full speed.

“Jon! I was just looking for you! You have to help Nymeria!”

“Nymeria? Arya, what are you talking about? I was just coming to tell you about Father.”

“Father? Is he all right? Can I see him? Does he still have his leg? Is Mother with him?”

The barrage of questions seemed endless, and he realized he’d be facing this from all directions once he reached the rest of his siblings.

He reached out and put a hand over her mouth. “He will be just fine. He still has his leg, and your mother is with him.” He hesitated. “And you can see him tomorrow.”

“But . . .”

“He’s asleep, Arya. He got more poppy than I’ve ever seen anyone take. He won’t wake again today, and Sam doesn’t want him disturbed at all.”

“He was screaming, Jon,” Arya said, her grey eyes filled with fear. “It was awful.”

“I know, little sister. I know.” He ruffled her hair with his hand. “The leg was bad, Arya. I won’t lie to you. And Sam had to cut that leg wide open. It will take Father a long time to heal, but he will heal, and that’s what’s important.”

She bit her lip, but then she nodded. “All right, then. If you say he’s all right, I’ll believe you. But, Jon, Nymeria’s not all right. She’s hurt.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know exactly. Men are bringing her to Winterfell, but I don’t know them, and I don’t know exactly where they are--just that it isn’t too far away because she knows the place and Shaggy and Summer are howling and . . .”

“Woah, Arya. Slow down. You’ve lost me.” He nearly put his hand on her mouth again, but she ducked away from him. “Tell it to me from the beginning, Arya, while we go see the others and tell them about Father.”

So, she did. Her worries about Father and the direwolf still caused her to ramble a bit, and he’d had to ask her to explain several things to him more clearly, but by the time they reached their father’s solar, Jon thought he had a pretty good idea about the situation. He also could hear the boys’ wolves howling now. He hadn’t even noticed it before. He supposed his mind had been too taken up by Father’s injury. He did recall the way the wolves had howled when Nymeria had lain injured in the Wolfswood. Even Ghost had broken his usual silence then.

He and Arya shared the good news about Father with their siblings. Not surprisingly, Dak was there with them. Jon was impressed with all of the children, even Rickon, in the way they had handled the news, but he was particularly proud of Sansa. She reminded him strikingly of her mother which at one time he would not have considered a good thing at all. Now, however, he could admit that Lady Stark had quite a few admirable qualities, and he could see the best of those in Sansa. While it was clear to him that she was just as worried about their father and eager to see him as the rest of them, once she knew for certain that he was not in any immediate danger, her mind went immediately to seeing to the needs of the other children.

She surmised, correctly, that Lady Stark would not be leaving their father’s side. “Mother needs someone to take care of her, too,” she’d frowned. “Hopefully, she’ll at least sleep while Father is sleeping.” So, she had begun assigning tasks to the younger children both to keep their minds occupied and to be certain they ate and were generally cared for while their mother was occupied with their father. His sister was no longer a child at all, he realized, and as proud as he was of her, it made him a bit sad that the prissy little girl who dreamed of princesses and knights was truly gone forever.

“Arya, I need to check on Jeyne,” she said finally. “She’s been in our room all this time, and while I asked one of the maids to tell her what’s going on, she’s probably out of her mind with worry. Can you take Brien to Mother’s room?”

“Why does she get to go to Mother’s room? Father’s in Mother’s room, and Jon said we don’t get to see him until tomorrow!” Rickon demanded. “And why does Brien get to see Father?”

Sansa simply took a deep breath. “Arya won’t see Father, Rickon. She’ll knock on Mother’s door, and Letty will take Brien. Simple as that. As for Brien, he’s just a baby, and Father won’t even know he’s there. But he has to be with Mother to eat. You know that, Rickon.”

Rickon huffed, but made no further protests. “Why don’t you and Dak go to the godswood and check on the wolves?” Sansa suggested then. “They’re still howling and . . .”

“Ah, the wolves,” Jon interjected. “I’ll actually need Rickon and Bran both to come to the godswood. I can carry you, Bran. You‘re welcome, too, of course, Dak, but I need my brothers to command their wolves to come with me away from Winterfell.”

“You’re going to find Nymeria,” Bran said.

“Well, I’m going to try. I’ll talk to some of the men who rode in with Father first and see if I can figure out exactly what happened and specifically what direction they’ll be coming from. But, yes, I’m going to take some men and ride out. I thought I’d take one of the smaller sleighs. If Nymeria is badly injured, a sleigh ride will be far more comfortable for her. But, I think Shaggy and Summer could find her quicker than anyone else.”

Arya grabbed him around the waist and hugged him tightly. “Jon, that’s brilliant! Thank you!”

“You can thank me when we’ve got her back, little sister,” he said. “So, I suppose you should take Brien to Letty and your mother. Sansa can see to Jeyne, and the boys and I will head to the godswood.”

As his brothers and sisters excitedly voiced their agreement, Jon offered a silent prayer of thanks that not one of them had been touched by the White Walkers. While he knew he would never stop missing Robb, he now realized that Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon, and yes, even Brien, would always be his sisters and brothers regardless of who had fathered him or what commitment he had to the Night’s Watch. Uncle Benjen had never stopped being a Stark, and Jon believed now that he could hold his family in his heart and command the Watch. That knowledge helped ease the pain of his losses, even if nothing could ever completely erase them.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark groaned at the terrible pain in his leg. The pain was always there. Nothing seemed to ease it. He couldn’t remember it not being there, although the passage of time was difficult to judge. He was awake and he slept, and sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. Sometimes, he thought he was in Pentos, but usually he knew that was only a trick his mind played on him.

Poppy. He drank the stuff all the time. He knew its bitter taste well enough, and he didn’t want any more of it. He hated the confusion and the feeling that nothing was quite real. But Catelyn told him to drink it, and he did. His leg did hurt. It hurt a lot. He tried his best not to move it at all.

Catelyn. She was always there. Whether he was awake or asleep, he could find her. She spoke to him. She touched him. She made him feel safe when nothing made sense. When nothing felt real except the pain, she would hold on to him, and he would know she was real.

After a time--he couldn’t say how long because day and night had no real meaning, he became aware of other things. His children were here. They came and spoke to him. Sometimes, he could follow their words and sometimes not. It didn’t matter. He simply liked hearing their voices.

The Tarly boy was there too often. Sam. He would poke and prod at Ned’s leg until Ned wanted to hit him. He was fairly certain he did curse at him, but Catelyn would hold his hand and tell him it would be over soon. He’d hold onto her and let her voice carry him away from the pain.

He found himself completely awake finally in the dark of night in a silent room. He turned to his side which made his leg throb, but he could see his wife sleeping there beside him. No one else appeared to be in the room, but then a baby’s cry broke the silence. _Brien,_ he thought.

Catelyn stirred immediately. Not even realizing Ned was awake, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, pulling a robe on over her nightshift and walking to the cradle. “Hush, sweetling,” he heard her whisper as she bent to retrieve their son. His eyes had adjusted to the dim light now, and he could see her more clearly, although she was mostly shadowed.

She continued to make shushing noises as she sat down in a chair beside the cradle and pulled down the loose neckline of her nightshift to allow the child access to her teat. “There you go, sweetling,” she said softly, and he watched her lean her head back against the chair as the baby suckled contentedly.

“How long since I returned, Cat?” he asked softly.

Her head snapped up. “Ned! I am sorry, my love. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. Brien did. I’ve been watching you with him. You are beautiful.”

He couldn’t actually see her smile, but he heard it in her voice. “It’s dark, Ned. You can’t even see me.”

“I can.” He sighed. “I have been in a haze from poppy. I recall that well enough from my time in Pentos. I don’t like it, Catelyn.”

“I know,” she said. “You’ve mentioned that often enough.”

He laughed. “I don’t remember. But likely I have. I seem to recall being told I complained about it there.”

“Dak tells me you did.” She sighed. “How does your leg feel, my love? Sam has started decreasing your dosage a little bit. I confess I like having a lucid conversation with you, but I wouldn’t have you hurt.”

He grunted. “I’m going to hurt, Cat. But that’s hardly a novel feeling when it comes to this accursed leg. Nothing I can’t stand. Certainly nothing I wish to be put back into a stupor over.”

“I am glad of it, my love.”

“How long, Cat?” he asked again. “I have no sense of time. How long since Sam took the knife to me?”

“Eight days,” she said softly.

“My gods!” he swore. “What in all the hells did the boy do to me?”

“He had to open it up and cut out the diseased flesh. It is not as bad as your original injury was, Ned, but it was bad enough.”

“But I still have my leg? All of it?”

“Yes. Minus a chunk out of the back of it, I’m afraid. It’s going to be a long time healing, my love,” she said gently.

“I knew that when I saw it eight days ago,” he said. “I am simply glad to still have the damned leg at this point. Although, the gods know it wasn’t worth much before, and I cringe to think what it will be worth now.”

“It will take some time, Ned . . .”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” he said more harshly than he intended. “Forgive me, my love. I don’t mean to bellow at you. But I know what it takes to make the leg function like a leg again all to well, and I confess I don’t look forward to starting over.”

“I’ll help you.”

“I know you will.” He sat silently for a moment, watching her switch their son to the other teat. “What has happened while I’ve been insensible?”

“No more attacks here or anywhere else on any large scale that we’ve heard about. There have been isolated reports of wights or even Others, but no large groups.” She paused. “Daenerys Targaryen is coming back to Winterfell.”

“The North is truly secure then?” Ned asked.

“From Others? It appears to be for the present.”

“What are you not telling me?”

“Nothing of importance, my lord. I promise. There have been ravens from north and south carrying news which I do not feel compelled to share in the middle of the night. It does not touch us here. Not any time soon.”

“Is it night?” he asked her. “It is impossible to tell when all I do is sleep and I know that daylight only lasts a few hours.”

“Yes,” she said. “It is possibly an hour or two after midnight.”

“You must be sleepy then, Cat.”

“I’m awake whether we converse or not as long as your son wants fed,” she told him. “And I’ve missed talking with you. I’m simply too tired to talk politics and strategies. Queen Daenerys will likely arrive in two to three days. I promise I’ll share all the news before she gets here.”

“The children are all well?”

“They are. They’re all in here every day. They’ll be thrilled to see you so much yourself again.”

“I look forward to seeing them, and knowing they aren’t dreams.” He watched Brien suckle for a moment. “He is a wonder, is he not, Cat?” he asked softly. “To have him with us after all that took place . . .” He couldn’t truly explain what he meant, but as usual, she understood him.

“Yes,” she said simply. “He is truly a wonder.”

They sat silently for a bit after that until he suddenly remembered something quite important. “Arya’s wolf!” he exclaimed. “She was . . .”

“She’s here,” Catelyn interrupted him. “Jon Snow rode out with Shaggydog and Summer to find her. All of the men whom you assigned to her made it back, Ned. It would seem they had an easier time of it than you did in terms of Others and wights. They were attacked only once, and then only by three wights. They dispatched them fairly easily. They were simply slowed in their travels by the wolf’s injuries.”

“Her leg,” he said.

“I fear it’s at least as bad as yours,” Catelyn said. “And she is not nearly so cooperative a patient. Sam has done what he can, considering she won’t even let him touch her without Arya present and holding onto her. She still isn’t walking, but otherwise she’s getting stronger. She’s staying in the girls’ room.”

“Jon went out to find her?”

“Yes. He’s still here, Ned,” she said, answering his unspoken question. “He comes to see you every day as well.” She bit her lip. “And he’s been a help to me while we’ve both been ill.”

“You were hurt!” Ned exclaimed. “Catelyn you had been . . .”

“I assure you I am quite recovered. I still stay to my chambers, but that’s mostly on your account, now. You can ask Sam about it come morning if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you.” He yawned deeply, and she laughed at him.

“I think that’s enough conversation for you, Lord Stark. Back to dreamland, my love.”

He sighed. “I fear I cannot sleep. It is too cold in this bed with no one to warm me.”

She laughed harder then, for he had intentionally stolen her own words. “Patience, my love. When your son has had his fill, I promise to come keep you warm. We both know how little you tolerate cold winter nights.”

They both laughed then at their silliness, and then they were quiet, and he nearly did fall asleep. He felt her slip back into bed beside him though, and he reached for her. She moved to lay her head against him, but was careful to keep her lower body away from him, worried about causing his leg pain.

“Are you warm now, my lord?” she asked him.

“As warm as you are likely to allow me to get, given the state of my leg.”

She grinned wickedly, and she was close enough to him now for him to see it even in the dark room. “Ah, and how does it feel to be spurned out of concern for your own health, my lord?”

He made a face at her, but in truth was glad for the reminder that he needed to be careful of her as well. “It is enough to have you beside me,” he said quietly. “I did not sleep well all the long nights I was gone from you.”

“Nor I,” she said. “I would keep you by me always if I could, Ned.”

He sighed and ran his fingers through her hair. He could feel sleep reaching inexorably for him. He knew it would claim him quickly. The poppy did that to him even as it was being cut back. He remembered that from Pentos. “I would stay by you forever, my lady,” he told her. Then after a moment, he whispered softly, “I love you, Cat,” and was asleep before he could hear any reply.


	68. Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't done this for awhile, so I'd simply once again like to acknowledge that all these characters and the incredibly rich world they inhabit spring from the marvelous imagination of George R.R. Martin and forever belong to him. I'm just borrowing them and own not a bit of his wonderful work. :)

Catelyn observed her husband carefully as he read the last of the letters she had saved for him. She had wanted to bring them to her chambers for his perusal, but he had insisted upon coming to the solar to read them. Daenerys Targaryen was expected in Winterfell at any time now, and Ned had been adamant that he would not meet her lying in a sickbed. So, in spite of his only having been lucid for the past two days, she had watched him make his way painfully from her room to his solar using a crutch and leaning heavily upon Jon Snow.

Ned’s nephew had left them once Ned was settled in his chair, and Catelyn had given him all the correspondence she had received during the past ten days. She’d given him all the main points already, of course, but he’d understandably wanted to read the letters for himself.

The first had been from Greatjon Umber, and it informed them of the total victory gained over the Others near Last Hearth and apparently all along the defensive line. While not all the Others had been destroyed, they had seemingly disappeared after finding themselves so completely defenseless again Drogon. The queen had ridden her dragon far to the north and east during hours of darkness and had not discovered any of them in large numbers. She had discovered Perwyn Frey and his men riding back from the Karhold and had shared his frightful tale with the men at Last Hearth. At the time this letter was written, she had planned to fly westward along the defensive line to the Wall and see firsthand that no Others in large numbers threatened there either, and then head toward Winterfell. Lord Umber had also sent a letter to Eastwatch-by-the-sea alerting Glendon Hewett of events there and asking him to be watchful for any of the White Walkers retreating north of the Wall the same way they came south.

“He should let them pass,” Ned grunted when he reached that part of the letter. “If those monsters head to the north, Hewett should let them go--only fight them if they attack the men there.”

“Jon said the same,” Catelyn told him quietly. “The few men left to Hewett cannot possibly kill them all with no dragon to assist them, and better to have the Others north of the Wall than south. He sent a raven to Eastwatch commanding as much. If Others are sighted there, he is to send ravens to Castle Black and Winterfell requesting aid, and Jon will go there with Rhaegal.”

Ned frowned. “Shouldn’t Jon go there now? It seems logical that the Others would go that way.”

Catelyn frowned. “Likely he will go there once he has spoken with Daenerys Targaryen. As her arrival is imminent, he thought he should remain here until she comes.”

Ned nodded. “The Night’s Watch will need more men, Cat. We have turned the Others back, but this winter has only begun, and I do not believe for one moment they are truly destroyed. We must remain vigilant, and there are not enough watchers on the Wall.”

“No, there are not, my love,” she said softly. “But the Night’s Watch is a hard life and involves a strict and binding vow. The Starks have come to the aid of the Watch in times past, and during this threat your bannermen have worked alongside the Watch in defending the North against invasion by the Others. Mayhap that is the way to proceed.”

“You have been thinking about this, my lady,” he said, smiling at her. “Tell me your thoughts.”

“Jon Snow has tried to man all the waycastles along the Wall, and he is right to do so. But he has far too few men to do it effectively. While men should still be recruited for the Watch, why not also ask each of your bannermen to send a required number of men to serve a finite term of service--a year or two or three--at some of those castles. Men of the Watch would hold some of the castles and your Northmen the others. All would fall under the authority of the Lord Commander while they served, but they would be in separate companies to keep down conflict between the black brothers and the men who would call them rapers and thieves.”

Ned looked at her thoughtfully. “Your idea has merit, Cat. But there would inevitably be some conflict.” He scratched his beard. “Although what army is without conflict? If I ordered it done, the Northern lords would comply, and it would certainly put sufficient numbers of men on the Wall more quickly than relying on volunteers for the Night’s Watch--or even emptying every prison cell in the North for forced recruitment.”

“Your lords may not hold the Watch in as high esteem as they once did, my lord, but they will follow Jon Snow. You’ve seen the letters yourself from the castles and keeps near enough to Winterfell to have already replied to the ravens I sent out regarding the Lord Commander’s rescue of our castle.”

He looked at her knowingly. “The Lord Commander?” 

She sighed. “Yes, Ned. I was very careful to use his title in all my letters. I’ve learned enough of Northmen to know they will care less about his parentage than about his honor and bravery and what he has done here. And he has Stark blood however he came by it. And your face.” She looked directly at that face now. “They will follow him, Ned, and I would remind them they may follow him as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, but never as Lord of Winterfell.”

“Catelyn . . .” he started to say.

“Don’t tell me he would never seek it. I know he wouldn’t.”

Her husband looked at her in some surprise then. She supposed he wasn’t used to hearing anything resembling praise for Jon Snow escape her lips. “He cares too much for our children to take what is theirs, and he has too much of your honor even if he is not your son to seek what is not his in any case.” She frowned at him. “But he is young still. I watched Robb take a crown he did not ask for at the exhortation of your lords. I would not have Jon Snow face that same temptation and pressure in some future time when you and I are no longer here to temper it. If my plan for bringing men to the Wall can increase our defense _and_ serve to strengthen the boy’s position as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch in the eyes of your bannermen, then I consider it a good thing.”

“And he would live out his life on the Wall, taking no wife and fathering no children,” Ned said quietly. Catelyn could hear the sadness in his voice.

“He chose the Wall, Ned. He said the words. And he has not indicated any desire to go back on them. You’ve always wanted him to have honor and purpose in his life. Whatever the Watch has become over the centuries, this winter has made it vitally important once more. And your nephew commands it. I believe he can do it well, my lord, and make a name for himself apart from yours or Rhaegar Targaryen’s.”

“You would have me believe that you wish Jon to remain on the Wall for his own benefit?”

“I would ask you to consider that it is to the benefit of all of us, including Jon. And to believe that I do not wish it for his detriment.” She would not pretend her motives regarding Jon Snow’s position were selflessly motivated, but surely Ned could see that they were not entirely selfish either. She continued to look him in the eye and let him read her face which she knew he could do well. She had nothing to hide from her husband.

“Very well,” he said after a moment. “I will speak to Jon about it.” He allowed his features to soften a bit as he regarded her across his desk. “It is a very well thought-out plan, Cat.”

She smiled.

Sighing, he indicated several other pieces of parchment lying on the desk. “It does not take all of this into consideration, however. My gods, what a mess they’ve made of things in the south! I’ve sworn fealty to Daenerys Targaryen, my love. If she demands I call my banners and march southward with her, I will have no men to send to the Watch.”

Catelyn bit her lip to keep from saying anything about his leg. Her husband would not be marching anywhere for the foreseeable future, and while that thought comforted her, he would not be pleased by any reminder of his infirmity. “The snows grow deeper almost daily in vast areas of the North. Even gathering your bannermen to go south would take an immense amount of time. Soon the Kingsroad will be all but impassable and getting men to White Harbor to go by ship will not be much easier. Besides, she has seen the threat here for herself. Surely, she will not ask you to leave your own lands defenseless, whatever she has to deal with in the south.”

Ned laughed bitterly. “Well, she has to deal with quite a lot, it would appear.” He held up Edmure’s latest missive. 

They’d received letters from Edmure, Olyvar Frey, and Andar Royce, all giving news of events to the south, but Edmure’s was by far the most detailed. He had written that King Tommen Baratheon, now just shy of eleven name days, and his wedded, but certainly not yet bedded queen, Margaery Tyrell maintained a tenuous grasp only on the Crownlands, the Westerlands, and the Reach. Since the gruesome and still unsolved murder of Kevan Lannister, former Hand to the King, Mace Tyrell had become Hand, and in truth did all the ruling. His energies were largely preoccupied by attempting to defend his lands in the Reach, however, where Euron Greyjoy--self-proclaimed King of the Iron Islands--had been raiding with relative impunity until the Redwyne fleet had been pulled back from Dragonstone to give battle. Neither force seemed able to gain a definitive advantage, however, and the Reach appeared to bleed now almost to the extent the Riverlands had during the War of the Five Kings. King’s Landing itself had not come under siege, but with winter upon it, and supply lines from the Reach disrupted, and the River Lords not sending any aid, the city suffered greatly. Edmure reported a great number of refugees coming into the Riverlands just as they had fled the Riverlands toward the capital in the last war. These refugees described a state of near lawlessness within the city and reported that what order existed was kept by the Warrior’s Sons of the Faith rather than by the City Watch or the soldiers of the crown.

The troubles in the Reach and the capital left the boy king’s handlers woefully unprepared to deal with the threat of Aegon Targaryen who had moved on from his position at Griffin’s Roost to take Storm’s End and several other castles nearby. Of particular concern were reports from some of the refugees flooding the Riverlands that the invading army had brought plague to the Stormlands as well as war, although stories conflicted as to the specific illness involved, with everything from severe dysentery to an illness resembling the Great Spring Sickness to greyscale being mentioned. The reports of contagion had become numerous enough that some of the River Lords had begun closing their lands to refugees although neither Edmure nor Olyvar had received word of any actual sickness within the Riverlands themselves at the time they wrote their letters. Whether the plague reports were true or not, the reports that Doran Martell of Dorne had officially declared for Aegon apparently were. Both Edmure and Olyvar had received confirmation of that from multiple sources, including some within Dorne itself.

“She has her dragon,” Catelyn said. “With such chaos everywhere, I can’t imagine anyone mounting an effective defense against it.”

“No,” Ned agreed. “But I honestly don’t know if she has the will to burn thousands of people to win her throne, Cat, even if she does have the power. I saw how she was affected by the deaths of Bronze Yohn and Stannis, and they were only two men--one of whom she hated.” He shook his head. “If she isn’t willing to use her dragon, and if her enemies suspect that . . .”

He let the sentence trail off, and Catelyn finished it, “Then she’ll need as large an army as she can get to win her war. And thousands will still die--simply not from dragon fire.” Catelyn felt cold suddenly as she imagined Ned riding south with his injured leg and all his banner men around him. War and winter would conspire to keep him away for years even if he managed not to be killed. “I am weary of war, Ned,” she whispered, her voice breaking only slightly. “I want to remember what it is not to fear and grieve every single day. I want Brien to grow to be a man, and I want him to know his father.”

He started to rise and come to her, but forgot about his leg in his concern for her distress, wincing and falling back down into the chair as he put too much weight on it. “Come here, Cat,” he said then, and she rose and went around the desk to him.

He reached up and pulled her down into his lap, and she laid her head on his shoulder as he put his arms around her. _How did I survive with you gone so long? How will I survive if you leave and are gone even longer?_ She hated her weakness. He deserved better than that from her, but she found herself unable to pull herself from his arms. She simply let him hold her, taking strength from his warm, solid presence.

“I will not go south, Cat,” he said after a moment. She raised her head and looked at him then, waiting for him to continue.

He looked at her with an expression of great tenderness and raised one hand to tug at a strand of hair beside her face, running his fingers over it from the top of her head to its end, brushing his fingertips against her skin as he did so. It was a gesture he’d made thousands of times over the years, and she felt tears sting her eyes.

“You said we have paid more than enough,” he told her earnestly. “When I first arrived back at Winterfell. And you were right. We have.” He swallowed. “I am the Lord of Winterfell, and I will do my duty by my queen. But I am also the Warden of the North, and that means the protection of the North is given to me. I will not go south and leave it defenseless. I will not leave you and our children and our home defenseless. My place is here. When Daenerys Targaryen arrives, we shall see what she asks of me, and I will give her what I can for I have sworn myself to her and I meant it. But my place is here, and I shall make her see that.”

He pulled her to him then and kissed her, and she allowed herself to forget for a moment all the threats from north and south, thinking only of his warm lips against hers and the resolution she had heard in his word. _I will not go south, Cat._

Once, long ago, he had said words very like that to her, and she had argued with him to do otherwise--had told him he must go south, must be Hand to Robert Baratheon, must betroth their precious daughter to the crown prince. _What a fool I was._

Now, as he held her even more tightly and deepened the kiss, she clung to him, thinking that she would fight anyone who ever tried to take him south again.

“Oh!” A soft feminine exclamation of surprise caused them to break apart, and Catelyn looked up to see Letty in the doorway, holding Brien. “Oh, forgive me, milady,” she sputtered. “It’s only . . .the door wasn’t truly closed, and . . .he’s hungry . . .and . . .”

“It’s all right, Letty,” Catelyn assured her, rising from Ned’s lap to come and take her son from the embarrassed maid’s arms. “I’ve got him now. You may go.” She felt her own cheeks were a bit warmer than usual and hoped she wasn’t blushing. 

When Letty hurriedly left the solar, and she turned back to look at Ned, she realized that hope was forlorn. He was actually grinning at her. “You do realize she’s run straight off to tell all the other maids precisely how it is that the Lord and Lady of Winterfell _work_ together in the lord’s solar,” he said teasingly.

“You aren’t a bit funny, Ned,” she told him. 

He smiled at her and then turned his gaze toward the infant she held. “I swear he grows daily, Cat. He doesn’t look to be starving at the moment as far as I can see.”

She smiled back at him. He was asking to hold his son. As the child certainly wasn’t fussing or even rooting around at her chest presently, she walked back to the desk and handed him over. Ned held the babe in front of him with well practiced hands. 

“Hello, young lad,” he said, looking down at the boy. “Are you being a good boy today?”

As if he understood the question, Brien opened his mouth in a wide toothless smile, and Ned laughed with delight. “Ah, you think you’ve been that good, do you?” he said, bouncing the babe gently.

Catelyn’s heart felt full as she watched the two of them together. He’d loved all their children wholeheartedly from the first time he’d laid eyes on them, and it was one of the first things she’d loved about him. Had he not been so obviously entranced by Robb from the very first, she thought she might not have gotten past the shock and shame of finding Jon Snow at Winterfell upon her arrival. The thought of Robb brought with it the usual sharp dagger of pain, but the sweet memory of Ned holding him as he held Brien now was stronger, and Catelyn smiled at her husband and her sixth child and allowed herself to cherish the memory of her firstborn as well as the blessing of her newest son. 

After a few moments, Brien gave a sudden loud wail, and Ned looked absolutely crestfallen. 

Catelyn laughed. “It isn’t you, my love. He thinks you’re fascinating. It’s simply that Letty spoke truly when she said he was hungry, and I fear he’s remembered that hunger now in spite of his enjoyment of your face and voice.”

“Ah,” Ned said, looking down at his son. “Then you’d best go to your mother, son. I’m afraid I cannot help you.” He looked up at Catelyn and smiled as he handed their son to her. “Will you feed him here?”

“No,” she said reluctantly. “I promised the children I’d come down to the Great Hall for the midday meal and it’s almost midday now. If I take him to my chambers, it will be easier to feed him, settle him, and make myself presentable enough for the Hall.”

“Mayhap, I shall come to the Great Hall for the meal as well.”

“Ned,” she said warningly. “Sam’s angry enough at Jon and myself for agreeing to bring you to your solar. I’ll take my evening meal with you, here or in my chambers. But you are not to leave the Great Keep yet. You are not even to get out of that chair without someone to help you. Should I send someone now?”

“No,” Ned sighed. “I want to write to Andar Royce. Just have someone send me some food here. It isn’t humane to starve prisoners.”

She laughed at him. “You aren’t a prisoner, Ned. You simply aren’t ready to walk about on that leg yet.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he accused her.

“A little,” she admitted. “It is rather nice to not be the one confined for a change.” Brien wailed again, as if wondering why his mother had taken him if she didn’t intend to feed him, and she sighed. “I should go.” She leaned down to kiss him quickly. “I know you will find the right words, my love,” she said then, knowing he dreaded responding to Bronze Yohn’s son.

“I may ask you to read it before I send it, Cat.”

“I will be happy to, my lord.” Her words were punctuated by another wail from Brien, and he proceeded to cry in earnest. She shook her head and smiled. “But first, I shall feed your ravenous son.”

She just barely heard his soft chuckle follow her out of the solar over the babe’s cries. _He is not going south,_ she thought to herself. _His place is here._ She hoped desperately that Daenerys Targaryen would agree.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Ned stared at the parchment in front of him, wondering precisely what to put down on it. Andar Royce deserved the truth, of course, and that is what he would give him, but how much detail did the young man truly need to know. He could remember begging for details of his father’s and brother’s deaths and being frustrated by the vague descriptions he’d gotten. Yet would the gruesome details of Rickard Stark’s flesh burning within his armor as it was heated by the flames have brought him comfort? Somehow, he doubted it. Watching the dragonfire strike Bronze Yohn, burning his own hands when he touched that molten armor, and watching the man’s agonizing last breaths had brought him a more vivid understanding of his own father’s death than he’d ever had before, and it certainly didn’t comfort him now. He doubted it would comfort Andar.

He’d written the young man from Last Hearth, of course, to tell him his father was dead. He’d stated simply that Yohn had been battling the Others bravely when he’d been caught up in the dragonfire. Andar’s letter had made it clear that he required more information, and in truth he deserved it. But shielding the new Lord of Runestone from unnecessary anguish was only part of the problem. The Vale was nearly as isolated from the other regions of Westeros as the North, and it could remain out of the current conflicts until a dragon flew overhead if Andar Royce so chose. The Vale men in Last Hearth had knelt before Daenerys Targaryen same as all the others, but Andar Royce, who now had charge of little Robert Arryn, would ultimately control the loyalties of the Vale. Ned hoped to have him declare unequivocally for Daenerys. He was reasonably certain he could gain her Edmure’s support; and a united North, Vale, and Riverlands all supporting a queen who rode a dragon might influence other lords to more quickly bend the knee. Yet, if young Andar held Daenerys Targaryen responsible for his father’s death once he heard the full story, the likelihood of his support lessened considerably.

Sighing heavily, Ned dipped the quill and began to write.

_Lord Royce,_

_It is with a very heavy heart that I write to you. Now that the immediate threat to the North has passed, and I have the time to do it properly, I feel you should know the precise manner of your lord father’s death. Lord Yohn was a brave and valiant man whom I considered a friend. I will never be able to repay the debt I owe him for his assistance in capturing the Eyrie from Petyr Baelish and rescuing my daughter, agreeing to foster my nephew and govern the Eyrie in his name, and leading the Lords of the Vale against the terrible attacks in the North._

_The beings known as Others, long thought to be only legend are indeed real. They crossed the Wall and attacked several northern castles, including Winterfell, in large numbers. Your lord father was positioned just north of Last Hearth. His men battled a large contingent of Others and wights, attempting to keep them from advancing on Last Hearth. Only weapons of dragonglass had any impact on these beings, and those were in short supply. Your lord father discovered that the runes on his armor kept the Others from him, however, and he forever placed himself at the fore of battle to protect his men. Fighting was fierce, but it was a losing battle until a new ally came to our aid._

_Daenerys Targaryen arrived with dragons. Yes, true living dragons. She rides an enormous black one she calls Drogon. She led these dragons into battle against our foes, and the Others burned in their fiery breath. Men would burn, too, however, and Lord Yohn planned a strategy whereby he used the repulsive power of his armor to hold back Others while men fled before the dragons charged, only fleeing himself at the last possible moment. His courage in this undertaking was tremendous, and his plan worked beautifully._

_However, one of the dragons, a riderless white dragon turned from the Others and pursued Lord Yohn, ignoring the queen’s commands to stop. It was this beast which killed your lord father with its fiery breath. His armor was nearly melted, and he died very quickly, living only long enough to tell me to win the battle. We did win the battle. While far too many men died, the Others have been driven away and the North is safe from them at the moment. I know no better way to honor your father’s sacrifice._

_As to the white dragon which killed him, Queen Daenerys insisted upon slaying it with her own hand. She gave your father justice. As for myself, I have bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen in gratitude for her coming to the succor of the North when her dragons were needed. I have found her to be young, but intelligent and fair minded. I believe she is the best of the current aspirants to the Iron Throne._

Ned sighed heavily, thinking that she also had near absolute power already if she chose to use those dragons of hers against her enemies. Opposing her at this point seemed rather pointless, but he did believe the girl had at least the makings of a good ruler. _She can hardly do worse than Robert did in the end,_ he thought ruefully. _And I do not see any madness in her._ He sighed once more as he read what he had written and wondered if he should include anything about Stannis Baratheon’s death. Young Royce hadn’t asked about Stannis in his letter, and Ned decided to answer only the question he had asked and leave the rest for later. He’d written Selyse Baratheon at the Wall about her husband’s death when he’d originally written Andar Royce, but he’d received no response from her as of yet. He’d written a quick message to Davos Seaworth as well and asked a man to ride along the defense line to where Stannis’s Hand was positioned and deliver it to him. He felt Seaworth deserved a personal letter informing him of his king’s passing.

He wrote a quick closing to his letter to Andar Royce and then laid it aside until he could have Catelyn read it. His stomach growled, and he hoped that she would have food sent to him soon. He had a dull headache and his leg throbbed painfully, but he supposed he should move on to the ledgers. He had no doubt that his wife had kept a close accounting of things in his absence in spite of her own poor health since Brien’s birth, but he needed to see for himself how the castle stood in terms of various provisions as winter was well upon them now.

He opened the desk drawer where the ledgers were kept and was surprised to find a sealed roll of parchment. He picked it up to examine it and was startled to read his own name written in his wife’s hand just above the grey sealing wax with direwolf imprinted in it. Puzzled, he broke the seal and began to read.

_My love,_

_This is not a letter I would ever have chosen to write you, but I would not have you return to Winterfell to find us simply gone, vanished as Lady Alys and all at the Karhold with no explanation or farewell._

_Winterfell has been besieged by Others for the past two nights. We haven’t the men to repel another attack. We will not give up. We will fight to the last person. I promise you that. But I fear we are simply too few, and they are too many._

_I will have our children with me. You must know that we were all together at the end. We shall make our stand in my chambers where so many happy memories were made. They have been very brave, our children, and you should be proud of each of them, as I know you are. They love you so much, Ned, and I shall be certain to tell them once more of your great love for them, although they all know it already._

_I hate knowing how you shall grieve, my love. Knowing so well how badly you will be hurt by such a tremendous loss pains me more than contemplating my own death. Know that I will fight for our children until my very last breath leaves my body. I am sorry if I have failed them and you._

_I love you, Ned. We have come through a great deal, my love. We have hurt each other and healed each other, and through everything for a very long time now, we have loved each other. I would not have wished to live any life in which I was not your wife or the mother of our children. Know that always._

_Farewell, my love. Know that I will wait for you forever, and that your love has always been enough._

_Catelyn_

He wasn’t aware that he was crying until a drop of moisture hit the parchment and caused the ink to run in one place. _Starks don’t cry,_ he thought rather dully as the silent tears continued to fall. Shaking, he carefully laid the letter back down on the desk. Unspeakable terror at what he had so nearly lost filled him, paradoxically accompanied by overwhelming gratitude that Catelyn and their children still lived, and that they were his.

_I will never leave you alone and defenseless again, Cat. I swear before all the gods that I will protect you and our children with my life._

The Lord of Winterfell then sat silently at his desk staring at the letter from his wife until a girl from the kitchen knocked on his door with a tray.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Jon stood atop Winterfell’s wall with Lady Stark watching Daenerys Targaryen approach on Drogon. Rhaegal had known the black dragon drew near long before it became visible, and so Jon had known as well. He had gone immediately to his father’s solar to inform him that the queen would arrive at any moment, and Eddard Stark had charged him to find Lady Catelyn and greet Daenerys with all due courtesy before bringing her to the solar to him. Jon knew it bothered his father greatly not to go out and greet the queen himself, and the fact he did not even attempt to suggest it bore witness to how bad his leg truly was.

Jon had hurried to the Great Hall where he’d found Lady Stark just finishing her meal. She’d immediately ordered her children and other members of the household to assemble in the courtyard, and she had climbed the stairs to the top of the wall to wait and watch with Jon. They hadn’t been there long when Drogon appeared in the sky to the north.

“I stood with Ned upon the wall the last time that beast approached Winterfell,” Lady Stark said quietly, looking out at the rapidly enlarging black dragon. “Of course, we were on the southern wall then, and he made me go back down before it reached us.” She looked up at Jon beside her. “Ned feared the Targaryen girl might be inclined to harm us.”

Jon grunted. Knowing Daenerys as he did now, he didn’t believe she would ever have attacked the Starks unprovoked, but his father’s caution had been wise. “You aren’t afraid of her now?” he asked.

Lady Stark sighed. “She has no love for us, but she is not a murderess. And I think, perhaps, she does not hate us quite so much as she did before. As long as she can control this beast better than the one which killed Yohn . ..” She pressed her lips tightly together. Jon knew she had been fond of the Lord of Runestone.

“Drogon obeys her, Lady Stark. Viserion . . .I don’t know that anyone could have controlled Viserion.” Jon spoke no further as the black dragon was nearly upon them. Beside him, Lady Stark dropped respectfully to her knees, and he did the same.

“Jon!” he heard Daenerys’s voice cry out joyfully as Drogon landed heavily beside them on a turret. “I thought you were Lord Stark, standing here in all those furs!” She slid off Drogon and tapped him lightly. The dragon immediately rose once more into the air and flew rapidly toward the wolfwood. “I take it Rhaegal’s somewhere out there?” she asked.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Jon said, remaining on his knees.

Daenerys seemed to notice that he and Lady Stark actually knelt before her then because she walked to them, approaching Lady Stark first. “Welcome back to Winterfell, Your Grace,” Lady Stark said courteously. “The castle is yours.”

“I thank you, Lady Stark,” Daenerys said, giving the older woman her hand and indicating she should rise. “But where is your lord husband?”

“He regrets not coming out to meet you, Your Grace,” Lady Stark said quickly. “But I fear he took an injury to his leg during the battle at Last Hearth which prevents him from walking very far at present. He awaits you in his solar.”

“At Last Hearth?” Daenerys said, a puzzled expression on her face.

“The cut he took in his calf festered,” Jon said. “You may not have even realized he’d been cut. He did a pretty good job of ignoring it.”

She seemed to only then realize he still knelt there. “Oh, get up, Jon,” she said. “I do remember now. He was limping a bit more than usual. But he’ll be all right?” The concern in her voice sounded genuine.

“He will,” Lady Stark answered confidently. “Let’s get you down off this wall, Your Grace. I’m afraid that cloak’s too thin to give you much protection from the wind up here now that you are away from the warmth of your dragon.

Jon realized then that Daenerys did shiver slightly as they stood there. “I fear you are correct, Lady Stark,” she said.

Lady Stark smiled and turned to lead them down the stairs, intentionally leaving Jon free to offer his arm to Daenerys. Whatever else he might say about her, he would never criticize his father’s wife’s skill as a gracious hostess.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Jon saw all his siblings save Brien lined up to greet them. Deryk, Sam, Dak, Lord Tyrion, and several others were there as well. When Daenerys approached, they all dropped to their knees save Bran, of course. He was being carried on the back of a large young man whose name Jon couldn’t recall. Daenerys greeted all of them graciously, and seemed particularly pleased to see Tyrion Lannister.

“I am certain Her Grace would like to get inside now,” Lady Stark said after all the courtesies had been observed. “And I know Lord Stark is quite anxious to see you and to hear how things fare to the north.”

“And you will want to know all that has occurred at Winterfell, Your Grace,” Tyrion Lannister added, looking at Daenerys rather intently.

“Indeed,” Daenerys said. “Shall we proceed to your lord husband’s solar then, Lady Stark?”

“Of course,” Lady Stark said. “Sam, we may have need of you shortly, should we need to send correspondence.”

“I will be in the maester’s turret, my lady,” Sam said.

Lady Stark nodded. “Children, you should get inside. It is a good bit colder today than it has been, and the sky looks like snow.”

“Mother, can I go to the godswood for just a little while?” Bran asked quickly. “Tom can take me, and I won’t stay long at all. I promise.”

Lady Stark looked like she wanted to say no, but she only looked at her son for a moment and then nodded. “Do not stay long, Bran. And if it begins to snow heavily, you and Tom come back at once.” She looked at the big youth holding him. “You will remember that, won’t you, Tom? Even if my son forgets?”

The boy grinned, and Jon realized he truly was little more than a boy for all his great size. “I promise, milady. I’ll take care of him and get him back safe.”

Lady Stark smiled at him, and then turned to lead the rest of them into the Great Keep.

When they reached his father’s solar, they found him standing behind the desk, bracing his hands upon it to steady himself. Lady Stark frowned slightly, but Jon had to hide a smile. Of course, his father did not want to meet his queen while confined to a chair like an invalid.

“Your Grace,” Ned Stark said graciously. “It is a pleasure to welcome you back to Winterfell.”

“It is a pleasure to be here,” Daenerys replied.

“There is food and drink here, Your Grace,” Lady Stark said, indicating a tray on a table at the side of the room. “We had actually just eaten our midday meal before you arrived, but please take some refreshment.”

“I’ll have something warm to drink, if you’ve got it, but I’d rather talk than eat at the moment,” Daenerys said, sinking into a chair directly across the desk from Lord Stark.

Lady Stark went to pour something into a large mug which she then handed to Daenerys. She then took a seat herself in a chair beside her husband’s, and Jon and Tyrion Lannister found seats as well.

“We had a letter from Lord Umber, Your Grace,” Ned Stark said without further preamble. “You met no other large forces of Others in your travels? Where all have you been with your dragon?”

Daenerys looked irritated at being questioned before she could even say anything, but she answered him. “I met almost no Others at all, and I made rather a point of traveling by night. It’s nearly always night in any event, especially up toward the Wall. Those that we saw, Drogon burned, but those few were only to the east of Last Hearth toward the Karhold. We saw none once we turned westward and moved northwest along the line to Castle Black.”

“And the men had seen none either?” Jon asked eagerly.”

Daenerys shook her head. “Not in several days at least. Your man, Ser Perwyn, whom I met riding westward from the Karhold had encountered a few bands of wights, but his men had dispatched them.”

“And where is Perwyn heading?” Jon questioned.

“Initially, Last Hearth. His intent was to return to the Wall.”

“Did . . .”

“Jon,” Daenerys interrupted in some exasperation. “If you and your uncle could cease questioning me, I would like to speak.”

Her voice was controlled, but Jon saw the flash in her purple eyes, and he bit off the rest of his question. “Of course, Your Grace,” he said.

“The creatures you call Others are helpless against dragonfire,” Daenerys proclaimed confidently. “A single dragon can eliminate hundreds of them with relative ease and quickness. If the assault on Last Hearth comprised the largest bunch of them south of the Wall, I believe it is safe to say that we have eliminated your northern threat for the moment, Lord Stark, and it is time to turn our eyes southward.”

“I would submit the attack on Winterfell involved as large a force of the White Walkers, Your Grace,” Tyrion Lannister put in, and the queen turned to look at him. “We were assaulted by them three nights straight. Tremendous numbers of them. We would not have survived the last night had Jon Snow not arrived with Rhaegal.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Daenerys said. “But I am glad Jon and Rhaegal did come in time. Were there many casualties?”

“The death toll now stands at just over seven hundred,” Ned Stark said quietly, and Jon watched Danerys’s face grow visibly paler. “So you may see, Your Grace, why I am not ready to declare the North secure just yet. The immediate threat may be past, but we certainly didn’t kill all of those creatures. We have driven them off to gods know where, but winter is here, and will be here for a long time. What’s to prevent the Others from returning? Should they do so while you and your dragons are far to the south, I must be prepared to make the best defense I can.”

Daenerys nodded slightly. “I am glad that none of your family were hurt, my lord,” she said after a moment.

“My lady wife was stabbed by an Other,” his father said coldly.

Daenerys’s eyes grew wide at that, and she stared at Lady Stark as if she had never seen her before.

“I am quite well now, Your Grace,” Lady Stark assured her.

“I am glad of it,” Daenerys said, almost in a whisper. 

“These things come from beyond the Wall,” Tyrion Lannister stated flatly. “Would you have the queen’s dragons hunt them down far beyond the boundaries of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“No,” Eddard Stark and Daenerys Targaryen said at the same time. Father nodded his head toward the queen, indicating she should speak first.”

“I must secure my own throne,” Daenerys said firmly. “The North is part of my realm, and if it falls under attack again, I will come to your aid as I am able. But beyond the Wall is no concern of mine. I have too many concerns to the south.”

“I agree with you, Your Grace,” Ned Stark said calmly. “It would be a futile pursuit in any event. The lands beyond the Wall are as vast, if not more vast than all the lands that bow to Winterfell, and they are far more inhospitable. Even the wildlings do not go into the coldest and wildest places there. A million Others could conceal themselves and we would never find them. Apparently, they’ve done just that for hundreds of years.”

Jon watched his father intently and realized that Daenerys was doing the same. Everyone simply waited for him to continue speaking.

“Others north of the Wall can only concern me insofar as I must endeavor to keep them there. And to do that, I have two weapons--the Wall itself, and the Night’s Watch. For whatever reason, the Wall, at least at Eastwatch, does not seem to repel the creatures as it was intended. I do not know what magic lies within the ice of the Wall or what has disrupted it, and I am powerless to do anything about that.

As for the Night’s Watch, it is but a pitiful shadow of what it once was, undermanned and made up largely of men with little honor or training at arms. I must have more watchers on that Wall if I am to keep my lands secure.”

“Her Grace can hardly order any of her men to join the Night’s Watch, Lord Stark,” Lord Tyrion said then. “That is a life long commitment. And she needs all of her men.”

“I don’t want any of her men,” Father stated simply. “I want to hear her thoughts, and Jon’s, on a plan my lady wife has devised.”

 _A plan for the Night’s Watch devised by Lady Stark?_ Jon thought he must be hearing things. He stared at the woman in question, and then realized his father was speaking to him. “You are Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Jon. Not me. Decisions that directly impact the Watch are yours to make. I had hoped to speak of this with you privately, but I believe we must discuss it now. Please listen to what Catelyn has to say, and give me your thoughts on it.”

Jon nodded, still staring at Lady Stark.

She spoke then, outlining a plan for men of the North to be called from the lands of every Northern lord to serve for a finite period of time at the Wall, augmenting the Night’s Watch, answering to his authority while they served. He had to admit her idea was a good one.

“Will the Northern lords be willing to commit men to such a venture?” Tyrion Lannister asked.

“The northernmost houses, certainly, as they’ve either seen the threat themselves or have been close enough to the places attacked to feel threatened. The more southern houses may require more convincing, but I am their liege lord. They will comply.”

“They’d better,” Lannister muttered. “The northernmost houses have precious few men left to send after what’s gone on.”

“What about the challenges of having some castles manned by the Watch and others by men who will be allowed to return to families and lives, Jon? Will it cause too much discord?”

Jon looked at Lady Stark, wondering if he would ever stop being startled at her use of his given name or her sincerely asking his opinion on anything. “There will be challenges,” he said. “But I’m pretty much doing this already, using free folk to man some of the castles. They aren’t bound to the Watch for life, although some of them have chosen to take the vows and join the Watch officially.”

His father nodded. “Likely some of these would do the same. There are plenty of men who feel they’ve no real opportunity for honor or purpose or even a decent home with food enough to eat. Men like that might find service at the Wall a better life than they’d find elsewhere.”

“Even a bastard can rise high on the Wall,” Jon muttered, aware of the bitterness in his voice only when he saw the pain in Ned Stark’s grey eyes. “It’s true,” he said then, attempting to ease that pain. “Service, loyalty, skill. These are what matter in men of the Watch. I don’t care what their house sigil is or whether or not they even have a house or a sigil or a name. I intend to judge men by their deeds, and so yes, a bastard can rise as high as the trueborn son of any lord should he earn his way.”

Jon saw only pride in his father’s eyes then, and that made him proud. He turned to his father’s wife. “It’s a good plan, Lady Stark. I’m certainly willing to give it a try. The gods know I need more men, and if my lord father’s men will truly follow my authority while serving, even though they are not bound to the Watch, this could work very well to bring us the men we need.”

“You intend to stay on the Wall then?”

Daenerys’s question caused him to turn toward her. She looked at him with those violet eyes as if she expected him to say something different.

“Of course,” he said. “I already told you that I seek no title beyond the one I have. A man of the Night’s Watch serves for life. I am the Lord Commander, and I will not desert my men.”

“I need you and Rhaegal when I fight for my throne.”

“The Night’s Watch takes no part,” he said simply.

“Unless it’s Winterfell,” she retorted. “You took part pretty bloody quickly when it was Winterfell!”

“Winterfell was under attack by Others!” Jon almost shouted. He’d nearly forgotten everyone in the room other than his aunt now. “The Others are the very things the Wall and the Watch were created to fight! There were no politics, no thrones to be won, no territories to gain! Only people being killed! My family being threatened!”

“Your family!” she shouted back, rising from her chair. “You spent all that time at the Wall telling me how Eddard Stark was not your father, telling me how the Night’s Watch takes no part, that your brothers on the Wall are your family. Yet here, you call this man nothing but father. You came here for the sake of family, Jon Snow! Not for your duty to the Night’s Watch!” She glared at him and took several deep breaths. “Make up your mind who you are, Jon Snow. Because if you are the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, you are my family, too. But I have no need to include Ned Stark’s bastard in any discussions of my plans. I believe we have said all we need to say regarding the Night’s Watch at the moment so you are excused, Lord Commander.”

Jon gaped at her. “Daenerys, I . . .”

“You are excused, Lord Commander.”

Jon looked at the other people in the room. Lady Stark was looking at Daenerys with an expression that almost looked like pity. The Lannister Imp was looking back and forth between the two of them in obvious amusement. His father looked directly at him, and when Jon met his eyes, Lord Stark nodded very slightly.

Jon then stood, realizing once more how tiny his aunt truly was as he towered over her. She glared up at him unflinchingly. “Your Grace,” he said with all the courtesy he could muster. Then he bowed low to her and turned to leave the solar. 

_You are my family, too._ Her words echoed in his mind as he walked down the corridor. She had no family. They were as dead as he had once believed his father and younger brothers to be. And now one of her dragons was dead by her own hand. He began to understand Lady Stark’s expression when she’d looked at Daenerys, and he couldn’t remain angry at his aunt. Not as angry as he had been anyway. He’d allow her to be Her Grace the Queen and hold her little war council, and then he’d find her. He’d find her and tell her that he was her family, but that he still belonged to the Watch. His father understood that well enough. Even his brothers and sisters seemed to understand. But they were of the North. Jon hoped he could find a way to make his fiery aunt understand it as well. 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Your Grace. I would appreciate your not dismissing people from my solar.”

Tyrion Lannister had been staring at the door which had just closed behind the retreating form of Jon Snow when Eddard Stark’s voice broke the silence, rather like an icy wind. He turned to see Daenerys look down to glare at the Northman who remained seated in his chair.

“Is this how you would speak to your queen, Lord Stark?” she asked him. “Or was it some other man who bent his knee and acknowledged my throne at Last Hearth?”

Stark’s expression did not change at all, but Tyrion did not miss the fact that his wife moved her hand to touch her husband’s. _She’s worried that he’s angry enough to say more than he should._ “You are my queen, Your Grace,” Stark said in that same even tone. “Which is why I said nothing about your treatment of the Lord Commander in his presence. I would not presume to question your actions in front of him or anyone else.” Tyrion suppressed a laugh as Daenerys looked pointedly at Lady Stark and himself, but Stark simply continued speaking. “In a private council, however, I would hope you would welcome honest speech. Rulers who surround themselves with those who speak only what they wish to hear will rule neither wisely nor for very long.”

“Well said, Lord Stark!” Tyrion said brightly before Daenerys could say anything to increase the tension that already lay quite thickly enough in the room. “I have found Her Grace has as little need of flattery as I imagine you do, so in that at least, the two of you should get on quite well.”

Daenerys looked down at him then, frowning. “Would that I had no need of Lannister dwarves,” she remarked. Lady Stark did not even attempt to hide her laugh at that, and Daenerys’s frown lessened slightly when she heard it. “As you keep proving yourself useful, however, I suppose I will continue to suffer your foolishness.”

Eddard Stark muttered something that sounded like ‘flatterers and fools,’ but Lady Stark said, “Lord Lannister provided a good deal of assistance to me during the attack on our castle, Your Grace. I thank you for sending him to us.”

Of course, no one in the room was under the mistaken impression that Daenerys had sent him to Winterfell to provide any service to the Starks, but Tyrion had to admire the she-wolf’s smooth courtesy. He appreciated her acknowledgment of what he’d done here as well, whether she was sincere in her appreciation or not.

“I am pleased you found some use for him,” Daenerys said, sitting back down and accepting the change of subject Lady Stark had offered. “And I am truly sorry for all that you suffered here at Winterfell.”

Lady Stark bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement of the sentiment, not removing her hand from where it rested on her husband’s.

“My lady wife has received numerous letters, Your Grace, which speak of various events to the south, and I would like to share their tidings with you,” Stark said then.

“I would appreciate that, my lord.” Neither of them said anything else about Ned Stark’s putative bastard or what constituted appropriate speech toward a queen.

When Lord Stark had given a concise summary of all the information he’d received about other areas of the realm, Daenerys looked toward Tyrion. “The reports of the reavers in the Reach match what we heard when we took Dragonstone.” Tyrion was pleased that she had seized upon this point of information first. The Ironborn would make a good first conquest as no one in Westeros would likely mind seeing a significant number of Iron Islanders go up in flames.

Returning her gaze to Lord Stark, she said, “We had expected more resistance when we arrived to Dragonstone, but it was scarcely defended. We knew the Lannister pretender had taken it from Stannis Baratheon’s men, but by the time we came, their fleet had gone to defend against the Ironborn.”

“And it appears they are in somewhat of a stalemate, according to Lord Stark’s sources,” Tyrion stated. “I wonder if our men on Dragonstone have heard the same.”

“Only Euron and Aeron Greyjoy are mentioned in any of my correspondence,” Lord Stark said then. “I had always thought Victarion the man to actually lead the attacks his brother Euron planned, and yet I hear no word of him.”

Daenerys looked once more toward Tyrion, and he nodded slightly.

Returning her gaze to Lord Stark, Daenerys said, “Victarion Greyjoy is dead.”

Still the man’s expression did not change, but Tyrion thought he saw just the slightest widening of his eyes. Lady Stark’s face, however, showed obvious surprise. “Where did you hear this, Your Grace?” she asked.

“I didn’t hear it,” Daenerys said calmly. “I killed him.”

For the briefest of moments, Eddard Stark’s mask slipped, and as Tyrion saw the shock there he had an absurd desire to applaud Daenerys for actually breaking through the man’s ice. “Why?” Lord Stark asked simply, his features once again frozen.

“He wished to wed me,” Daenerys said simply. “And he wished to take my dragons. I would allow neither of those things to take place.”

She looked away then, her purple eyes seeing things not in this room, and Tyrion knew this conversation had taken her back to Meereen--to the bloodbath of a battle and its almost equally horrible aftermath. While the Starks couldn’t possibly know the terrors that had occurred across the Narrow Sea, they seemed to recognize the queen’s distress because they waited silently, and Tyrion saw Eddard Stark grip his wife’s hand then.

Tyrion chose to break the silence himself. “Victarion Greyjoy arrived with his fleet, or what was left of it near the end of the Battle of Meereen,” he said. “He did little except help prevent some of our foes from escaping via the harbor. After the battle, he made it clear he intended to wed Queen Daenerys and that he would not take no for an answer. He seemed terribly confident in the success of his venture for a man far from home who’d brought a few ships to a queen with three dragons who’d just annihilated the great majority of her enemies in Essos. I managed to get spies onto his ships and discovered that he believed he had a way to wrest control of the dragons from Her Grace--a great horn called Dragonbinder. If he could make himself the master of the horn, he could be master of the dragons, or so he thought.”

“Did you see this horn?” Stark asked.

Daenerys returned to the conversation then. “I did,” she said. “When Lord Tyrion brought this information to me, I flew out to the man’s flagship and demanded to see this horn. He laughed and said that I would see it when it was blown for all the world to hear, and that I would have no choice but to be his wife then.”

Victarion Greyjoy had been brave, but very stupid, Tyrion thought. He had not been there to see Daenerys confront the man and had in fact attempted to stop her from going. She had just returned from walking the streets of Meereen witnessing the massive degree of destruction and misery the battle had wrought after spending her morning witnessing the executions of the Yunkai’i who had brought her Daario Naharis’s head. If Victarion Greyjoy had not taken one look at her and realized the danger he was in, he had no one to blame but himself.

“I told him I was finished with being sold into marriage, and that I would never wed him,” she continued. “He laughed. I demanded the horn again, and he laughed. So I told him I would burn his ship, and I commanded Drogon to set fire to the mast. He stopped laughing then.” She did not look away from Lord Stark when she spoke the next. “He came at Drogon and me with an axe that he carried. Drogon was smaller then than he is now, but he was still much too large to be harmed by that axe. The man was aiming for me. I commanded Drogon to bring his fire again, and he did. He burned Victarion Greyjoy.”

“And the horn?” Lady Stark asked in a remarkably calm voice given what she’d just heard.

“A man came running across the deck then with an enormous black horn. I think he wanted to give it to me. To surrender. But Drogon saw him as a threat and burned him without my command. The horn didn’t burn, though. Not at all. It fell to the deck and the writing on its bands glowed. That frightened me.”

“What did you do with it?”

“It’s at the bottom of the sea with Victarion Greyjoy’s fleet.” She said quietly.

“The other two dragons came then,” Tyrion said. “They burned all the ships. Nothing was left of that fleet but ash. That horn, wherever it came from and whatever it was either burned or sank. There is no other possibility.”

“It didn’t burn,” Daenerys said definitely. She had never wavered in her assertion that it had been completely undamaged by Drogon’s fire, but Tyrion had seen the inferno that had engulfed the harbor when Rhaegal and Viserion had begun firing the ships. It had been larger than any of the fires the dragons had started during the battle itself and had called to his mind the Battle of the Blackwater. He thought it entirely likely that enough heat had been eventually generated to burn anything, including Victarion Greyjoy’s mysterious horn.

“The dragons acted entirely beyond your control!” Lord Stark exclaimed furiously. “And you brought them here! To my home! By the gods, what were you thinking?”

“A dragon saved your home!” Daenerys replied just as angrily. “Rhaegal and Viserion were wild then, yes, but Drogon acted only on my command that day save for the one man, and he minds me far better now. Viserion is dead and your bastard controls Rhaegal’s very mind whether I wish him to or not. You should be thanking your gods I brought my dragons here, Lord Stark, rather than leaving you to die at the hands of your White Walkers!”

“She’s right, my lord,” Lady Stark said quietly but urgently before Lord Stark could say anything else. Tyrion watched the man turn toward his wife. “She’s right,” Lady Stark said again, looking into her husband’s eyes. “The dragons are fearsome and terrible beasts and we will likely never feel completely safe around them. But all powerful weapons are like that, my lord. You know that to be true. Men fear our children’s wolves as well, and I let them sleep on my bed.” She bit her lip. “We need the dragons more than we fear them, Ned.” The last was almost a whisper, and Tyrion thought the woman’s uncharacteristic use of her lord husband’s name rather than a proper honorific was likely indicative of the way these two spoke when alone together.

Her words seemed to reach her husband for the angry spark in his grey eyes seemed to lessen even though Danerys’s violet eyes still flashed. The Northman turned toward the young, angry queen. “Forgive me, Your Grace. Of course, I am glad of what your dragons have done for the North. I fear I have seen far too much death and horror of late, and your tale caused me to speak without thought.”

Tyrion thought the man’s apology was sincere even if the words did not seem to come easily to him. Daenerys still looked very much on edge, though, and he knew it would not take much to set her off again. “Very well, then,” he said. “Your question regarding Victarion Greyjoy’s whereabouts has been answered, Lord Stark. I think we can dispense with the telling of any more gruesome war stories for the gods know we likely all have enough of those, and move on to discussing the queen’s next move. Lady Stark, I see that there is wine with the food brought in for Her Grace?”

Lady Stark nodded to him. “Help yourself to it, Lord Lannister. You always do.”

As he went to pour himself a much needed glass of wine, Tyrion heard Lord Stark ask, “Where do you intend to go next?”

“I thought to go to Riverrun, my lord. Would you give me a letter for Lord Tully?”

Tyrion’s hand clenched around his wineglass at her words. It was the correct move, of course. She had the North now, and the Riverlands were situated between the Westerlands and Crownlands. Gaining the support of the River Lords without battle would benefit Daenerys greatly as she would certainly face battles in those other two places. Surely, Edmure Tully would abide by his goodbrother’s advice in this. The man had restored his castle to him after all, and Tullys were quite well known for sticking with their family.

Yet, Jaime was at Riverrun. _My brother._ And Tyrion knew full well that Jaime would likely not survive past Daenerys Targaryen’s arrival there. She would not put aside old hatreds to find common ground as she had done with the Starks. His hand had been the one that slew Aerys Targaryen, and Tyrion knew there would be no pardon for that ever. Madman he may have been, but the old dragon king was also Daenerys’s father, and she would not suffer his killer to live. He had his own reasons for wanting Jaime dead, but his feelings on the matter were far from settled.

“What of Cersei Lannister?” Lady Stark’s question cut through Tyrion’s own musings, and he returned to his seat beside Daenerys’s in front of Ned Stark’s desk. “You say you will execute the Kingslayer, but what of his twin?”

Ah, they had been speaking of his brother’s imminent death, then. He doubted the Starks would shed any tears for Jaime. And Lady Stark looked almost feral as she spoke of Cersei. “My sweet sister is a virtual prisoner in King’s Landing from what I have gleaned,” he said, raising his glass in mock salute. “Her champion apparently prevailed in her trial, so she was proved innocent of treason and murder . . .” He rolled his eyes at that. “but the Tyrells do not allow her to leave the Red Keep, and rumor has it the Faith demands that she be attended by septas at all times to prevent her from lapsing once more into moral decay. She must love that.”

“She is responsible for Robert’s death, though,” Ned Stark said flatly. “And she arrested me on false charges when I held the office of Hand of the King and had papers from the king himself naming me Regent. Both of those acts qualify as treason.”

“Against a false king. Against a usurper,” Daenerys said almost indifferently, and it occurred to Tyrion that of the four people in the room, she was likely the only one who did not vehemently wish to see his sister dead. Where he once had held onto some shred of concern for her simply because she was his sister, his last experiences with Cersei had destroyed any sense of familial loyalty. Unlike with Jaime, he felt no conflict whatsoever about his desire for Cersei’s blood.

“She has no power now,” Daenerys continued, “And so she is not an immediate threat. Once I have taken King’s Landing, if there is sufficient reason she should be executed, I shall see it done. But I would not have her killed simply because she was the Usurper’s wife. Women rarely have choice in such things, after all.”

At that point, Daenerys exchanged a look filled with some sort of understanding with Catelyn Stark, and Tyrion was surprised when the older woman simply nodded instead of demanding his sister’s head. “You speak truly, Your Grace,” she said after a moment. “I would wish Cersei punished only for her own crimes.”

“I would not advise going immediately into King’s Landing,” Ned Stark said then, and Tyrion realized that that while he had been lost in his own thoughts, they must have moved on from discussing the queen’s stop at Riverrun. “While it is certainly in disarray, you will face resistance, and the more people you must kill there, the more people who will hate you.”

“The Ironborn,” Tyrion and Daenerys said together, and Tyrion smiled at her. “Yes, Your Grace. I believe you should go and free the good people of the Reach from these terrible reavers. You can use your dragon to do it because no one will care how many of them die.”

“That is not entirely true,” Ned Stark said solemly, and Tyrion looked at him.

“The people of the Iron Islands will certainly care. Unless you are prepared to give every last man, woman, and child of the Ironborn to your dragon’s flames, they will care. And they have long memories.”

“They are not strong enough to challenge me.”

“No,” Stark agreed. “But they can certainly trouble my coastline, and that of the Riverlands and Westerlands. I think your plan to remove them from the Reach is a good one, but you must be prepared for what comes after. Who will rule the Iron Islands then, and what guarantee can you extract from them for their good behavior?”

Daenerys went silent then, but Tyrion knew where Lord Stark was going with this. Lady Stark replied, however. “Asha Greyjoy is the rightful heir to the Iron Islands since Theon’s death,” she said flatly. “You should restore her title in exchange for her bending the knee.”

“And why would she keep any oaths she makes me?” Daenerys asked.

“I do not know for certain that she would,” Lady Stark said honestly. “But she hates Robert Baratheon nearly as much as you do, Your Grace, ever since the Greyjoy Rebellion. She might prefer to see a Targaryen on the throne rather than anyone remotely connected with Robert’s reign. And she is not her father. She is Ironborn--a warrior with a belief in the right to take what you are strong enough to take--but she is not without honor.”

“Lady Greyjoy has been a guest at Winterfell for some time now, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, emphasizing the word ‘guest’ sarcastically. “Lady Stark has had opportunity to observe the woman, and even let her out to fight when we were under attack by the Others. She kept true to her word then.”

Daenerys snorted. “I imagine she was too busy fighting for her life to plot treason.”

“She has seen what the dragon did to the Others, Your Grace,” Lord Stark said quietly. “You can take her to see what your dragon can do to her uncle Euron’s fleet, and you can tell her what happened to Victarion. She isn’t stupid. She will know you hold not only her life, but the lives of her people. I would imagine that will go a long way toward ensuring her good behavior. If you also endeavor to treat her and her people with more respect than King Robert did, you may lessen their hatred and resentment with time.”

“Or not,” Tyrion said darkly.

“Or not,” Stark agreed. “I only say it may be possible. Holding Theon hostage all these years kept his father in line only until Robert’s death. Lady Greyjoy informed me that her father intended to declare himself king and rebel once more even before my son sent Theon to him.”

“You would give me your prisoner?” Daenerys asked him.

“As you are fond of reminding me, Your Grace, you are my queen. Lady Greyjoy is your prisoner to take if you wish.” Tyrion could swear the man was almost smiling, although his facial expression remained the same.

“What of my alleged nephew?” Daenerys asked then. “Not Jon. My other supposed nephew. Do we simply let him sit in the Stormlands and plot with Dorne?”

“For now? Yes,” Tyrion said. “He’s a smart boy, this Aegon, and an educated one. But he is not long on patience. If you move against the invaders in the Reach, Jon Connington will have him sitting still to see what you do next. Or sending men with marriage proposals. I told you that was the original plan at any rate. But I don’t think our fine prince will like sitting still doing nothing, and we shall see how he reacts.”

“You speak as if you know him,” Ned Stark said then.

“Oh, I do,” Tyrion assured him. He was rewarded by a look of shock from Lady Stark and a slight raise of the brows from Lord Stark. “I traveled with him for brief spell in Essos where he and Connington were pretending to be father and son.”

“Is he Aegon Targaryen, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Tyrion answered honestly. “He certainly looks more like a Targaryen than your erstwhile bastard does. He’s been raised and educated like a prince, and I’ve no doubt he believes he is one. None of that makes it necessarily true, however.”

“If he truly is Rhaegar’s son, his claim is stronger than yours, Your Grace,” Ned said, looking toward Daenerys.

“Are you taking back your oath already, Lord Stark?” Daenerys asked him angrily.

“Not at all, Your Grace. I am simply stating what others may say.”

“I see no way of ever confirming this man’s parentage, my lord,” she told him. “Whether he is my nephew or not, some will believe. Some will not. Most will forever question and doubt. No one doubts I am the daughter of Aerys and Rhaella Targaryen. That makes my claim stronger.”

“And the dragons don’t hurt,” Tyrion said wryly.

“I shall go to Riverrun and meet with Edmure Tully,” Daenerys said then. “Send word to Dragonstone that Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah are to bring our men westward to meet me.” She turned toward Lord Stark. “Where is the best place to meet them and plan my assault on the invaders in the Reach?”

“Castle Darry,” Lady Stark said without hesitation. “Your men can take ships up the Trident which will be far quicker than marching, and you can find it from Riverrun easily enough by following the River Road and turning south where it meets the Kingsroad. Darry lies along the road just south of the crossroads, and the lord and lady there were put in place by my brother. They will host you at his direction.”

“You are certain Lord Edmure will assist me?” Daenerys asked.

“Yes,” Lord and Lady Stark said together.

“Where would have you have me go?” Tyrion asked her then, hoping it would not be Riverrun. He had no chance of arriving there before she put his brother to death, and he had no desire to arrive there to be met with Jaime’s head above the gate.

“I would have you bring Lady Greyjoy along to Darry.”

“I haven’t the men for guarding a prisoner, Your Grace, and traveling by horse in the winter in the North will get me there long after you or the rest of our men.”

“Lord Stark will give you men.”

Ned Stark looked at her and waited for her to say more.

“I could command you to call your banners and send all your men south to fight for me, my lord,” she said, “although I understand you are not yet fit to ride.”

“Your Grace, I . . .”

“I have no intention of doing that, Lord Stark. Your point about the continued threat from beyond the Wall is well taken.” She frowned. “Although it appears you will have Rhaegal to defend you,” she said darkly. “At this time, I only require a small company to go with Lord Lannister in order to provide safe escort, guards for Lady Greyjoy, and proof of the North’s fidelity to my cause.”

“A small company?” Ned asked her.

“Five hundred men, at least,” she said.

“Your Grace, you know I don’t have that number of men in Winterfell at the moment.”

“Then find them elsewhere. And quickly.”

Ned Stark sighed heavily. Tyrion knew the man realized that as a ruler going to war, she wasn’t actually asking very much, but he also knew that the North remained rather in shambles after all that had occurred, and calling up men quickly would prove a tremendous challenge. “I can likely send a hundred with him and have a hundred more join quickly enough at Castle Cerwyn. I shall send ravens to White Harbor and Barrowton and order Lord Manderly and Lady Dustin to send men to meet him at Moat Cailin. Most of the men currently holding the Moat are from the Vale or the Riverlands and I would not command them to go, but some belong to Lady Meera Reed of Greywater Watch. I will write to her to send some of those as well.”

“How long will that take?” Daenerys asked.

“The men can be ready to depart from here and Castle Cerwyn within a couple of days, Your Grace, and I would not have Lord Lannister tarry any longer.” He turned to face Tyrion. “You may have to wait at the Moat for the others, but I would have you at least that far south as quickly as possible. Travel is only going to become more difficult, my lord.”

Tyrion nodded, already dreading the thought of giving up the warmth of his guest chamber at Winterfell for the inhumane cold of Northern winter nights on the road. He drained his wine and smiled at Lady Stark. “I can only hope Lady Greyjoy is half so pleasant a traveling companion as you were, my lady. Are you certain you wouldn’t like to come along? I recall how much you enjoy transporting captives.”

“Lord Lannister, I . . .” Stark started to say coldly, actually rising out of his chair with grey eyes as hard as stone. He was stopped by his lady wife’s hand upon his arm and the sound of her laughter.

“I am afraid I have responsibilities here, my lord,” Lady Stark said, amusement lighting those very blue eyes of hers. “Otherwise, I would be pleased to accompany you, provided you went bound and preferably gagged, of course.”

Tyrion’s smile widened, and he realized he would actually miss sparring with the she-wolf once he left. “Ah, but Lady Stark, a gag would prevent me from drinking, and that is one thing I would not forgo even for the pleasure of your company.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ned Stark was exhausted. He’d spent most of the day in his solar, both because he had a great deal to do there and because once he’d gotten there, he hadn’t relished the idea of walking anywhere else on his leg. When Daenerys Targaryen and Tyrion Lannister had finally left him, he’d asked Cat to have someone send Sam to him. The two of them had worked on a letter to Edmure and letters that his bannermen would not be pleased to receive. He imagined Lady Dustin, in particular, would be extremely displeased, and he thought he might hear her cursing his name all the way from Barrow Hall.

Sam had insisted upon his going to lie down after that so that he might re-pack and wrap the leg wound, and so he had called a man in to assist him in getting to Catelyn’s chamber. The leg had been stiff and even more painful and clumsy than before after sitting up so long, and the man had actually asked if Ned would prefer to go to his own rooms as they were closer. Sam had laughed out loud, and Ned had managed only a growled, “No,” fearing that after a day of Targaryens, Lannisters, and a good bit of physical pain, he might say something very unkind if he kept speaking.

The physical pain had only increased, of course, once he was sprawled on Catelyn’s bed and Sam began poking and prodding at the damned leg. Finally, he had finished and promised he would have food sent up from the evening meal.

“Fine. Just be certain to send the ravens, Sam.”

“I will, my lord. Every letter will go out, I promise.”

 _Letters._ His mind returned once more to Catelyn’s letter. He doubted she’d ever intended him to see it as she and the children had survived. Likely, with her own injury followed so quickly by his arrival home injured, she had simply forgotten to remove it from the solar. She’d had to break her promise to come and take her evening meal with him since she had to play hostess to the Targaryen girl (Queen Daenerys, he reminded himself) in the Great Hall, and he missed her. 

He hadn’t seen her since she’d left his solar shortly after the queen and her imp. They’d briefly discussed the meeting and decided it had gone as well as could be expected. Daenerys had not made any truly unreasonable demands of him, and her plans seemed sound enough. While he could not bring himself to like or trust Lannister, the man’s counsel seemed wise enough, and he didn’t lack intelligence. His rude tongue was nearly impossible to abide at times, and Catelyn had laughed when she’d kissed him before leaving, saying that she’d feared he might murder the dwarf for teasing her.

He lay on the bed now with the words of her letter running through his mind. His heart rate and breathing sped up each time he contemplated how close he had actually come to losing her, to losing all of them, and he had to close his eyes and will himself not to panic. _Know that I will wait for you forever, and that your love has always been enough._

He didn’t feel like enough. He didn’t feel he could ever love or protect her as well she deserved. Gods knew that he had failed her and the children more times than he could count, and yet still she wrote those words. She had been facing her own death and the deaths of their children which he knew were infinitely more terrible for her to contemplate. Still, she had taken the time to give him what comfort she thought she could.

 _Gods! I need her to be here now!_ Food had been sent to him quite some time ago, and he had long since eaten it. Surely, the evening meal must be nearly over. She’d have to see to all the children, of course. He wished the children would come here, but Sam had already told him he’d asked the children to wait until tomorrow to visit him again because he’d had such a long day. He’d wanted to strangle the boy for that, but it wouldn’t have brought his children to him.

He worried about Jon as well. He hadn’t seen him since Daenerys had expelled him from the solar, and he wanted to talk to him. He feared the boy would be angry at him for not speaking on his behalf, and he wanted him to know for certain that Daenerys had been in the wrong. Jon’s decisions as Lord Commander had been admirable, worthy of a man of far greater years, and Ned hated the privilege of royalty which had prevented him from standing up and saying so while Jon still stood in the room.

 _Where is Cat?_ She wasn’t completely well herself, for all she pretended she was. He felt guilty about lying in bed while she bore the brunt of this royal visitation. She’d gone immediately from his solar to see about provisioning the men Daenerys had demanded. _I would not have wished to live any life in which I was not your wife or the mother of our children._ She deserved a kinder life, though. She had been given so much pain when she deserved nothing but joy.

Closing his eyes, he conjured her face smiling at him, blue eyes dancing with pleasure and filled with the love he was always astonished by and grateful for in equal measure. He was so intent upon his imaginings, he did not hear the door open.

“Are you asleep, my love?” came the soft question, and his eyes flew open to see his mental picture made flesh as she stood there smiling, those eyes filled with that boundless love he’d come to require more than air.

“Come here,” he growled, knowing that he sounded stern and rough, but needing her in his arms more than he could possibly express just then.

He sat up as she approached and immediately pulled her into his arms when she sat down on the bed beside him, nearly crushing her against him. She was warm and alive and here in his arms. She hadn’t perished. He hadn’t lost her.

She must have felt his distress because she pulled away enough to look at him. “Ned?” she questioned gently. “Are you all right?”

“I nearly lost you.”

She looked at him and frowned slightly. “I’m fine, Ned. Truly I am. And since the queen is not demanding that you ride south as soon as your leg heals, I am better than I’ve been in a very long time.”

She kissed him then and he responded hungrily. “I can’t lose you, Cat. I can’t,” he murmured against her lips after a moment.

At that, she pulled away again and looked at him very closely. “What is this about, Ned?”

He hesitated only a moment before responding. “I read your letter.”

“My letter? What . . .” He saw the realization come to her. “Oh gods, my love. I never intended you to read that if I lived. I’d forgotten it was there.”

“I am glad I read it,” he said, tracing the contours of her face with his fingers and pulling at a loose strand of her hair. “It served to remind me of all that I have. I cannot lose you, Cat. You and the children are . . .” He found himself unable to speak any further.

She brought her hand to his cheek then. “You cannot lose me, Ned,” she said softly. “Don’t you see that? Even if I had died, I would belong to you still. In this world or any other, I am yours, my love.”

“And I am yours.”

She smiled at him. “I need to undress for bed, my love.”

He nodded and let go of her. He watched her undress and brush out her hair. She came back to the bed wearing only her nightshift, and he felt the treacherous stirring of his body as she slid beneath the covers beside him. She kissed him quickly and then moved to lay her head on his chest.

“I could try to be careful of your leg,” she said with a sigh, “But I fear it would still be jostled enough to cause you pain.”

“Mmm,” he said, thinking that no amount of pain in his leg would keep him from having her were he not concerned about the risk to herself, but glad of the excuse she had given him.

“We will both be well soon enough,” she said raising up enough to look at him with a smile that twisted his heart.

“Lie down, Cat, and let me hold you while you sleep.”

She laughed softly. “I promise I won’t run away in the night,” she said as she lay back down against him.

“I believe you, my lady,” he said formally. “And I believe you when you say you will be mine in any world.” He drew his arms more tightly around her. “But I fully intend to keep you here in this one with me.”

He felt her drowsy laughter against his chest as well as hearing it that time, and he silently vowed that he would do whatever it took to keep her and their children safe.


	69. The Dragons Depart

“Jon. I would have you stay a moment,” Ned called as Jon got up to leave with Sam and Deryk. After a long two hours spent discussing entirely too many things with Daenerys Targaryen and Tyrion Lannister, Ned had called the three of them there to speak in detail about the actual battle which had occurred here and specifically what structural damage the castle may have taken from the invaders, dragonfire, and even the overcrowded conditions. He’d been pleased to note that Deryk had already completed quite a thorough damage assessment of all the walls, gates, and buildings with the assistance of knowledgeable stonemasons and carpenters. Sam had also informed him that Catelyn had ordered a thorough inventory of all their weapons and armor, including its state of repair. Jon had remained mostly silent throughout the meeting but had readily known the answers to all the questions Ned posed directly to him.

Now, the young man narrowed the eyes that looked so much like Ned’s own and scowled slightly as he looked at him. _He is angry over his dismissal from my solar yesterday by the Targaryen girl, Ned thought. Angry that I did not say anything in his defense._

“What do you need of me, my lord?” Jon asked formally once the other two men had left the solar.

“Sit back down, Jon,” Ned said softly, and the young man took his seat once more without speaking or turning his gaze away. Ned sighed. “I am proud of you,” he said simply. “All you have done from your leadership of the Night’s Watch, to your dealings with Daenerys Targaryen, to your bravery and valor on your dragon, to your management of things at Winterfell prior to my arrival. In all of these things, you have proven yourself a man of great courage, wisdom, and honor, Jon. You may not be the son of my body, but you are my blood, and I am proud of you.”

He watched the muscle in Jon’s jaw tighten slightly for a moment before he replied somewhat sharply, “It is not mine to manage Winterfell, and I have not presumed to do so.”

Those words were not what he expected, but as he looked at Jon more closely, he saw a certain darkness in his eyes, a specific pain that he had seen there all too often through the years. “Catelyn has spoken to me of how much you have done,” he told him. “Her words have been nothing but praise. She knows as well as I what would have occurred here had you not come.” _She was here through it all,_ Ned thought with a stab of anguish. _She knows better than I._

“Lady Stark has acknowledged my . . .usefulness,” he said. “But she has also made it abundantly clear that Winterfell is not for me and that I should take pains to see that others know that well. I assure you, my lord, that I have done so.”

 _It is the old hurt then,_ Ned thought sadly, _as much if not more than my actions yesterday which trouble him now._ “Jon,” he said as gently he could. “She is right in that.”

Jon’s grey eyes widened ever so briefly in a flash of even more obvious pain at his words, and Ned continued quickly. “Whether you are Lyanna’s true born son or my own bastard, Winterfell was never to be yours. It was never to be Sansa’s or Bran’s or Arya’s or Rickon’s either. It is your home as much as it is any of ours, but it was never to have come to you or even to any of my still living trueborn children. You know that to be true.”

“It was always Robb’s,” Jon said softly, and Ned could hear the grief for his brother as well as the mingled love and envy that had always been there. 

“Aye,” he said. “It was meant for Robb, and you always knew that. And you didn’t always like that.”

Jon started to protest, but Ned silenced him with a raised hand. “You wouldn’t be human if you had. I was a second son, you recall, and while I told myself I didn’t want to be lord, that I didn’t envy Brandon anything, there were days I resented greatly that I would never truly live in my home again after the age of eight. Brandon was fostered, too, of course, although he stayed in the North, but neither of us ever stopped thinking of Winterfell as our home regardless of how short our visits here or how many moons stretched out between them. I knew Brandon would get to come home to stay one day, Jon. I never would. And as much as I loved my brother, I did envy him that.”

“But you did become lord, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Ned said simply. “I have my brother’s title, his castle, and even his wife. And I would be lying to you if I told you that my youthful envy does not still cause me pain at times--as if I somehow willed these things to come to pass.” He watched Jon considering those words very carefully. “But I am blameless, Jon, and so are you. I know it, and Catelyn knows it. You cannot help your feelings, son, and the only feelings you would ever act on concerning our family are love and loyalty.”

“She never believed that,” Jon spat out.

“No, she didn’t. Why would she? If I could read the envy on your face, do you think that over the years, she could not? And knowing nothing of the truth, knowing only what I had told her, she feared you, Jon. Winterfell was Robb’s, and she would not be who she is if she had suffered easily any threat to that, from outside Winterfell . . .or within.” 

When Jon remained silent, Ned went on. “And now Robb is gone. And as keenly as you feel that loss, Jon, as keenly as I feel it, I believe Catelyn feels it even more. She is his mother. She carried him within her and brought him into this world without my being there through any of it. She has told me of his last moments, and I cannot bear to even think on them, much less speak of them, while she had to live through them. She couldn’t protect him, Jon, and I believe that she is even more intent on protecting our other children than she ever was because of that.”

“I am no threat to your children. They are my brothers and sisters,” Jon said. “They always will be.”

“I know that. And while she may not have before, Catelyn knows it as well. But still she fears how others would seek to use you. She likely will never shed that fear. But it isn’t about you, Jon. It is only about her need to protect her children. My lady wife may be a Tully trout, but she is a true mother of wolves as well. You know she loves me, and there is little she would not risk for me regardless of how I would seek to prevent her, but she would choose the children over me, Jon, if that terrible choice were forced upon her. And I do not fault her for it.”

Jon nodded slowly. “She should have died, doing what she did that night,” he said finally. “I don’t know how she wasn’t killed. I think she believed she would be.”

Ned swallowed because he knew that to be true, and it still nearly stopped his heart in spite of having awakened next to his warm and very much alive wife this very morning. “I will never be able to prevent her from such acts where the children are concerned, I fear. No more than she will ever be able to stop fearing for them. And that fear is not about you, Jon. In truth, it never was. It was always about our children. So, if you must hold on to your anger and resentment, then let it be for me. You and Catelyn both lived the lives I handed you.”

“You did what you thought you must,” Jon said with only a slight hesitation. “I am not angry at you anymore.”

Ned noticed he did not say that he held no anger anymore for Catelyn, but he supposed that Jon sitting quietly while he expressed the reasons the boy should not be angry at Cat was tremendous progress---certainly nothing he would have believed possible at one time.

“Is that all, my lord?” Jon asked after a moment of silence between them.

“No,” Ned said. “As to what happened here yesterday . . .”

“Daenerys Targaryen is the queen,” Jon put in quickly. “You bent the knee to her. You cannot leap to my defense when I anger her. A queen will do what she wants.”

Ned actually smiled a bit at that. “Your aunt was wrong yesterday, Jon, and I told her so once you had left.”

That startled him. “But, I thought that . . .” Jon shook his head. “You let her send me away, Father.”

He sounded so much like the little boy Ned remembered from years past that he almost laughed. “I did. I would do it again.” He paused for a moment to consider his words carefully. “Jon, Daenerys Targaryen is your aunt, and one thing that was plain to me yesterday is that she has come to care about you, even in this short time. I believe she has the mind and the heart to be a good ruler. But she also has the Targaryen pride and often believes herself wiser than she is. And she’s young. So young. Younger than you, even, and I have enough difficulty remembering that you are a man--although you do not suffer nearly the youthful inconstancy that our dragon queen does.”

Jon nearly smiled then, but his expression became serious again quickly. “She has suffered too much loss,” he said. “She never knew her family at all except her brother Viserys. And he’s dead now, too. As well as both her husbands, although from what little she has told me, I do not think she mourns the second. She didn’t believe I was her nephew until she saw me with Rhaegal, and then she had to. And in some small way, I think she was actually glad to have family again.”

“And she has no wish to share you,” Ned said with the barest hint of a grin. “She’d have you be all dragon and no wolf.”

Jon scowled then, and Ned nearly laughed as it was Rickon’s scowl to perfection which Catelyn had assured him was his own. “I fear she can’t have that, Father,” he said. “Ghost is with me every bit as much as Rhaegal is.”

“Even now?” Ned asked, somewhat startled.

Jon was silent a very brief moment. “He’s hunting,” he said then. “Satin gives him table scraps, but he’s bored sitting around all day. He finally howled so that Satin would let him out, and he’s running now, having caught the scent of something.” Jon paused again, and Ned could swear he saw him sniff. “It’s a deer. A young one. It will be easy to bring down and the meat will be tender.”

Ned stared at him, speechless at his connection with an animal many leagues away at the Wall.

Jon laughed. “I’m a wolf, Father. As much as I ever was.”

“You are,” Ned told him, but remembering his initial point in bringing up Daenerys, he added. “When you deal with your dragon aunt, however, remember that she needs to hear the truth, but she never needs to be made to feel small or disrespected. Do not correct her in front of those you feel she has wronged. Tell her privately when you feel her judgment has erred and allow her to correct it if she will. She may not, but she will be even less likely to correct it if she feels she has been publicly disdained. She will never tolerate that.”

Jon nodded. “I’m learning that.” He smiled at Ned then. “And I’m glad you feel she did err.”

Ned was ridiculously proud of the fact that his opinion still mattered to Jon--almost as proud as he was to be sitting in his solar conversing about such things as dealing with the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms with this son of his heart not as a boy, but as a man. “Well, Lord Commander,” Ned said then. “How long shall you tarry here now that the queen has come?” He already knew how Jon would answer, and he dreaded hearing the words, but he had to ask the question.

He could tell that Jon disliked the question and its answer as well. “I will stay only as long as the queen does, Father. I would not leave before her because Rhaegal is still technically her dragon. I will not go south, but I would not keep Rhaegal here forcibly if she demands it go with her.”

“You know she will not,” Ned said. “After the white dragon, she will not risk traveling with a riderless beast.”

“I know,” Jon said. “But still, I would have her know that I am willing to send it with her even up until the last moment. I would have the people here know that I keep it with me only by her leave as well.”

Ned nodded. It was a sound political move on his part, and it would please Daenerys. “And then where will you go?”

“Castle Black at first. I must see to things there. I must speak with the men about Lady Stark’s proposals and the letters we have sent out to your bannermen. Then I will fly to Eastwatch. I need to know how Ser Glendon fares and see what needs he has there for myself.” He gave Ned a rather grim but satisfied smile then. “I’d have him look upon Rhaegal as well. Glendon Hewett has no love for me, and I will need the loyalty of all of the Watch to face the days ahead, even those who’d rather have anyone but me as Lord Commander. Then I’ll fly back along the Wall stopping at all the waycastles, all the way to Shadow Tower before returning to Castle Black.”

“A good plan, Jon. We shall stay in touch.” Ned looked at the man seated before him and saw the babe clutched in his sister’s too-white arms. “And I shall miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too,” Jon said. “Shall I walk you back to Lady Stark’s chambers now?”

“I have the crutch. I can manage.”

Jon laughed out loud then. “No, you can’t. It has to be nearly time for Sam to see to the leg again, so you might as well go back to your lady wife’s chambers. You tell me Lady Stark’s ire is not truly for me. I tell you that if I allow you to fall or damage that leg in any way, it will be.”

Ned laughed as well and as Jon handed him the crutch and helped him to rise, he thought how good it was to simply laugh and speak as a man with this remarkable young man who would always be his son.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Daenerys Targaryen stood not far from Winterfell’s western gate, the Hunter’s Gate, she believed they called it. “Peace,” she said sharply to Drogon as he nipped at Rhaegal. Of course, she said it old Valyrian. Those words came to her without effort now.

Drogon shook his head back and forth and cried out like a jealous child but he backed away slightly, and Dany continued to caress the green dragon’s long neck. “I have missed you,” she murmurmed. “You were a naughty boy to fly off in search of Snow.” A gust of wind caused the flakes of the light snowfall to whirl in spirals around her hands and the dragon’s head and she laughed. “Yes, snow is certainly one thing we’ve found in abundance here.”

Rhaegal cocked his head, raising it back to look directly at her with those big bronze eyes, almost as if he understood what she was saying. That gave Dany a moment of disquiet as she wondered if Jon Snow inhabited the dragon now, and if he did, if he could hear and understand her speech to him. She didn’t like that notion at all.

She hadn’t spoken to her nephew at all since she’d thrown him out of Lord Stark’s solar the previous day. She’d spent most of yesterday after that meeting in private counsel with Tyrion Lannister except for dinner in the Great Hall. Jon had been there, of course, but he had been seated far enough from her that she was not forced to interact with him. After dinner, she had wanted Lady Catelyn to take her to meet this Lady of the Iron Islands locked up in Winterfell, but Lady Catelyn had decreed it was too late and she needed to attend to her children. She had promised to introduce her to the woman today. Dany wanted this woman to know precisely who she was and what would happen if she did not bend the knee and accept her as her queen.

This morning’s meeting with Lord Stark had been rather less contentious than yesterday’s, and Dany wasn’t certain if that was because they were more or less decided on a plan of action now and simply working out the details or if had been due to the absence of Jon Snow and Catelyn Stark. She certainly hadn’t missed having her nephew there behaving like some dutiful son of House Stark, and while Lady Stark certainly could exert a certain calming influence on her husband, it seemed that Lannister couldn’t help himself from goading her. That tended to put Lord Stark in a rather foul temper, although from Dany’s view, his lady wife gave as good as she got when it came to trading barbs with the dwarf.

In any event, a meeting with Asha Greyjoy was all that stood between her and the Riverlands at this point. Eddard Stark had even given her the promised letter to Lord Edmure Tully of Riverrun. “I fear Lord Stark wants me gone from here, children,” she said to both of the dragons. “He most assuredly wants you gone from here.”

“Well, you cannot really blame him. He’s seen what they can do, Your Grace.”

Dany jumped, turning to see Jon Snow standing not ten feet behind her. He had crept up on her as silently as that albino direwolf he kept at the Wall. “You mean drive the Others from his castle and save his wife and children from certain death?” Dany responded, instantly irritated by Jon’s defense of Eddard Stark. “It is quite rude to sneak up on people, you know,” she added.

At least he looked truly apologetic. “I am sorry, Your Grace. I didn’t intend to sneak up on you. It’s only that the snow does tend to soften footsteps, and I didn’t want to disturb you with the dragons.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “And as for my father, he knows well what Drogon and Rhaegal have done for him and the North. But having seen their power, he would be a fool not to be wary of them, especially having seen what Viserion was capable of. And whatever else you may think of Lord Eddard Stark, he is not a fool.”

“No,” Dany conceded. “He is not. Nor is he your father, although you keep insisting upon referring to him as such. It is quite the turnaround from your manner at the Wall when you sought continually to deny he was your father. Where lies your confusion, Jon? I find your inconsistency quite tiresome.”

“I am not confused, Your Grace,” he said plainly. “Although I confess I was. I did not wish for any father other than Eddard Stark, and I fought the truth of my parentage for some time after I was told of it. As I realized the truth of it, I wanted to deny any connection to the man who had raised me . . .and lied to me.”

Dany simply continued looking at him, flanked by Drogon and Rhaegal. It puzzled her somewhat that Rhaegal almost never went to greet Jon at his approach as Drogon almost invariably did at hers, and she wondered if it was because that odd connection Jon had with the dragon meant he was always already with him. Thinking about it made her head spin.

“But the simple truth is that Eddard Stark is my father,” Jon finally continued. He must have noticed her expression because he quickly held up both his hands. “Oh, I know I am the son of Rhaegar Targaryen’s body,” he said. “I will not deny that. But in all things that matter, Eddard Stark has always been and will always be my father. I cannot deny that either.”

“You would rather be a wolf than a dragon, then?” she asked him derisively. “Even if you are a bastard either way, why should you choose to be the bastard of the lord of a frozen wasteland rather than the bastard of a King? You are the blood of the dragon, Jon! You are more than this!”

“I do not deny my blood,” he said, and she thought she detected a hint of anger in his voice. “Not any part of it! I am as much a direwolf as I am a dragon. Why can you not see that? You have told me often enough how much I resemble Eddard Stark. I share his blood as well as yours, Your Grace.”

“You call him Father,” Dany said. “You call me by my title. You had begun calling me by name before you came here.” She regretted the words as soon as she had spoken them. They sounded petulant and childish. She did not need Jon Snow’s affection.

“I only seek to give you the respect you deserve, Your Grace. My father has bent his knee and acknowledged you as queen on behalf of all the North. I would do the same on behalf of the Night’s Watch.”

“The Night’s Watch takes no part.” Dany intentionally mimicked his own phrasing as she repeated his words.

“No. But the Night’s Watch does recognize the Iron Throne. Stannis Baratheon is dead. I do not intend to address anyone else by that title now.”

“But you will not come and help me secure that throne. You may recognize me as your queen, but for all your talk of not denying your blood, you do not recognize me as family.”

“You are my family, Daenerys,” Jon said quietly, looking at her with those grey eyes which certainly gave no hint of his Targaryen ancestry. “You are all the family I have from my father’s line.” He closed his mouth and tightened his jaw muscles much the same as the uncle he called father did so often. “Unless this Aegon truly is my brother,” he said after a moment.

That made her pause. She tried not to think too hard on the fact that this person in Storm’s End might be who he claimed to be. _I am the rightful queen._ She couldn’t begin to doubt herself now. She couldn’t doubt the rightness of her claim. _If I look back I am lost._ “My brother’s trueborn son is dead,” she said firmly. “Killed on the orders of Tywin Lannister.”

Jon nodded slowly. “My father cannot think why Princess Elia would have exchanged her son for another babe. The successful removal of the infant prince would have required a great deal of planning, and planning requires time. Until Rhaegar’s defeat on the Trident, there was no reason to believe that any of the royal family were in danger in the Red Keep. And if there were an elaborate escape plan, why did it only involve Prince Aegon? Did not Elia love her daughter as well?” Jon shook his head. “I cannot claim to know what a mother feels, but I do not believe that Lady Stark would ever sanction a plan of salvation for only Brien and leave her older children to their deaths.”

“I never knew my mother,” Dany said then. “She died birthing me as yours did birthing you, so I know little of mothers. I never knew my son, either, for he was killed in my womb. But I would have died for him. I would have died that he might live. I do know that.” 

“I do not doubt that,” Jon said.

“Do you not?” Dany asked him. “Even when you saw me kill Viserion with my own hand?”

“You had no choice.”

 _Mayhap this Dornish princess had no choice, either,_ Dany thought. _Mayhap she could only save one of her children, and she chose not to let them both perish. No! I cannot think that. I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. There is no other._

She shrugged slightly. “When will you take my dragon and leave for your Wall, Jon Snow?” she asked him, changing the subject entirely.

“I will not take Rhaegal at all if you would have me not.”

That surprised her. “You already said you will not fight for me.”

“I said I cannot fight for you, and that is true. My place is with the Night’s Watch. But I will not keep Rhaegal from you. It is your dragon, not mine.”

Dany actually laughed at that. “Neither of us believes that, Jon.” She turned once more toward the green dragon beside her. “I don’t understand the connection you share with Rhaegal,” she said as she stroked his green scales once more. “But I cannot deny it.”

“Rhaegal would go with you if I command it.”

“Command it? You tell me he is my dragon and yet you must command it to come with me? Not allow, but command?”

“It doesn’t like being parted from you,” Jon said. “It misses you when you are not with it.”

Jon’s words struck at her heart. He spoke simply, without much emotion, but she heard no deceit in his words. He shared a mind with Rhaegal. He would know what he felt. “I will miss him,” she said.

“Then you do not want me to send it with you?” Jon asked her.

“Of course, I want you to,” she said angrily, trying to hold back her tears at the thought of losing another of her children. Unlike Viserion, Rhaegal still lived, but he would never again belong to her alone. Drogon’s place was with her, but not Rhaegal’s. “I would keep him by me always,” she said more softly. “But he belongs with you, Jon. He knows that as well as I do.” She looked at her nephew carefully. “Doesn’t he?”

Jon actually looked sad. “It knows,” he said gently after a moment. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you are Rhaegal’s mother. You will always be its mother, and it knows that, too. So do I, Daenerys.”

She looked toward the sky which was the same color as Jon’s eyes. The snowflakes were falling more thickly now. “I intend to leave once I’ve spoken to Lady Greyjoy,” she said. “I do not wish to be kept here by a storm.”

“This isn’t a storm,” Jon laughed. “We can get a snow like this in summer here. I’ll warn you if it looks to be a storm.”

Dany smiled in spite of herself. “I still wish you would come and fight beside me. I am the queen, after all. Surely, I can free you from your commitment to the Night’s Watch. I would not give up my throne for you, Jon. But I could give you much, if you would only take it. You could help me set the House of your father back in its rightful place again.”

Jon swallowed hard as if her words had distressed him and clenched his jaw even more tightly than he had before. 

“Is it truly that terrible to contemplate being a Targaryen rather than a Stark?” she spat at him, angry that her offer actually seemed to cause him pain.

“No, it is not terrible at all,” he said, and his voice sounded choked. “It is only . . .you are not the first to make such an offer, Your Grace.”

 _Back to my title again,_ Dany thought bitterly. “Do not expect me to believe that your precious Lord Stark offered to legitimize you and you turned him down.”

Jon shook his head. “Not Lord Stark. Stannis Baratheon. When Lord and Lady Stark and all their sons were believed dead. He . . .he offered me Winterfell. He said he would release me from the Night’s Watch, make me Lord of Winterfell.”

Dany stared at him in disbelief. “But then Lord Stark was revealed to be alive, and he rescinded the offer?”

Jon shook his head. “No,” he said. “I did not learn my father was alive for some time after that. I turned him down myself.”

Dany could not find words to respond to that. She simply continued to stare at him.

“I told him that Winterfell belonged to my sister, Sansa. And that I belonged to the Night’s Watch.”

“You didn’t want it? I’ve seen you in Winterfell, Jon. This is home to you. Anyone can see it.”

Jon nodded. “It is my home. But it is not my place. My place is at the Wall. The Starks are my family. You are my family. But my place is with my brothers in the Watch. I know that, Daenerys, but do not think that my knowing it always makes it easy. But I know where I belong.”

She didn’t want to understand him. She wanted to argue with him and tell him he was wrong. She didn’t want this man who had somehow gone from stranger and enemy to family and trusted ally in such short time to separate himself from her like this. “You know where you belong,” she repeated. “Just like Rhaegal does.” 

“And neither of us is entirely happy about it,” he said with a wry smile.

“But neither of you is entirely unhappy with it, either,” she said, returning the smile.

“No,” he admitted. “I believe in what I’m doing, Daenerys. Just as you do.”

“Dany,” she said suddenly.

“What?” he asked her, not understanding.

“Dany,” she repeated softly. “Viserys called me that. Ser Willem sometimes as well, when I was small. I like to think my mother would have called me the same, had she lived.”

“A family sort of name,” Jon said with a smile.

She nodded, suddenly self-conscious. “I think I would like to know that someone might think of me by that name still, even if he is far away on a Wall of ice, keeping monsters at bay.”

“I will be your family wherever I am, Dany,” he said, and his smile widened. 

It occurred to her that she had rarely seen him smile quite so widely, and she had never seen that particular smile on Lord Stark’s face. Oddly enough, something about that smile reminded her of Viserys’s smiles on those rare occasions when he had been truly happy without any bitterness. She wondered if her brother Rhaegar’s smile had looked like that. _Family._

“We should go back into the castle,” she said, not trusting herself to stay focused on her tasks for the day if she continued this conversation with Jon. “I must meet this Greyjoy woman.”

Jon offered her his arm. She turned to once more touch both dragons before she took it, wondering when or even if she would ever see them together again after today. Then she walked with her nephew back into the castle.

They were barely back within the gates when a man came running up to them and knelt before her. “Your Grace,” he breathed. “Lord Stark asks that you come to his solar immediately.”

The man had clearly come to find them in great haste, and Dany found herself alarmed for she had spent a great deal of time with Eddard Stark already and couldn’t imagine his calling her back so soon unless something had happened. She looked at Jon who clearly shared her concern. She mumbled some acknowledgement to the kneeling man, and then the two of them hurried toward the Great Keep.

They arrived in Lord Stark’s solar to see both Lord and Lady Stark, Tyrion Lannister, and the Stark’s fat maester present. All bore fairly grim expressions.

“Lord Stark,” Dany said. All of them rose and bowed their heads respectfully at her entrance. “What has occurred?” she asked him. 

He raised his head and Dany saw his eyes go to Jon’s beside her and then back to hers. “Selyse Baratheon is dead,” he said. “By her own hand.”

“She killed herself?” Jon asked in a stunned voice.

Lord Stark nodded. “Sit down, please, Your Grace. Jon.” He indicated the one open chair in front of the desk and the maester quickly moved away from the chair he had occupied and nodded at Jon. 

Dany took the seat Lord Stark had offered and the others sat as well, with the maester moving to stand against the wall. Lord Stark indicated a parchment on the desk in front of him and sighed.

“It is a letter from Lord Seaworth,” he said. “Apparently, he presented your offer to Lady Selyse, Your Grace.”

“Offer? What offer?” Jon asked.

“I met Lord Seaworth when I flew Drogon along the defense line after the battle at Last Hearth,” Dany said. “Lord Stark had suggested I seek him out.”

Lord Stark looked at Jon. “Queen Daenerys spoke with Lord Seaworth about Stannis Baratheon’s death, Jon. She also offered to restore Storm’s End to Shireen Baratheon. You were not present when we spoke of this earlier.”

Jon looked from Lord Stark to Dany, and she nodded. “It was Lord Stark’s notion, and I thought it was a good one.” She turned back to Stark. “But what does it have to do with this mad act by Stannis Baratheon’s wife?”

Lord Stark looked at her gravely. “I had already sent a letter to Castle Black informing Lady Selyse of her husband’s death. You knew that.” Dany nodded, and he continued. “It would seem she did not believe it until Lord Seaworth arrived at Castle Black after speaking to you. She became quite disturbed, stating that nothing other than a great evil could have killed Azor Ahai.”

“Azor Ahai?” Dany asked.

“Her red priestess believed that Stannis Baratheon was Azor Ahai, come again to save us from the Others,” Jon said. “Selyse Baratheon believed it as well, just as she believed everything Lady Melisandre said.”

Dany nodded, and Lord Stark continued. “I fear that even though Lady Selyse believed Lord Seaworth regarding her lord husband’s death, she became enraged and accused him of being in league with evil forces, opposing the one true god. She swore she would kill her daughter rather than enslave her to a false queen.”

“Enslave her?” Dany said indignantly. “I intended to make the child Lady of Storm’s End! I was giving her the Stormlands!”

“Yes,” Lord Stark said quietly. “But it would seem that Lady Selyse could not accept that. Lady Melisandre’s disappearance had already made her paranoid and overly fearful, and it appears her lord husband’s death pushed her even further. She threw Lord Seaworth out of her presence and barricaded herself and her daughter in, refusing anyone entrance, even her own men. This continued for three days, during which time she did not even allow food or water to be brought in to her or her child.”

“Madness,” Lady Stark whispered, and Dany turned to see that tears were shining in the woman’s blue eyes. “Only madness could have made her do such to her own child.”

“Not everyone loves their children, Lady Stark,” Tyrion said bitterly at that.

“Lady Selyse did,” Jon said softly. “Whatever fault I found with the woman, she loved her daughter.”

Lord Stark nodded. “I would say the same,” he said. “And yet, when men finally forced their way into her chambers, she held the girl and put a knife to her throat and declared that darkness would never have her daughter.”

Dany gasped and Jon stared at Lord Stark in wide-eyed disbelief. “Is the girl all right?” Dany asked.

Lord Stark nodded. “Lady Selyse couldn’t actually harm the child, it would seem. When men pulled her away, however, she screamed and plunged the knife into her own throat.”

Dany had seen a lot of horrifying things, but she still felt her blood turn cold at this tale. She looked again toward Lady Stark and saw that the woman sat silently, as still as stone, with a terrible faraway look in her eyes. Even Lannister remained silent.

“Where is the daughter now?” Dany managed to ask.

“Lord Seaworth is bringing her here,” Lord Stark replied.

“Good,” Dany said. She looked at everyone gathered in the solar and realized that they were waiting for her to say something more. She swallowed hard, and made herself think of more than a deranged woman and a traumatized child. She had to think of other things. “Now I must meet with Lady Greyjoy because I wish to go south to Riverrun as soon as possible.” When the others remained silent, she looked at each of them in turn. “This business with Selyse Baratheon is terrible, but it changes nothing. I still must proceed with my plans. The letters have gone out to your bannermen, Lord Stark. Our plans are made. There is no reason to turn from them.”

Tyrion Lannister nodded grimly. Lady Stark still looked as if she were barely there, and Jon had his jaw clenched so tightly, Dany thought he might break his teeth. 

“What of Lady Shireen, Your Grace?”

“What of her?” Dany said, and then realized that sounded cold. “I mean, if Lord Seaworth has already left Castle Black, we can hardly send a raven to him now. There is nothing to be done for the child until she reaches Winterfell. I still intend to give her Storm’s End, although she will obviously need a guardian for some time. In any event, we shall have to take Storm’s End before I can give it to anyone, so for the present, she is to remain here. I give Lady Shireen Baratheon into your protection, Lord Stark, and trust you to keep her safe.”

“What about Lord Seaworth, Your Grace? Lady Shireen knows him.”

“But I do not. Not as I know you. I wish the child to remain at Winterfell. If Lord Seaworth chooses to remain here with her, that is for you to allow as you wish or not. But she is not to leave here until it is safe for her to take up her seat and I have appointed someone as her guardian to govern her lands in her stead until she is able.”

Lord Stark bowed his head then. “As you wish, Your Grace. Lady Shireen will be well cared for here.” He turned to look at his wife then, and Dany saw something very like fear flicker briefly in those grey eyes. “My lady?” he said softly. When Lady Stark did not respond, he reached out and touched her hand. “My lady?” he repeated softly, and this time Lady Stark’s eyes moved to meet his although she still looked somehow far away. “The queen has asked us to care for little Shireen Baratheon. I believe she will do well here with our children, don’t you?”

“Our children,” Lady Stark repeated in a whisper. Then her eyes seemed to focus more clearly on her husband. “Yes,” she said in a stronger voice. “Our children will be good for Lady Shireen.” Dany did not miss the fact that she grabbed tightly to the hand Lord Stark had laid on hers and looked intently at him for a moment. What the two of them communicated to each other in that look, she wasn’t sure, but she knew something passed between them. Then Lady Stark turned to look at her. “We would be pleased to accept the Lady Shireen at Winterfell as long as she needs to be here, Your Grace,” she said, sounding entirely like herself for the first time since Dany had entered the room.

“Very good,” Dany said, still looking at her carefully. “Now, I would very much like to speak with your prisoner, Lady Greyjoy.”

Lady Stark nodded. “I can take you to her.” She turned to look at her husband. “My lord, is there anything else you need to discuss with Her Grace or myself?”

Her husband seemed to be looking at Lady Stark as carefully as Dany had, but he simply said, “No, my lady,” and raised her hand briefly to his lips in a perfectly formal gesture that somehow seemed to be more than that. 

Lady Stark smiled at him, and then rose from her seat and looked at Dany. “Shall we, Your Grace?” she asked. 

Dany stood up herself, and all the men rose as well. She looked at her nephew and at the older man who looked so much like him. Then she nodded at the woman whose auburn hair stood out like flame beside the two of them. “Come with us, Lord Tyrion,” she said, glancing briefly down at the dwarf. “I should like you to meet Lady Greyjoy as well.”

As she walked from the solar with Lady Stark beside her and Tyrion trailing behind them, she thought it likely that even if she remained here for a year, she would find it difficult to truly know these Starks of Winterfell. Yet she also realized that she knew without any doubt at all that they would not break any promise they had made her.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Jon tightened the last strap on Drogon’s enormous saddle. “There you go, my friend,” he said. “You’ll take good care of her, won’t you?”

“You truly care about her, don’t you?” came Sansa’s voice from behind him. _Gods. She even sounds like her mother now,_ Jon thought. Although, upon reflection, he’d never heard Lady Catelyn’s voice address him with quite that much warmth.

“She’s my family, Sansa,” Jon said turning around to face his sister. She stood back a bit, understandably wary of Drogon and Rhaegal, but she had remained bravely in the courtyard with him as the dragons descended over the walls to land here. No one else had save Rickon, who was now seated upon Rhaegal’s bare back as the green dragon reclined on the ground beside its sibling.

“Like us,” Sansa said softly.

“No,” Jon answered walking away from Drogon to where she stood. “Not like you. You are my sister, Sansa. You always have been and always will be. That’s true of all our brothers and Arya as well. I grew up here. This is my home.” He paused, not entirely certain how to put what he felt in words. “Knowing who my true parents were cannot change anything that I have been all my life. And I don’t really want it to. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” she said. “But you did just call the queen your family, Jon.”

Jon nodded. “She is my blood. I cannot deny that any more than I can deny any of you. I barely know her and yet . . .” His words trailed off as he couldn’t think of any that expressed what he meant. “I do want her safe,” he finally said, feeling the words completely inadequate.

Sansa smiled at him, and then her eyes flicked toward Rickon with his arms flung round the neck of the green dragon as he kicked at it with his heels. “Speaking of safe . . .” she said. “Are you certain that this is . . .”

Jon laughed. “He can’t hurt Rhaegal, Sansa. And Rhaegal certainly won’t hurt him.” In truth, the dragon had not been terribly pleased when he’d put his little brother upon its back. Daenerys had told him that dragons rarely had more than one rider, and unlike the direwolves who all felt protective of all of the Starks including Lord and Lady Stark, the dragon was bonded to Jon alone. Rhaegal cared deeply for Daenerys as its mother, but Jon’s family in Winterfell meant nothing to it. Only Jon’s insistence within the beast’s mind that Rickon’s presence upon its back was all right convinced it to lie there peaceably, and Jon would not allow the dragon to fly with Rickon upon it no matter how much his little brother begged.

As if privy to Jon’s thoughts then, the green dragon raised its bronze eyes to him in an expression that could only be described as long suffering, and Jon laughed again. “I do think we should probably get him down, though. I don’t want Lady Stark to discover him there, and I’d appreciate it if you kept him from telling her about it until after I’ve left. I’d like to get back to the Wall alive.”

Sansa laughed at him. “I think that’s probably wise, and I can likely keep him quiet at least until you’ve gone.” Her smile faded then. “I hate that you have to go, Jon. We all do.”

“I know. But I have to. The Wall is my place.”

“I know that,” she said gravely. She didn’t say anything else, but her words carried such conviction and understanding that Jon thought that she honestly did know. Once again, he was stunned at how grown-up his sister had become and saddened by the solemnity she had acquired. He might have thought Sansa shallow or vain when they were younger, but she had certainly never been somber, and he thought it a cruel world which had caused her the grief he could so often see in her eyes now. 

“Thank you for helping prepare my aunt’s supplies for her journey,” he said, wanting to stay far from sadder topics, wanting to see her smile again.

“Well, that would be my place,” she laughed. “As Mother had to take the queen and Lord Tyrion to meet Lady Greyjoy, it is only fitting that I should be certain our royal guest is well provisioned. Arya’s hardly going to do it!”

Jon laughed then. “Where is our little sister? I can’t imagine she fled the courtyard in terror when the dragons flew in.”

“No. She’s in the godswood with Bran.” Sansa sighed. “Bran is always in the godswood. Whenever Mother will let him be outside. He just sits by the heart tree for hours. Tom’s a good lad, but it hardly seems right to make him stay out in the cold and wait on Bran, so we sort of take it in turns to stay by him and fetch Tom when he’s ready to come in.” She shrugged. “The wolves are there, so at least we have them for company because Bran certainly isn’t any.”

Jon frowned. His little brother had never been as wild as Rickon, but before his fall, he had been quick to smile and had an easy manner that quickly won the affection of everyone who met him. Now, glimpses of that boy were even rarer than glimpses of the girls his sisters used to be. “He’s pretty quiet all the time now, isn’t he? I didn’t notice it so much when I was with him north of the Wall because . . .well, it just is quiet there. And then with Hodor and Howland dying, I thought . . .well, of course he was quiet. But even then he seemed so much older and more serious than I’d recalled, and here at Winterfell where I remember how he was so clearly . . .” Jon shook his head. “It sometimes seems an entirely different person than I knew.”

Sansa’s smile was sad. “That’s true of us all, Jon. Even you. But I do think whatever happened with Bran and that greenseer while he was gone changed him in some way that none of us can understand. Since he was able to see you flying here on Rhaegal before you arrived, it’s as if he believes he has to see everything. That if he can’t see everything, something terrible might happen.” She twisted up her mouth then in an expression of equal parts concern and mild disapproval, looking so much like Lady Stark that Jon nearly laughed in spite of the seriousness of their conversation. “He’s only just turned one and ten!” she exclaimed. “He cannot carry the weight of the world!”

“Mother! Father! Look! I’m a dragon rider!” came an excited, childish shout from behind them, and Jon and Sansa both turned to see a group of people walking toward them from the Great Keep. Daenerys Targaryen walked purposefully at the front, but not too far behind her came Lord and Lady Stark. His father leaned heavily on a crutch, and his lady wife walked close by his other side, her arm in his. Jon could tell even from this distance that she helped support him.

“Gods help us,” Sansa muttered under her breath. “Look at Mother’s face.” Bravely, she put on a smile and walked to meet the queen and her parents while Jon walked back to the dragons to pull a protesting Rickon from Rhaegal’s back.

“I don’t want to get down, Jon! I want them to see me!” Jon grabbed hold of his hand lest the little boy actually try to climb back up onto Rhaegal.

“Oh, they saw you, little brother,” Jon told him. Lady Stark’s expression did look positively thunderous, and Jon supposed it was only her concern about Father’s leg that kept her beside him walking so slowly instead of rushing here to grab Rickon far away from the dragons. He hoped Sansa would be able to calm her a bit before she reached them.

It was Father’s fault the dragons were here in the courtyard. He’d insisted that he see Dany off personally, and there was no way he could walk all the way outside the castle walls or even ride a horse that far on his leg. Sam had been livid at his insistence on coming even this far, and Jon had no doubt that Lady Stark had reacted similarly when she heard the plan although he’d left his father’s solar long before her return after taking Dany to meet with Asha Greyjoy. Startled, Jon realized he had actually begun thinking of his aunt by the name she had requested he call her.

“I’ve never seen a wolf pup on a dragon before!” his aunt called out, and Jon looked up to see that she had widened the distance between herself and the rest of the assembled people. She looked vaguely irritated, but not furious, so he decided he’d rather face her than Lady Stark at the moment.

“He wanted to know if dragons are truly hot to touch, Your Grace,” Jon said simply. “So I let him find out for himself.”

Dany raised an eyebrow. “You are rather careless of the child you claim as brother, are you not?”

That made Jon angry. “I am never careless of anyone in my family, Your Grace. I would not allow Rickon to approach Drogon, and he is as safe with Rhaegal as he is in his bed.”

Dany looked skeptical of that assertion, but she turned to Rickon who now stood beside Jon, looking up at her rather defiantly. “And what did you think of the dragon, young pup? Is it as hot as you were led to believe.”

Rickon nodded. “Rhaegal is hot, but he isn’t soft like Shaggydog. I think I would rather ride a wolf!”

“Ride a wolf?” Daenerys laughed. “I do not think wolves are made to be ridden, although yours is likely large enough.”

“Rickon, come here.” Lady Stark’s voice carried the unmistakable tone of an order, and while Rickon might defy a dragon riding queen, he was not about to ignore an order from his lady mother. With a quick glance up at Jon, he let go of his hand and sprinted the short distance that still remained between his parents and himself.

“I rode on the green dragon, Mother!” Jon heard his brother say breathlessly. “Jon said I could!”

Jon steadfastly refused to look toward the blue eyes that no doubt turned to him with icy fury at that last remark. Instead, he looked at his aunt who had reached out to stroke Drogon’s neck and was surprised to see her laughing as she looked at him.

“You really aren’t very bright sometimes, are you, Jon?” she said between giggles.

Jon found himself grinning back at her in spite of his fear of imminent execution. “I guess I’m not.”

“Jon!” His father’s voice did cause him to look up, and while his face showed clearly the strain of the exertion of walking all this way on his injured leg, his grey eyes were hard as steel. _Valyrian steel,_ Jon thought.

“Lord Stark,” he responded formally, with a bow of his head.

“While I appreciate your concern for your brother’s happiness and I respect the control you maintain over that green beast, I must insist that you do not allow any of my children that close to thoser dragons again,” his father said in a voice like ice. 

Jon met his eyes and realized he wasn’t simply saying that for Lady Stark’s benefit. His own anger and fear were visible enough to Jon although likely to not to most people. He wore his Lord’s face. _He watched Yohn Royce burn. He saw Viserion go after Sansa and Lady Stark._ Suddenly, Jon realized what the sight of Rickon upon Rhaegal must look like to his father and Lady Stark. Slowly he turned his eyes toward Lady Stark’s face and caught his breath. Yes, she was angry, but the terror on her face was far easier to see than any fears of his father’s, and guilt twisted in his gut.

“Father,” he said. “Lady Stark. I am very sorry. I have no excuse for such thoughtless behavior, and it will not happen again.” He felt about ten years old, but he had no other words to say.

“The boy was perfectly safe,” Daenerys said suddenly. “He wouldn’t have been with Drogon, or if Jon had not been here. But the child was never in any danger. It was a stupid thing to do, of course. But Jon wouldn’t have done it if he’d sensed any risk to his brother.” 

“I liked it!” Rickon piped up. “But I don’t think Rhaegal really likes me. I think he only let me sit there because of Jon.”

Jon was rather surprised at his little brother’s understanding of the situation. 

“So you would never, ever go near a dragon without Jon, would you, Rickon?” Lady Stark asked him sharply, getting down on one knee to look into his eyes.

“No!” Rickon looked at all the adults. “I’m not stupid. Whatever Arya says! Dragons burn people just like wolves bite people! I know Shaggydog doesn’t like one of the cook’s boys. But he won’t bite him because I won’t let him.” Rickon gave a grin that was almost wolfish itself. “But he’d be pretty stupid to try to go up to Shaggydog when I’m not around!”

Daenerys laughed loudly then as did Tyrion Lannister whom Jon noticed for the first time among the gathered people. Much to Jon’s relief, even his father seemed to relax marginally. Lady Stark stood up again and pulled Rickon several steps further back from the dragons, but she said nothing further. 

“You are far from stupid, little wolf,” Dany said, actually walking over toward Rickon. “In fact, I think you are the smartest wolf I’ve ever met.” She looked at Lord Stark with a slight smile. “And I have met some pretty wily ones.”

Rickon smiled at her, remembered she was a queen, and gave a reasonably passable bow. Daenerys turned to Lady Stark beside him. “I thank you for your gracious hospitality, my lady,” she said, and Jon heard real warmth in her voice. “I will not forget your words,” she said more softly, reaching out to take the older woman’s hands and guide her up from where she had curtsied before her.

Lady Stark smiled, her face all courtesy once more, although Jon thought he detected some true warmth in her reply to Dany as well. “The opportunity to converse with you was both an honor and a pleasure, Your Grace.”

“Well,” Dany laughed once more. “I doubt it was always a pleasure, but I am glad I have met you, Lady Stark.”

Lady Stark merely smiled.

Jon noticed that his aunt skipped over both his father and Tyrion Lannister, instead turning to express her gratitude to Sansa, Samwell Tarly, and Winterfell’s Captain of the Guard. Then she turned back to Lord Tyrion and said simply. “You have served me well here, Lord Lannister. I trust you will continue to do so, and I wish you safe journey on your travel south.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the dwarf replied. “I wish you the same, although I’ve no doubt that yours will at least be warmer and quicker than my own.” 

She snorted briefly at his comment and turned to Lord Stark. “Well, Lord Stark. I do not know when I shall be your guest again, and I confess I hope it is not for a long time, but it is good that we know each other now.”

“Your Grace,” his father said, bowing his head slightly as his bad leg prevented him from either bowing or kneeling. “I hope you will not take it amiss if I, too, hope you are not my guest for a great while after today.”

Jon watched Dany’s face begin to darken with anger, but his father’s expression held the slightest hint of a smile. “You see, Your Grace,” he continued. “You have given me your word that you would return if the North faces peril against which we cannot adequately defend ourselves. Knowing the task you face in the south, I cannot imagine any reason for your returning here for a long time save to keep that word. Surely, you do not fault me for wishing my lands to remain free of the need of such aid.” 

His aunt twisted her head to one side as she looked up at the much taller Ned Stark. “It is good to see that you are not entirely humorless, my lord. Only nearly so.”

Tyrion Lannister laughed out loud at that, but Daenerys wasn’t finished speaking. “I did mean what I said. I am your queen, and if the North has need of me, I shall come.” Looking toward Jon and then Rhaegal before turning back to Lord Stark, she added, “I doubt that you will have that need, however.”

His father bowed his head briefly once more and then met Dany’s eyes. “I meant my words as well, Your Grace. You are my queen. The North is yours to command, and I shall rule here in your name.”

His aunt merely nodded then and turned to Jon. “I see you have him all ready to fly,” she said, indicating Drogon.

“You can thank Sansa for whatever you have to eat on the way. I just packed the saddlebags like we did when we left the Wall.” He smiled at her. “Who else here was Drogon going to let saddle him?”

“Rickon, perhaps?” she teased him very softly.

“Oh, please don’t,” he said just as quietly. “I’m in enough trouble, don’t you think?”

She smiled and reached up to put a hand on his cheek. “I think you are frequently in trouble, Jon Snow. And that you are good at handling it.” She swallowed. “Try to stay warm on that Wall, and serve your Night’s Watch however it is that you feel you must. But do not forget who you are, Jon. You and I are the blood of the dragon. Always remember that.” Her violet eyes glistened in the grey light. There couldn’t be more than an hour of daylight left, he thought. Not that traveling by night would trouble her or him.

“I won’t forget anything, Dany,” he said.

Her smile grew wider and she actually put her arms around him and embraced him very briefly. He was so startled by the gesture that she had already pulled back by the time he could wonder whether or not he should return it.

“I would say farewell to Rhaegal,” she said.

He nodded. “Rhaegal is entirely yours now,” he said softly, and he knew she understood what he meant. As Dany went to put her arms around the green dragon’s neck and whisper something, he pulled himself entirely from Rhaegal’s consciousness. Whatever his aunt had to say to her child, Jon knew it was for Rhaegal alone.

He was still thinking about his aunt’s departure from Winterfell, seeing Drogon grow smaller against the night sky when Arya’s voice cut through his thoughts nearly an hour later. He was in his room in the Great Keep shoving what little he would need into two packs connected by a strap he could sling across Rhaegal’s back as he neither had nor wanted any sort of saddle. He’d come from Last Hearth with very little, but his father had insisted that he return to Castle Black at least slightly better provisioned.

“Why do you have to go now? The Wall isn’t going anywhere.”

Jon looked down at his sister. “No, it isn’t. But I don’t know where the Others are going or if they’re coming back. And that’s why I belong on the Wall.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “My brothers,” she said. “Protectors of the North. Defenders against the Others.”

She’d said ‘brothers.’ “What do you mean?” Jon asked her.

“Bran,” she said. “He said you were packing and that he had to see you. Sent me to come get you.”

“Is he still in the godswood?” Jon asked. The temperature had dropped dramatically once the sun began to set. No one needed to be outside for any period of time now. _Unless they are on a dragon._

“No! Mother would skin me if I let him stay out until dark,” she said. “He’s in his room. And he has to talk to you. And he says I can’t listen.” She pouted up at him. “He can be really bossy and annoying sometimes. And I don’t like the way he keeps secrets from us.”

“Oh, you don’t like secrets, do you?” Jon smiled down at her. Right now, Arya sounded exactly like herself, like the girl he remembered from the time he now considered another life. He reached out and ruffled her hair which had grown long enough that she nearly made a respectable girl again, not that it was styled or even combed at the moment. “I seem to recall keeping quite a few secrets for you, little sister.”

She grinned back. “You did. So did Bran sometimes.” Then the smile faded, and she suddenly grew serious. “But now you both keep secrets from me. We all keep secrets from each other.”

Her face looked hard and cold, and Jon wanted only to pull her back to the girl she’d been only seconds before. He knew he couldn’t, though. He could make her smile and laugh and remember happier times at Winterfell, but he couldn’t make her forget whatever terrible times she kept closed up within her. “Arya,” he said softly. “You can keep all the secrets you want. But you don’t have to keep them if you don’t want to. There is nothing you can’t tell me. You know that, don’t you?”

But he could see by the look on her face that she didn’t believe him. Whatever secrets his little sister held so tightly, she didn’t believe they could be told. Not even to him. And that broke his heart.

She was silent for a moment and then she asked in a voice scarcely more than a whisper. “Jon . . .what makes you a killer?”

“What? What makes me a killer?” Her words struck him like a blade.

“No!” she said hurriedly. “You’re not a killer! I mean . . .you’ve killed people, I know. You had to. And Father’s killed lots of people, more than any of the rest of us, I’m sure. I mean he’s been in so many battles and he’s had to execute people and . . . .Even Mother’s killed people. Did you know that?” She shook her head. “But none of you are killers. I want to know . . .what is it? What makes a person into a killer?”

Jon stared at his sister, thinking that she wouldn’t be three and ten for nearly another three moons. “You aren’t a killer, Arya,” he said softly.

“That isn’t what I asked you,” she snapped.

“Yes, it is,” he said. “That’s what you’re really asking. And I’m telling you, you are not a killer.”

“You don’t know that,” she told him. “You can’t know that. Because you don’t know . . . .You don’t know anything.”

“Well, you’re right about that last part,” he sighed.

“What?”

He sat down on the bed then and pulled her to sit next to him. “A girl I once knew used to tell me I knew nothing all the time. You’d have liked her.”

“Did you? Like her?”

“I did.” Thoughts of Ygritte still hurt, but certain memories of her made him smile more than they hurt now. “I liked her a lot.” He looked at his sister carefully. “Do you remember what I told you when I left Winterfell after Theon’s execution?”

She nodded. “You said that whatever I did to get back here alive, it was the right thing.”

“I meant that, Arya. I don’t care how many people you killed.”

“What if I didn’t kill them all for that? What if there are lots of reasons to kill people, Jon? How many reasons are good reasons and how do you know the difference? And is it the reasons that make you a killer?”

He tried to keep his face expressionless. Hearing her talk like this frightened him, and he realized he hadn’t been entirely honest with her when he’d said she could tell him anything. Nothing would change the way he felt about her, but he now thought there were certainly some things he’d rather not know. _All of them?_ How many people had his little sister been forced to kill? He remembered her attack on Perwyn Frey. How many had she wanted to kill? And had she killed anyone just because she wanted to?

He pushed those thoughts away. “I might not know much, Arya, but I know you are not a killer. Because you’re asking me the question. I think a true killer doesn’t care about the reasons at all. Only about the killing.”

He didn’t know if that made sense, but it seemed to satisfy her. “Come on,” she said after a minute. “Bran’s going to think I didn’t get you for him.”

When he walked into his brother’s room, Jon was still reeling from his conversation with Arya. His brother’s opening words did not help his mood.

“It isn’t over,” Bran said simply from where he sat on his bed.

“What isn’t over?” Jon asked.

“Winter.”

Jon smiled at him. “You sound like Father.” He made his face as grave as he could and did his best impression of Eddard Stark. “Winter is coming.”

Bran didn’t laugh, though. He didn’t even smile. _I miss your smile, Bran._ Jon had an absurd desire to put off leaving so that he could take Bran out riding when the sun rose again--just to see if that would put the smile back on his face.

“Winter is already here, Jon, and it isn’t leaving for a long while. Neither are the Others.”

That got his attention. “Others are here, Bran? You’ve seen them?”

“No. I mean, yes, I’ve seen them, but they aren’t here now. There may be some still south of the Wall. I think there likely are and that there will be until spring comes, but there aren’t many now. People should be safe in castles or towns. For right now.” Bran looked right at him, but Jon had the uncomfortable sensation he was seeing something else.

“For right now?” Jon asked.

Bran nodded. “Here, anyway. The wildlings are dying.”

Jon felt a chill at those words. “What wildlings?”

“The ones by the sea. The ones who needed the ships. Those ships are gone.” Bran’s voice sounded hollow.

“Tormund,” Jon said. “Mance.”

Bran shook his head. “I don’t know those people, Jon. I wouldn’t know if I saw them. But I don’t see anything good north of the Wall.” He frowned. “The Three-Eyed Crow says you must do what you can to see that the Wall stands. You cannot do anything for those beyond it. If you go there, you will die.”

“The Three-Eyed Crow? You mean you can talk to him?”

“I . . .I can hear him sometimes. He’s very faint. I think he’s dying. But he reaches out to me sometimes.”

“Have you told Father this?”

“No.” Bran shook his head violently. “Father doesn’t need to know these things right now, Jon. You do. You have to promise me you will guard the Wall but not try to go after people north of it. I don’t want you to die! And if you do die, I don’t think we can win.”

“Bran, the Others are fearsome, I know, but Rhaegal . . .”

“Rhaegal isn’t the only dragon in the world, Jon.”

“And Queen Daenerys will be bring Drogon back if needed as well. She promised . . .”

“Not all dragons are fire.”

Now, Bran made no sense, and Jon stared at him.

“You heard Old Nan’s stories, Jon, same as me. Don’t you remember them?”

Jon thought for a moment and then realized what Bran was saying. “Ice dragons? Bran, are you saying there are actually ice dragons? Why not giant spiders then or all the other crazy creatures Old Nan told us about?”

“They’re all real, Jon. I saw them.” Bran’s eyes looked haunted, and Jon shivered looking at him.

“There are ice dragons beyond the Wall? Is that what you’re saying, Bran? They’re alive?”

Bran screwed his face up, and Jon realized he was trying to keep from crying. “I . . .I don’t know,” he finally said. “I know they’re real. I know they were there. I think they’re going to be there again. I don’t know if they’re there right now.” He put his hands over his face and sat there shaking. 

Jon went to him and held him by the arms. “It’s all right, Bran. You’re all right. Winterfell is safe,” Jon said, seeking any way to reassure him.

Bran looked up at him. “Winterfell is safe,” he agreed. “For now. Trees don’t see like people. They don’t remember like people, and I’m not even sure it’s only the trees with some of the greensight. I don’t always know what eyes see the things I see, or when it happened or when it’s going to happen. Do you understand?”

Jon wasn’t sure he understood entirely, but he nodded his head. “All of Nan’s stories were true,” he said. “Or at least the creatures in them were real even if her stories were made up.” Bran nodded. “And your . . .greensight . . .tells you that those creatures aren’t necessarily gone. They could come back as certainly as the Others and the dragons have.”

Bran nodded again, still looking miserable.

“Bran, have you told me everything?”

Bran shook his head that time. “No,” he whispered. “No one should know everything. I don’t know everything, Jon. I just want you to promise you won’t go north of the Wall.”

Jon looked at his little brother. “I can’t do that, Bran,” he said after a moment. “I’ll do my best to stay safe, and I have no intention of chasing the Others far into the North, but if there is a threat that must be answered or if people need help that I might be able to provide . . .”

“Men always believe they can change things. Even when they cannot.”

“What?”

“It’s something Lord Brynden told me when I was in the cave with him.”

“I don’t think I could call myself a man if I didn’t try to change things that evil, Bran.”

Surprisingly enough, those words made Bran smile for the first time since Jon had come into the room. “Now which one of us sounds like Father?” his little brother asked him, and Jon thought that Bran had just given him the highest praise he’d ever received. “I know you need to leave, Jon,” Bran said after only a brief hesitation, “And I know you will do what you must. I only want you to remember that you are important. You cannot save everyone. And you shouldn’t throw yourself away when there is no hope of success. Brien will be my age before we see an end to this winter, and we need you and Rhaegal if we’re to live until spring. I do know that.”

“You need to tell Father what you can see, Bran.”

“I will tell him anything I see that might help him, Jon. I promise. I told Lord Brynden that it didn’t do any good to see with a thousand eyes if I can’t help anyone by seeing. I meant that.”

“Bran,” Jon said, holding his little brother’s hands tightly. “Tell Father anything that scares you, too, all right? He would want you to. I want you to. Don’t get so wrapped up in helping us that you don’t let us help you.”

Bran smiled at him again, but it wasn’t the carefree smile of old. It was the smile of a much older man who had seen and experienced far more than any boy of one and ten. “Father will always help me as much as he can. I know that.”

Jon didn’t miss that his brother hadn’t actually promised anything, but he decided it was as much as he was likely to get. When he left Bran’s room to go to Lady Stark’s chamber and find his father, his thoughts were filled with Sansa, Arya, and Bran, and he realized that whoever his parents had been, he was the only big brother they had now. He missed Robb then with a physical ache. _I’m not enough, Robb,_ he thought. _I can’t even stay here. You’re the brother they need. You’re the brother I need. But I promise you I’ll be the best I can._

He reached Lady Stark’s door without even realizing it, and as he knocked was struck by the thought that he had most certainly knocked upon this particular door more times since he and Rhaegal had arrived than he had in the previous seventeen years.

“Come in,” came her voice.

When he opened the door, she looked up from where she sat at the table by her bed and acknowledged him with the slightest of nods. She leaned down to the bed then, and Jon saw that his father was reclined upon it. “Jon is here, my lord,” she said softly. “I shall return in a bit. Brien is in his cradle.” She kissed Father’s forehead and then then rose and left the room without saying anything else.

“Is she so angry about Rickon and the dragon that she cannot stand to be in the same room with me?” Jon asked.

“No.” His father’s voice sounded tired, and Jon immediately regretted his harsh words. “She was angry, as was I. But that isn’t why she left. She thought you might like to say your farewell to me without her here to make you feel uncomfortable.”

His entire life he had always faulted Lady Stark for inevitably thinking the worst of him in all circumstances, and he realized suddenly that he had always done the same of her. He was still doing it. He didn’t dwell on feeling guilty long, however, as he realized his father had made no move to sit up. It was not like Eddard Stark to receive anyone while lying flat on his back.

“Are you unwell, Father? Does something more than your leg trouble you?”

“I have a slight fever. Sam thinks it’s from moving about on the leg entirely too much and doesn’t mean anything, but I’m afraid Catelyn will tie me down if I attempt to leave this bed again for the next fortnight.” He sighed. “Come help me sit up, Jon. I fear the fever plus the exertion today has left me weaker than I’d like to be.”

Jon swallowed hard. His father did not admit to any sort of weakness easily. He walked to the bed put his hands beneath his father’s arms, pulling him to a seated position.

“That’s better,” his father said. He must have seen the distress on Jon’s face because he quickly added, “I am all right, Jon. Or I will be, at any rate. But you are not a child anymore. I won’t pretend I am immortal or impervious to harm.” He sighed. “Men require rest and sometimes they require help. Make certain that you get the first and accept the second when you are back at the Wall.”

Jon smiled at him. “I’m not a child anymore, but you won’t ever stop teaching me, will you?”

“I’ll never stop trying. Feel free to ignore me when you’ve nothing left to learn from me.”

“That day won’t come.”

His father sighed. “I will miss you, Jon. And I am proud of you. I know I have told you this already, but I do not think I can say either of those things enough.”

“I don’t mind hearing them,” Jon said with a grin. “As much as I hate leaving Winterfell, Father, I am looking forward to seeing Castle Black again, as cold and desolate a place as it is. I want to see my men. I want to get started on the work ahead of us. The men of the Night’s Watch must truly be the watchers on the wall and swords in the darkness now.”

His father smiled. “Don’t forget the fire that burns against the cold. I think you and your dragon have that bit well covered.”

“I am grateful for Rhaegal,” Jon said, “But we will need the entire Watch and the men Lady Stark’s plan will bring in to keep the Wall the strong defense it needs to be. I will defend the North, Father.”

Ned Stark reached out and grasped his hand. “You defend the entire realm, Jon. You are the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Generations of Starks have stood on that Wall, and none have served with any more honor than you already have and will continue to do. I know that as certainly as I know anything.”

Jon found himself unable to respond to those words and only grasped his father’s hand more tightly until Eddard Stark reached out with his other arm to pull him into an embrace. “Now go and get your brother,” he said roughly after a moment.

“My brother?” Jon asked in confusion.

“Brien,” his father clarified, motioning toward the cradle. “Catelyn left him here so you could bid him farewell, too.”

Stunned, Jon stood up from the bed and walked to the cradle. “He’s asleep,” he said, staring down at the babe who bore his face. It amazed Jon how much the boy seemed to have grown just in the time he’d been here.

“He won’t be for long. He’s due to wake up and eat. Go ahead and pick him up.”

Gingerly, Jon reached into the cradle and lifted the youngest Stark into his arms. “Hey, little brother,” he whispered. “Remember me? I’m your big brother, Jon. I haven’t gotten to hold you too often, and I’ve got to leave now, but I’ll remember you even if you don’t remember me.”

“You’ll come back and visit, Jon,” his father said softly. “You knew your Uncle Benjen, didn’t you?”

Jon nodded without looking up from the infant in his arms. “He looks even more like you than I do,” he said after a moment, realizing it was true.

“Possibly,” his father replied. “Except for his eyes.”

“Those are closed,” Jon said.

“Then definitely,” his father said with a laugh. “Catelyn says if Brien had a beard she couldn’t tell us apart when sleeping.”

Jon laughed, too. “Thank her for me, will you? For wanting me to see him before I left.”

“Thank her yourself.”

Jon looked up at him.

“She’s in your room.”

“What?”

“She’s in your room.” His father sighed. “Jon, you are my son. I claimed you as such and when I look back at my life, I would not do that differently. I would not. But if I could find a way to undo what strife my actions caused between the two of you, I would. Go on now, son. Be safe on your journey and as safe as you may be on the Wall.”

Jon started to lay his baby brother back in the cradle, but his father asked for him. He made sure to pile pillows beside him to help support his arms and then bid his father goodbye for what could well be a very long time . . .or the last time.

Lady Stark was in his room, standing with a maid beside his packs. “Is this truly all you intend to take? I wouldn’t have you starve,” she said when he walked in.

“It is enough,” he said. “I had far less when I came from Last Hearth.” He smiled. “Rhaegal is a good hunter. I won’t lack for meat.”

She nodded. “Very well then. Have you seen everyone?”

Jon thought about his father and siblings. He thought about Sam who had come with him to the kitchens when he’d gotten the bread for his packs, and even Dak who’d come running up to ask him not long after Daenerys left to ask if he’d truly let Rickon fly the dragon.

“Yes,” he said. “It is time for me to go.”

“Then let’s go,” she said, and Jon realized she had her cloak.

“You needn’t come outside with me, Lady Stark,” he said.

She sighed. “Did you see the group of people that gathered to see Her Grace off earlier, Jon? You are the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. The least I can do is show you enough courtesy to escort you to our courtyard.”

“It’s dark,” he said stupidly.

“I am aware,” she said with a slight smile on her face. “I am also aware that there are torches in this castle.”

He swallowed. “Very well, Lady Stark. I thank you.” He pulled on his cloak and slung the packs over his shoulders before offering her his arm.

As they walked through the corridor, he said, “I am sorry about letting Rickon sit on the dragon without even . . .”

“You should be,” she interrupted.

When they reached the door leading out of the Great Keep, she stopped him. “Jon,” she said, “You were wrong to allow Rickon to touch that dangerous beast. But I know you would die before you allowed harm to come to him.” She bit her lip the way Arya always did. “And both of those things can be true even if I am the person saying them.”

He laughed then in spite of himself and immediately feared she would take offense. Yet, she looked up at him and laughed as well.

“You truly don’t have to come out into the cold, Lady Catelyn,” he told her. 

“Oh, but I do,” she said. “Do you think your father is well pleased by not being able to see you off?” She bit her lip again, but this time Jon got the distinct impression it was to hold back her tears. “It’s killing Ned to lie in that bed while you fly away from Winterfell,” she whispered hoarsely.

Jon looked down. “He said that he would be all right . . .” he said hesitantly, suddenly needing confirmation of that.

“And he will be,” she said firmly. “I will see to that. But first I will see his son off to the Wall in his place. Because I love him, Jon. And because you love him as well, you will allow me to do this.”

Jon simply nodded and opened the door. To Lady Stark’s credit, she didn’t even flinch when the gust of cold air hit the two of them. Nor did she hesitate to walk with him right up to where Rhaegal waited in the courtyard, holding her torch aloft to provide light for him as he slung the packs over the dragon’s back. He had actually intended to escape the fanfare of a formal farewell by leaving in the dark so he was perfectly fine that no one else was in the courtyard to wave as he flew north. Oddly enough, he was also perfectly fine with having her there.

“I think that does it,” he said, turning back to her. “I thank you, Lady Catelyn.” He smiled at her. “I would tell you to take care of my father and my brothers and sisters, but I already know you will.”

She gave him a tiny smile in return. “I will,” she said. “You take care of yourself, Jon Snow. Do not get yourself killed because they have all lost too many people already.” She reached out and gripped his hand tightly as she said the last.

“I know,” he said softly. He knew what she wasn’t saying as well because he recognized the pain visible in those blue eyes even by torchlight. He shared it. “I miss him, too,” he whispered. “Every day.”

She bit her lip more tightly than ever for a moment, and then she smiled even as a tear rolled down her cheek. “I know,” she said. She squeezed his hand one last time, and he mounted the dragon.

As Rhaegal rose above Winterfell, Jon looked down and could see the tiny point of light that told him the Lady of Winterfell stood in the courtyard with her torch and watched him until he was gone from sight. Forcing his thoughts from those he had to leave behind, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch put his mind to the task ahead of him and allowed himself to slip almost entirely into the dragon’s skin for the long journey to Castle Black.


	70. Finding the Way Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I am going on a much anticipated vacation with the family, there will likely be no more updates for the next 2 weeks. Hopefully the fact that this one is long, even for me, will help make up for that! And NO CLIFFHANGER on this one. I promise. :)

Samwell Tarly was tired. After he ground the last of the small pile of dried herbs into a powder, he carefully poured them into the small pouch and closed it. He would use it to make an infusion for Lord Stark’s leg wound. The new fever didn’t trouble him too much given all the man had insisted upon doing today, but he did not want to give the wound any chance to fester more if he could help it. He wondered if he should repack the leg with cloths soaked in this new concoction tonight or simply let the man sleep and do it in the morning. Rest certainly had its own restorative properties, and the gods knew the man was exhausted.

Sam’s stomach growled, and he realized he was likely quite late for the evening meal. He’d grabbed some bread and just a bit of cold meat for himself earlier when he’d gone with Jon to the kitchen, but that had been some time ago. Jon was likely gone by now, he realized, and the thought pushed both his hunger and weariness from his mind as the absence of his friend caused him greater distress than either. Jon had only been at Winterfell a fairly short time, and Sam had been away from him for a very long time before that, but he’d fallen easily back into the habit of being accustomed to his friend’s presence. 

_My friend._ Technically, of course, Jon was his brother in the Night’s Watch, but Sam had already had a brother, one he cared about regardless of their differences or their father’s vastly different opinions of them. What he had never had before Jon was a true friend. He would miss him terribly. He’d wanted to see him off, but Jon would have none of it. The man who’d descended from the sky above Winterfell in a blaze of dragonfire wanted only to depart from it without notice. _This is not my place, Sam,_ he had said. _I belong on the Wall. My duty is to the Watch._ Sam offered a silent prayer for his safe journey and turned his thoughts back toward his own duties at Winterfell. 

He had asked Jon if he wanted him to return to Castle Black as well. The Night’s Watch remained without a maester. Jon had told him he was needed more in Winterfell. He’d talked about how this scheme of Lady Stark’s to bring Northmen to the Wall without necessarily putting them in the Watch would require closer cooperation between Castle Black and Winterfell than ever before--how Lord Stark would require the counsel of someone not only with intelligence and a Citadel education, but knowledgeable about the Night’s Watch. It would also benefit the Watch, Jon had maintained, to have one of their own men representing them in Winterfell. While Sam had no doubt that Jon believed those things, he also knew that Jon mostly wanted his family taken care of, and he couldn’t fault his friend for that.

He only hoped he was up to the task. Craven as he was, he was honestly glad to be remaining in Winterfell in spite of the fact he would miss Jon. It was warm and comfortable within Winterfell’s buildings, and while the winter food supplies were relatively meager compared to his memories of banquets in his father’s hall, every meal here was a feast compared to the fare at the Wall. He also liked his work here. He hadn’t realized how much he would enjoy teaching the children, but he did. Having Lord and Lady Stark speak to him of serious matters, ask his opinion about them, and actually listen to his words still intimidated him, but he took satisfaction in it none the less. Dealing with illness and injury still terrified him more than he wished anyone to know, but he reminded himself that he had not given into his own fears during the terrible long nights of battle when the wounded kept coming. He would not falter now.

His stomach growled again more loudly. _I won’t falter, but I may faint from hunger,_ he thought. He carefully laid the little pouch with some other things he intended to take to Lord Stark’s room in the morning. _Lady Stark’s room,_ he reminded himself, although he thought of it as belonging to both of them. He’d never actually attended Lord Stark in his own rooms in all the time he’d been there. As he turned to pull his cloak from the hook where it hung on the wall behind him, he heard footsteps on the stairs of his turret and then a soft rap on the door into the room.

“Yes?” he said.

“May I come in, Sam?”

The voice startled him for she rarely sought him out here. Of late, she rarely left the Great Keep except to go to the Hall for meals, and often she didn’t even do that. She had been confined to her chambers by him for some time, and then had kept to them voluntarily tending to her lord husband. “Of course, my lady,” he responded, hastening to open the door and then bow respectfully.

“You’re missing dinner, Sam,” she said softly as she came into the room.

“As are you, my lady,” he replied. She looked at least as tired as he felt, and worry creased her forehead and darkened her blue eyes.

“I am on my way there now, but I wished to speak to you alone. I would have you tell me your true thoughts on Lord Stark’s condition.”

As usual, she did not mince words, and she looked directly at him making him want to shield himself in some way from that penetrating blue gaze. “He did too much today,” Sam replied hesitantly. “I fear he has exhausted himself, and he has a slight fever.”

She sighed in exasperation. “I know damn well he has a fever, Sam. My hands can feel the heat from his skin as well as yours can. As for exhausted, I have just come from my rooms. He did not wake once from the time I entered to the time I left. He is well beyond any exhaustion he would normally exhibit.”

“I agree, my lady,” Sam said. 

“I don’t need you to agree with me, Samwell Tarly,” she snapped. “Or to tell me what I can see with my own eyes. I need you to tell me what it means.” She took a deep breath to calm herself, and Sam heard a slight tremble in it. “Sam,” she said then, much more softly. “How sick is he? Truly.”

Sam forced himself to continue meeting her eyes. “He is sicker than he would like to be, my lady. But I do not believe he is significantly sicker now than he was before. The leg was bad. You knew that. Keeping it as still as possible helped keep the blood there calm. When he walks about as much as he has today, the blood heats up everywhere, and the heat from the wound can become fever throughout his body.”

“Blood poison, Sam?” she whispered fearfully, biting her lip.

“No, my lady. I do not believe so. Truly I do not. I think he has set his recovery back a bit, but he will recover.” He picked up the little pouch. “And I have found in my books the receipt for a new infusion to help draw the heat and sickness from the wound. I intend to use it when I pack Lord Stark’s wound on the morrow.”

“You do not doubt his recovery?” Alarmed, Sam noticed that she was shaking. It hadn’t been that long since she had been the one who lay unmoving in her bed, and he went to take her arm and guide her into a chair. The fact that she did not protest spoke volumes about the current state of her own health.

“He will recover,” Sam repeated firmly when she was seated. “I do not know what infirmity will remain to his leg. I hope for the best, but I cannot know.”

“I don’t give a damn about the leg as long as he lives,” she said almost inaudibly. Seeming to gather herself together, she smiled up at him after a moment. “He does, however, so I suppose the two of us will have to tie the man down and keep the leg still so that it heals as best it can.”

“It will likely take both of us,” Sam said, returning her smile.

“Poor Sam,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “What a terrible pair of patients you’ve had in the two of us. At least, I am well now.”

He laughed out loud at that. “You are better,” he conceded. “Your blood is still much too thin. You tire too easily, and I know you still get headaches whenever you look over the ledgers or correspondence too long.”

She raised her brow. “I have not complained of any headaches.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “You put your fingers to your brows like this, draw them outward and make a circle type of motion at your temples.”

“I congratulate you on your powers of observation,” she said dryly.

“Lord Stark told me to watch for the gesture. He worries about the head injury you took and said you would never admit to suffering headaches, but that you cannot help doing that with your fingers when you have them.”

“Damn the man,” she said under her breath, but there was affection rather than anger in her voice. “So he’s the reason you keep pulling me away from work that needs done.”

“I would have you rest your eyes, my lady,” Sam said simply. “Just as I would have him rest his leg.”

“But we both shall mend, Sam,” she said firmly. “You’ve said it yourself.”

“You shall mend more quickly if you eat properly. You should go to the Great Hall now, my lady.”

She nodded. “We should both go. But first, I have another question for you, Sam.”

“Yes, my lady?”

“Don’t you feel that I am quite healed from Brien’s birth by now?”

“My lady?” Sam said, suddenly stammering. It bothered him that he could scarcely stand to speak of such things with her, even after he had delivered the baby in question and then dealt with her terrible hemmorhage of blood.

“I feel certain that I am,” she told him. “Oh, as you said, my blood is likely still thin and weak. The Other’s blade did not help that recovery along any. But my womb is as healed as it will get, is it not? My moonblood has been quite normal the past three times now, and I have no pain in that part of my body.”

“Lady Stark, I . . .I am not certain . . .”

“There is no reason I should not lie with my husband as his wife that I can see. Would you agree, Sam?”

Sam felt the heat in his cheeks and looked downward, hating his own weakness, but unable to look at her as she spoke of such things. “I . . .Lord Stark is ill . . . and . . .”

She actually laughed at him then, and Sam felt his cheeks grow even hotter. “I didn’t mean this very night, Sam. I know well enough that my lord husband is too ill to use my bed for anything other than sleeping, but he will recover, and when he does, I want to be clear that there is no reason I cannot be his wife . . .even if . . .” Her voice trailed off, and he looked up to see that she had now looked away.

“My lady?” he said, concerned at the distress he saw on her face.

“Sam,” she said suddenly. “Do you think I can still bear children, or did Brien’s birth damage me too greatly?” The words came out in a rush, and she bit her lip as soon as she finished speaking.

He swallowed. As uncomfortable as he was, he owed her an honest answer. “I think it very unlikely you will have any more children, my lady. When Brien was born, your womb did not release the afterbirth easily. It tore and came out incomplete. Bits remained within you, tearing the lining of your womb and causing the bleeding. Those tears will likely scar and make it difficult for . . .” he swallowed hard, hating to speak of such intimate things. “Difficult for . . .your husband’s seed to take hold and cause a child to grow.”

She bit her lip harder, and he saw tears shining in her eyes. “I feared as much,” she said softly. “Still . . .even if I cannot give Lord Stark more children, there is no reason I cannot lie with him, is there, Sam?”

He closed his eyes briefly, recalling the disturbingly similar conversation he had had with Lord Stark not long after they had been certain Lady Stark would indeed survive.

 _Is it possible that she could conceive a child again, Samwell?_ he had asked in that deep voice, and Sam had been shocked. He couldn’t imagine the man being concerned about getting more children from her so soon after nearly losing her in bringing forth this last one. He’d almost become angry until he saw the anguish in Lord Stark’s eyes, and the man’s next words had made it clear that was not his concern at all. _I will not risk her, Sam. I will not lose her. I would have you tell me all the truth._

He opened his eyes and looked at Lady Stark now. “I do not think Lord Stark desires more children, my lady.”

She gave a tiny, rather sad sounding laugh. “No,” she said softly. “He will say he does not. He will say he would have me safe, although I would give him more if I could.” She looked directly into Sam’s eyes again and he found himself unable to look away. “If I cannot give him children, Sam, I would at least give him comfort. I would help him ease the burdens he carries. I would be his wife.”

“You are his wife,” Sam insisted. “My lady, you do everything to help him. You have cared for this castle and the people and . . .”

“That isn’t what I meant, Sam, and you know it,” she said. She looked at him with a slight frown, but there was tenderness in her eyes. “You told me of the girl you loved.” 

That startled Sam, and he simply stared at her.

“The one you wished to write,” Lady Stark continued. “Who had your boy.”

Sam swallowed hard. “Gilly,” he croaked.

“Yes. If you cared for her, Sam, then you know that the comfort I speak of has little to do with seeing to my lord husband’s castle or balancing the ledgers.”

 _He isn’t really my boy,_ Sam thought. _But I do care for her. And I do know what you mean._ Unable to say any of that, he simply nodded, and Lady Stark gave him a sad sort of smile.

“I understand the vows you took when you joined the Night’s Watch, Sam, and I know you would not forswear yourself even for the love of this girl. No more than you would ever see her and your son go hungry or cold. I am truly sorry for any sadness all of that causes you.” She paused a moment and set her face in a more stern expression. “But the vows I took were to my lord husband, and even if I cannot be all that I should be to him, I would be what I can. So I ask you again, Sam, is there any reason I cannot lie with my lord husband once he is well himself?”

Sam swallowed again, his head reeling from this very uncomfortable conversation, his mind disturbingly filled with the memory of Gilly’s skin beneath his hands even as his eyes looked at the determined face of the woman in front of him. “There is no reason, Lady Stark, that you would not be . . .capable.”

She smiled at him then, mistaking his hesitance as a symptom of his discomfort with this entire topic of conversation. She looked relieved, he realized. She had actually feared that he would tell her there was some physical reason she could not be bedded by her husband. And there was not. The act itself should not harm her.

Yet, as he watched the joy creep into her expression, and he thought of how painfully honest she had been with him in her quest for answers, he realized he needed to tell her more.

“Lady Stark,” he said. “Your lord husband asked similar questions of me some time ago.”

She looked up at him without saying anything, simply waiting for him to continue. “He asked something you have not, however.”

“What was that, Sam?” she asked softly.

“I told him, as I’ve told you, that it is very unlikely that you will conceive another child. He asked if it were unlikely or impossible.” He watched her closely, wondering if she would mistake her husband’s motives as he had at first. “When I told him I could only say it was unlikely, he asked me another question.”

She watched him now as closely as he watched her, and Sam was startled at how little her expression gave away. It was usually her husband that he could not read, but she held herself very still as she awaited his next words, and her normally expressive face was nearly a mask.

“He asked what would happen if you did carry another child to term. Not to the child, but to you.”

“He wanted to know if I would bleed again,” she said quietly. “Like with Brien.”

Sam nodded.

“What did you tell him, Sam?”

He looked at her sadly. “I told him that it was very unlikely you would ever carry another child . . .but that if you did, you are at risk for suffering that same severe bleeding again.”

She looked stricken, and she closed her eyes. “Oh, Ned,” she whispered entirely to herself as if Sam were not even in the room.

After a moment, she opened her eyes and looked up at him. “I wish you had not done that, Sam.”

“I would not lie to Lord Stark, my lady,” he told her.

“No,” she said. “No more than I would.”

Abruptly, she stood up. “You should go down to the Great Hall and eat while there is still food, Sam,” she said.

“I can escort you there, Lady Stark.”

She shook her head. “I am not hungry, Sam. And I need to return to my husband.”

He started to protest, and she raised up her hands. “Have someone send food to my chambers, and I promise I’ll eat. I’ll feed Ned if he wakes up as well.”

She sounded even more tired now than she had when she’d entered the room, and she sounded terribly sad.

“My lady, I am sorry if I . . .”

She held up her hands again. “Thank you for telling me the truth, Sam. Don’t ever apologize for the truth.”

She turned to go then, and Sam just stared after her, wondering when the Starks of Winterfell might truly find healing. Sadly, he feared they might all be too scarred to ever heal completely--like Lord Eddard’s leg or Lady Catelyn’s face, and he hoped to all the gods he was wrong about that.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

“Milady.”

Catelyn Stark blinked and tried to get her eyes and mind to focus as the soft rapping came again at the door accompanied by the maid’s hesitant voice. “Milady.”

 _I’m in my bed._ That insight was followed quickly by the realization that the maid’s arrival meant it must be morning. The room was still dark, of course. The morning hours arrived long before the sun now, and Catelyn had long since adapted to rising easily with little to no light. She must have been more exhausted than she’d realized. With all the worries on her mind, she’d feared she wouldn’t sleep at all. Yet, now she could barely get herself awake.

“Come in!” she called finally, sitting up in the bed and pulling the furs tightly around her. 

Beside her, Ned slept on just as he had the entire previous evening and night. He had not stirred when she’d returned after speaking with Sam or when the food had arrived. She had tried very gently to wake him then, but when her whispered words and light touches did not penetrate his slumber, she’d decided he needed sleep more than food. When she’d finally crawled in beside him, he did not turn and draw her to him as was his habit even in his sleep. Instead she had lain beside him, careful of his leg, scarcely taking deep breaths lest she move too much and cause him discomfort. She’d been convinced she would not sleep at all, but it certainly appeared she had been wrong in that.

“Come in!” she called once more, fearing that her words had been too quiet the first time. Ned remained motionless in the bed, and she felt compelled to lay a hand upon his chest to assure herself of its steady rise and fall.

The door opened and a kitchen maid Catelyn only knew slightly entered the room. She was a slip of a girl, no bigger than Arya and likely no older. “Forgive me, milady,” she stammered as she pushed into the room carrying a tray nearly as big as she was. “The Lady Sansa bid me bring food up, and I . . .”

“Thank you, child,” Catelyn interrupted. “Just set it on the table.”

“I . . .I’m sorry to disturb you and Lord Stark, milady,” the girl said hesitantly. She kept her eyes down, scarcely looking at Catelyn and not looking toward Ned at all.

“You needn’t apologize,” Catelyn assured her as she set the tray down. “The food is most appreciated. You needn’t stay to serve us, though. I can see to my lord husband and myself.”

“Yes, milady.” The girl dipped into a hasty curtsy and all but sprinted for the door.

“Cora,” Catelyn called after her, finally recalling her name. The girl stopped and spun back around to face her. “Are my children in the Great Hall?”

“No, milady. They were, but they’ve all finished their meals. Lady Sansa went somewhere with that little fellow--that Lord Lannister. And the others went with Maester Sam.”

 _Lessons,_ Catelyn thought with a smile. While that likely pleased Arya and Rickon not at all, she herself highly approved of Sam’s endeavors to maintain some semblance of a normal routine for the children in the midst of everything that surrounded them. All of their lives had been far removed from anything close to normal for much too long, and in her darkest moments, she feared the happy children they had once been were not simply battered and scarred, but truly lost forever. She knew she would miss Maester Luwin forever, but she had come to rely on Sam as her ally in her determined battle to make Winterfell a true home for her children once more. “And Brien is with Letty?” she asked Cora now, thinking of her only child who would have no memory of all that had taken place over the past few years and, gods willing, would be gifted with a childhood here in Winterfell comparable to his siblings’. _Please, gods,_ she pleaded silently, as she so often did now. She hardly differentiated prayers to her gods or Ned’s anymore, and her needs and fears and desperate hopes were far too numerous to list so her prayers seemed to consist simply of _please._ She could only hope the gods understood all that was needed and were inclined to look kindly upon the Starks of Winterfell after all this time.

“He is, milady. Shall I have her fetch him to you?”

“No, Cora,” Catelyn sighed regretfully. Already this frequent reliance upon a nurse, this time spent away from her before his first name day was something very different in Brien’s childhood from any of her other children’s. But it couldn’t be helped. “I fear I need to see to Lord Stark. He must eat something before Samwell comes to tend his leg. I will come and find Letty myself when I am able.”

“Yes, milady.”

The girl left, and Catelyn rose from her bed, shivering in her nightshift before pulling her thick robe on over it. She carefully filled Ned’s mug and plate, dragged one of the chairs to the side of the bed where he lay and set the plate upon it before sitting back down on the bed and reaching for his face.

“Ned,” she said softly. “You must wake, my love. You have been asleep a long time.” She stroked his cheek as she spoke and then bent to press a kiss to his forehead. “Wake up, Ned,” she said into his ear.

He began to stir and mumble a bit, and she raised up, continuing to stroke his cheek as he began blinking his eyes. Gratefully, she realized that the cheek felt cool to the touch, and when the grey eyes fully opened and looked up into hers, they were clear.

“Catelyn,” he said. His voice was a bit hoarse, but it was strong and clear enough.

She smiled at him. “Were you expecting someone else, my lord?” she teased.

He closed his eyes, and she actually heard a brief chuckle rumble in his throat. When he opened his eyes again, she caught her breath at the emotion she could see in his face. “I was dreaming of you,” he said. “Then I opened my eyes and here you were. I fear I am still not used to that. After dreaming so long without you.”

She knew he was not simply referring to his recent journey to fight the Others at Last Hearth, but the countless days and nights and moons apart for so much of their recent years. Believing each other dead and lost forever. The emptiness and terror those memories struck in her own heart threatened to overwhelm her, but she recalled the things that Sam had told her, and she determinedly smiled at him instead. “You needn’t dream without me again, my love,” she said firmly. “You’ve been beside me all night, and I have no intention of allowing you to dream anywhere other than in my bed for a very long time.”

He laughed at that. “So you and young Sam are conspiring to hold me prisoner here, are you?”

She frowned at him. “You know as well as I that you overdid it yesterday, Ned.”

“Yesterday?” he said with a puzzled look on his face. “Jon was just here. Did you see him off? Brien . . .” A look of panic flashed across his face, and he sat up looking around the bed for the babe that was not there.

She took his hands. “Did you not hear me say you had been by me all night?” she asked gently. “Yes, I went with Jon Snow when he mounted his dragon and departed for the Wall. When I returned here, I found you and your son both sound asleep. Brien woke when I took him from your arms, but you did not.”

“Where . . .”

“He’s in the nursery. Letty is seeing to him. I fed him last night, and she can feed him this morning.”

“This morning . . .”

“You slept all the time I fed Brien, and all through the evening meal. You did not wake when food was brought to us, and your fever burned most of the night. I lay beside you, and I could feel the heat coming off you. It is morning now, though, and most in the castle have already broken their fasts. I have food here for you, and I need you to eat it.” 

“You should not have let me sleep so long, Cat.”

“Of course, I should have. I couldn’t wake you anyway. But your fever has broken, so now you must eat and start to regain some strength. Sam will be here soon to tend your leg.”

Ned grimaced. She had been present for enough of these procedures to know it caused him terrible pain, and she hated it. She squeezed his hands. “I will be with you,” she said. “But first you must eat.”

He nodded and even allowed her to feed him at first, but soon he grew tired of feeling like an invalid and demanded that she give him the plate and let him feed himself. He correctly surmised that she hadn’t broken her own fast and insisted that she sit down and eat as well. As he seemed to be faring reasonably well, she agreed, and the two of them ate in silence for a bit.

“Thank you for all that you did for Jon,” he said softly after a time.

She shrugged slightly. “He and that dragon saved this castle, Ned. He now goes to lead the Night’s Watch in the face of the greatest threat to it in more than a thousand years. I did nothing more than he deserved.”

“And I know that he is grateful that you appreciate all of that,” Ned said. “But I am thanking you now, Cat.” He looked directly at her. “For myself.”

She returned his gaze without looking away and simply gave a slight nod. She didn’t deny that anything she did for Jon Snow was done as much, if not more, for her husband than for the boy himself. They both knew it was the truth. “You’re welcome, my lord,” she said quietly after a moment.

“Does Tyrion Lannister depart today with the Greyjoy girl?”

“Yes,” Catelyn said, much more at ease with this topic of conversation. “If you insist upon speaking to him before he goes, I can have him brought here. You are not leaving this bed.”

Ned sighed, but did not argue with her. “I have no need to speak to the man, although if he wishes to say anything to me, I will receive him here.” She knew he hated the notion of receiving anyone while lying in bed unable to rise, but the thought of facing Tyrion Lannister in such a state would particularly gall him. She would keep the dwarf away unless he had a damned good reason to require an audience with her husband.

“I don’t imagine he would need to see you, my love. The preparations for his departure are largely made. Sansa is going over the supplies with him this morning.”

“Sansa?” Ned asked in some alarm.

“She has gotten more comfortable with his presence. He’s already written the High Septon about the annulment, and she has said repeatedly he was never cruel to her. Still, I would not have had her do this. I fear I overslept this morning and she had already stepped in before allowing anyone to wake me by bringing this food.”

“Her mother’s daughter, in truth,” Ned said with a smile.

“In some ways,” Catelyn acknowledged. “Although, she is better than her mother in many ways.”

Ned’s snort told her he disagreed, and Catelyn loved him for it. Yet, she knew she was right about their daughter. “In any event, I will dress and go down and see the Imp away to the south. Lady Asha has asked to speak with me before they depart, as well, and I will not deny her that.”

“What does she want?” Ned asked suspiciously.

“I have no idea, but I hardly think she intends to kill me, my love. She’s been alone with me any number of times before now.”

“I do not want you alone with her. I would not risk you, Catelyn, even when you would risk yourself.”

Those words chilled her as she thought back on her conversation with Sam. “There is no risk to me,” she insisted. “Asha Greyjoy is not her brother. She would not commit cold blooded murder. Even if she wished me dead, she does not have a death wish herself, and she knows that to touch me here in Winterfell is to die.”

Ned’s expression remained grim, but he made a sound indicating agreement with that particular sentiment. Catelyn was pleased to note that his plate was quite empty and she reached to take it from him, brushing her hand against the skin of his face and neck before she picked it up.

“You are quite cool, my love. I believe your fever is well and truly past. Would you like me to get you more food?” He did look remarkably better than he had the previous night, and she wished to do anything she could to ensure his further recovery.

“No. I’ve no doubt young Samwell will be here with his instruments of torture soon, and an over-full belly will likely increase the likelihood of my being sick when he starts in on my leg.”

He spoke the words matter-of-factly, and Catelyn shuddered at the thought of the gruesome process of cleaning and packing the gaping wound in her husband’s calf. She must have looked distressed, because he grabbed her hand then and attempted to make her smile by saying, “Besides, why do I need to recover my energy? I am under no illusion that neither you nor Sam will allow me out of this bed to exert myself in any manner.”

Half afraid of how he would respond, but needing to know for herself how things stood, she smiled rather wickedly and leaned down, brushing her lips against his and then moving her mouth to his ear where she whispered, “Oh, I certainly intend to keep you in this bed, but I am quite willing to allow you some exertions.” 

She could feel him tense. “Cat . . .” he started.

“I promise not to tire you too much, my lord,” she teased, pulling back slightly to look at the far too grave expression on his face. “I think you know I can take very good care of you, and I will not allow any hurt to come to your leg.” She trailed her fingers down his chest as she spoke, and she could feel him catch his breath at her touch, even through the fabric of his nightshirt. 

He swallowed. “Catelyn,” he said, in a voice that sounded almost pained. “I would not ask you to . . .”

“You aren’t asking me for anything, Ned. I am volunteering.” She slid her hand all the way down to the front of his breeches then and was gratified to discover that whatever his intentions were, his cock had already begun to stiffen. As she moved to stroke it through the material, though, he grabbed her hand and pulled it away.

“Catelyn. We cannot do this. You know we cannot.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” she said. “But we probably should wait until after Sam has come and gone. I’ve no wish to shock the poor boy.” She turned away from him then, picking up the empty plate she’d laid aside on the bed and placing it on the table. “And I do have to go see Asha Greyjoy.”

“Yes,” Ned said quickly, seizing upon her words. “You should dress and go to her, my lady.”

Catelyn raised a brow. “Really, my lord? Only a moment ago, you seemed concerned that Lady Asha was a threat to me. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you wished to be rid of me. Surely, you don’t consider yourself a greater threat to my wellbeing than Theon Greyjoy’s sister?”

The expression that clouded the grey eyes then made it very clear that he did. _Damn you, Sam! Why did you have to tell him such things?_

Sighing, Catelyn decided this was no time for games. “Ned,” she said simply, without any hint of her former teasing manner, “I have spoken to Sam. He assures me that while I am not quite at full strength, I am healed from Brien’s birth and quite recovered from the attack by the Other. There is nothing to prevent my lying with you.”

Ned frowned. “But there is, and if you spoke with Sam, you know it.”

“He tells me I am unlikely to bear you any more children, and I am sorry for that, my love.”

“Sorry?” Ned nearly shouted. “Catelyn, you nearly died! Another child could take you from me forever! Do not say you are sorry we shall have no more.”

“I won’t pretend that I am not saddened at the thought of never carrying your babe within me again, Ned,” she said very softly. “But I will not let that grief keep me from your bed. I am your wife, and I wish to be a wife to you again. It has been far too long.” 

“No,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“No? You don’t want me anymore?”

“Want you? I want you more than I could ever begin to say. I no longer remember a time when I didn’t want you, and I shall continue to want you until I die.” He was practically shaking, and he took a deep breath. “Don’t you see, my love?” he said more softly. “That is why I will not bed you. Sam cannot promise that my seed will not quicken once more, and he fears that you would bleed again if it does. I know what it is to lose you, Cat. I can’t do it again.”

“So you would push me away? Did you decide this before you ever left for Last Hearth, Ned? When did you intend to tell me?”

“I . . .I don’t know what I intended. I only know that I cannot risk you. Losing you once was more than I could bear. I cannot do it again.”

“Oh,” she said softly. Then she bit her lip hard and looked at her husband, torn between grief at his obvious pain and her own hurt and anger at his words. “You cannot do it again,” she said carefully, not wanting to shout at him. “But you expect me to face losing you easily enough, and I accept that because I have no choice.”

“Catelyn . . .”

“Let me speak, Ned. You could have been killed when you rode into battle at Riverrun, or at the Eyrie by Petyr or here at Winterfell by the Boltons and Freys. You could easily have died when you went north of the Wall with Jon Snow. You told me yourself you would have had Bran’s wolf not found you. And you could have been killed when you rode to Last Hearth.”

He opened his mouth as if to speak.

“And don’t tell me it’s different because it isn’t. I know what it is to lose you, too. I nearly lost my mind when that Tallheart boy told me the Lannisters had taken your head. I did lose my heart. I lost all the joy I’d ever known. I knew I’d never be whole again in a world without you.” She shook her head slowly. “And yet I have not sought to hold you back from throwing yourself at death repeatedly since you returned to me.”

“Cat,” he pleaded. “You know that I . . .”

“I know that you are the Lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North, and an honorable man. You cannot stop being these things because I fear for you. I would not ask you to be other than who you are. Why would you ask it of me?”

“My love, I would have you be no one else,” Ned protested. “I want you here with me, Catelyn, just as you are.”

“No, apparently you don’t. For I am the Lady of Winterfell, and I am your wife. Yet you would ask me to stop being your wife. And I can’t. I cannot be other than your wife and remain who I am. Do you not understand that?”

His eyes did not leave hers, but he made no response. Catelyn wasn’t certain how long they stood there simply looking at each other before the knock at the door announced Sam’s arrival. 

“My lady? My lord? May I come in?”

After another few seconds that seemed to last forever, Ned nodded to her slightly, and looked toward the door. She took a deep breath and called out, “I need to dress, Sam. Could you come back in a few moments?” She wanted very much to ask Ned her question again and truly make him answer, but there was no time for that now. His leg must be tended. 

“Yes, my lady. Is Lord Stark awake? I have the new infusion for his leg.”

“I’m awake, Sam,” Ned practically growled. “Lady Catelyn must meet with Asha Greyjoy. Give her time to prepare herself for that and then return. I won’t go anywhere.”

“Yes, my lord,” came Sam’s voice, unsurprisingly sounding a bit more timid then.

“Do you want me to stay while he tends your leg?” Catelyn asked Ned as Sam’s footsteps retreated down the corridor.

He shook his head. “I can stand it on my own. Go and do what you must today.”

“I will return when I can,” she said. “But in truth, I do not know when that will be. Lord Tyrion’s party will be leaving at some point, and I must see the children.”

“As I told Sam, I am not going anywhere.”

She nodded. “Then we shall finish this conversation.”

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but appeared unable to find the words. Finally he simply nodded and lay back against the pillows with his eyes closed as she turned away to dress for what promised to be a long day.

It felt an eternity later when Deryk escorted the young woman from the Iron Islands into Ned’s solar. Catelyn was seated in Ned’s chair looking over a plan to expand the plantings in the glass gardens as more repairs were completed. They were still far smaller than they had been, but work continued, and Catelyn was grateful they had somehow escaped damage by both the Others and the dragon.

“Lady Greyjoy,” she said, looking up to welcome her visitor. 

Asha Greyjoy had been confined in her room throughout her time at Winterfell with the exception of her brother’s execution day and when Catelyn had let her out to fight the Others. She had certainly never seen the inside of the lord’s solar, and Catelyn watched her eyes move about the room, taking in its appearance.

“Lady Stark,” she said finally, bowing her head very slightly.

“I understand you wished to speak to me before your departure from Winterfell.”

The girl nodded.

“Please sit down, my lady,” Catelyn said, indicating the chairs across the desk from her. “Deryk, you may leave us,” she said to her captain of the guard.

“Yes, my lady,” he said. “I shall be right outside.”

Catelyn couldn’t keep the amusement from her face. Ned would no doubt approve of the man’s words.

“Does he truly think I need a deterrent to keep from attacking you?” Asha Greyjoy asked when he’d closed the door behind him, and she sounded nearly as amused as Catelyn was.

Shrugging slightly, she responded, “He is a man.”

Asha Greyjoy laughed. Then she held up a rolled parchment she had carried in with her. “Would you send this for me?”

“To your mother?”

“Yes.”

“Of course. I must read it first, you know.”

“I thought as much.” The girl looked down a moment, but then raised her eyes directly to Catelyn’s. “It will be you to read it, though? I would rather you read it than your Lord Stark.”

“I keep no secrets from my lord husband, Lady Greyjoy,” Catelyn told her.

“Truly?” Asha asked her. “I think I would keep any secret I liked if I had a husband. But that is not my concern. There is nothing in this letter of importance to you or Lord Stark. It is only . . .” She stopped speaking suddenly as if she didn’t know what to say.

“It is only a letter from a daughter to her mother,” Catelyn finished for her. “I understand that well enough. You love your mother. And you worry about her. I’ve read the other letters, you know.”

A flash of something appeared briefly in the younger woman’s eyes, almost as if she expected Catelyn to say something more and was prepared to defend her mother. Then she took a deep breath. “If things should not go as the dragon queen wishes, if she should order your lord husband to attack the Iron Islands, I would be grateful if my mother could be treated kindly. She has seen little enough of kindness and she deserves far more than she has received.”

“War is an ugly and unpredictable thing, my lady. I cannot say what will happen in the event of an invasion of the Iron Islands. But you have my word that I will do what I can for your mother. I can speak for my lord husband in this matter as well. Lord Stark will endeavor to see her treated well and fairly.”

Asha Greyjoy nodded. “Do you trust the dragon queen?” she asked suddenly.

Catelyn sighed. “I think she intends to keep her word when she gives it. I also think she intends to let nothing stand between her and the Iron Throne. She will do what she must to win it.”

“And your husband supports her in that struggle. Even though he fought to cast out the Targaryens. Even though you don’t trust her. Not really.”

The young woman was perceptive. Catelyn would give her that. “My husband fought to remove a madman from the throne and to obtain justice for his family. His father, brother, and sister all died because of the Targaryens. Yet, he is not a fool. You were on the walls when Jon Snow arrived upon that green dragon. The queen’s black beast is even larger and more fearsome. Do you wish to meet it as an enemy?”

Asha laughed harshly. “Your lord husband may not be a fool, but my Uncle Victarion was. Do you believe Daenerys Targaryen’s tale about him, my lady?”

“I’ve no reason to disbelieve her. Have you?”

Asha shook her head. “Not really. And it sounds so much like him. If she is lying, she learned of him from someone who knows him well. No, I suspect my uncle does lie at the bottom of the sea along with his hopes of commanding dragons.” She laughed bitterly again. “He always did want too much. And he would have wished to rule the dragons for simple hatred of his brother Euron if for no other reason.”

“Your uncles do not get along?”

Asha’s laugh was freer then. “You could say that. None of them cares for the thought of me on the Seastone Chair, though. It’s one thing they would agree upon.”

“They won’t be given a choice.”

“No. No more than I have been.” She was silent a moment, and then spit out, “I would not choose this, you know. I would not be a puppet ruler dancing to the tune set by some little girl who wants to be queen. Although, I probably won’t have to dance long. If the Iron Islanders see me as a Targaryen creature, I will likely be dead before the year’s out.”

“Then do not be a puppet.”

Asha Greyjoy looked at her with obvious surprise. “You would have me defy the dragon queen.”

Catelyn sighed. “Only if you wish to die. Only if you wish to see your people die in large numbers. You have seen a dragon in action. Daenerys Targaryen is not mad like her father, but she does mean to be queen. And she will use her dragon. My husband is no one’s puppet, Lady Greyjoy, but he has bent the knee to Queen Daenerys and now will do all he can to help her be a queen worthy of his fealty. And he will continue to lead the North with honor and courage as he always has. He is her subject, as he was Robert Baratheon’s and Aerys Targaryen’s before her. But he is not her puppet. I would advise you to follow his example.”

“I’m a prisoner, Lady Stark. Or have you forgotten?”

“I have not. But you are a valuable prisoner, my lady. I told you Daenerys Targaryen will use her dragons to take her throne if she must, and I believe that. But I also believe she would prefer not to slaughter people needlessly. Work with her. She has shown an inclination to at least listen when people speak whether she chooses to heed their words or not. And what she offers you is certainly preferable to continued imprisonment here, is it not?”

The Ironborn girl was silent for another few moments, and then she asked, “Is your husband gravely wounded, my lady? I was surprised he did not accompany the dragon queen when she came to see me, and he is not here now.”

“You asked to speak with me, not my lord husband.” Catelyn’s gaze dropped momentarily to the letter to Alannys Harlaw which lay on the desk before her. “But, yes, his wound was quite serious. He will recover completely, but I fear he should not be up out of bed for the next several days at least.”

“I am glad for your sake,” she said. “I hate him, you know, for killing my brother. It matters not that he was justified. Theon was my blood, and I watched Lord Stark bring his sword down upon his neck. I will never forget that.”

Catelyn simply regarded her silently. If the young woman expected any censure for her words, she would not receive it. She understood the young woman’s feelings all too well. Unlike Theon, Robb had been murdered for no cause, but she knew perfectly well that she could not have forgiven Roose Bolton his death for any cause in the world. And while she was more than glad that Joffrey Baratheon was dead and would shed no tears when Cersei Lannister joined him in the grave, she would not fault the wretched woman for hating his poisoner. No, not for that.

“I should go, Lady Stark. You have treated me as kindly as you could, and I especially thank you for allowing me to write my mother.”

“I wish that my daughters had been allowed to freely write me when the Lannisters had them. I would not cause another mother that pain.”

The younger woman looked at her. “I think my mother would like you,” she said softly. She smiled then. “Were you not my jailer, I think I might even like you. You are stronger than you appear. Stronger than I expected you to be.”

“I am as strong as I must be.” 

She called for Deryk who came in to escort the Lady of the Iron Islands from the solar. Once they left, she rested her head in her hands on the desk, thinking that she had no wish to be strong at all. She wanted to go back to her rooms and fall into Ned’s arms and let him be strong for her. She was tired, and her head hurt. She was uneasy about the conversation she and her husband had left unfinished. She wanted Tyrion Lannister and Asha Greyjoy and anyone else who was not a Stark or a member of their household out of Winterfell. 

Sighing heavily, she raised her head. The visitors would be leaving soon enough, and she and Ned would finish that conversation. At the moment, however, she had several more reports to look through before she could join her children in the Great Hall for the midday meal. With another glance at Asha Greyjoy’s letter to her mother, she briefly thanked the gods that she was at least more fortunate than Alannys Harlaw in that she had her husband and all her children save Robb with her, and then the Lady of Winterfell picked up the parchment she’d laid aside at Asha Greyjoy’s entry and returned to her duties.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Tyrion Lannister had been telling himself that he simply dreaded leaving a warm, relatively comfortable castle for nights out on the snow-covered Kingsroad. Yet as he walked over to Lady Stark and her assembled brood in the courtyard, he knew he would actually miss these people, even the younger girl who stood there glaring at him now as if he might be planning to abscond with her mother’s silver. He supposed the nights they had suffered through together during the attacks by the Others had connected him to these wolves more than he’d care to admit.

 _They actually thanked me,_ he thought, somewhat incredulously. Lady Stark and her captain of the guard had both expressed gratitude for his assistance during those long nights, and even the frozen faced Lord of Winterfell had gruffly mumbled words of appreciation when he’d returned. It was more than his own father had done after the Battle of the Blackwater. He nearly laughed at that, although he felt no joy in it. He wondered if his bitterness toward Tywin Lannister would ever fade. _I killed you, you cold-hearted bastard, and I feel no remorse. Yet, I’m still angry about your fucking lack of gratitude. I did a hell of a lot more at that battle than I ever did here. I saved that cesspool of a city and my sweet sister’s pretty hide. And for what?_

“Lord Lannister!” Lady Stark called out, interrupting his bitter reminiscence. “I wish you safe journey on your travel south.”

“Ah, you no doubt wish me started on that journey already, Lady Stark.” She frowned slightly, and he realized his words had been colder than he intended, poisoned by the thoughts of his father. “I thank you for the generous provisions you’ve provided our party.”

“Well, you are taking a good number of Winterfell men with you. I wouldn’t have them starve.”

He laughed out loud then. “Ah, my lady, I do believe I shall actually miss you. But I shan’t admit that to anyone else.”

She didn’t say anything, but she very nearly smiled.

He looked at the direwolf by her side, and he smiled. “I thought young Lord Brandon was absent from this farewell party, but I see I was mistaken.”

“There is far too much snow for Bran’s chair, and he didn’t wish to have Tom carry him,” she replied evenly. “But this is his wolf, Summer.” She made no further acknowledgement of his equating the wolf with the boy, but he didn’t expect her to. The Starks spoke very little about the bonds the children shared with these beasts. _Wargs,_ he thought, still finding it as incredible as he found it fascinating. Maybe he could find a good book on the topic some day, although he suspected that the subject was little written about in the south.

A rather loud, low pitched growl caused him to look up from his contemplation of the wolf in some alarm, and he saw the wild boy pulling back on the big, black wolf. “Peace, Shaggy,” he said before turning toward Tyrion. “He doesn’t like you staring at Summer,” he said.

“Rickon. Be more courteous to our guest,” Lady Stark admonished him.

“He doesn’t like you staring at Summer, my lord,” the boy amended with no discernible increase in courtesy.

Tyrion laughed. “I shall try to remember that,” he told the child. “I have no wish to offend any of your wolves, I assure you.”

The younger Stark daughter stood beside her brother, and now looked as if she were trying very hard not to laugh which was at least an improvement over her expression a moment ago.

“Lady Arya,” he said, bowing to her slightly. “I bid you farewell.” His gaze went to the slim blade she kept strapped at her side. “Needle, isn’t it?” he asked her.

She looked surprised, and he supposed she didn’t recall that her mother had spoken the sword’s name in front of him during one of those long nights. She nodded at him.

“A good name for a blade, I think,” he told her. “And a good blade for a little she-wolf.”

“Lord Lannister,” Lady Stark said warningly.

He smiled up at her. “I only mean to compliment her, my lady,” he assured her. “I have the utmost respect for she-wolves.”

Lady Stark snorted, and he grinned more widely. Then he turned to Lady Sansa, standing perfectly still beside her sister, courteously waiting to be recognized. He realized that the third wolf was standing some distance behind the two girls which suited him fine. Arya Stark’s wolf was hobbled by a bad leg, but it was still a direwolf, and even more than the males seemed to have an extreme distaste for anyone not named Stark.

“Lady Sansa,” he said with genuine affection. “I doubt you are sorry to see me go, but I shall honestly miss you.”

She looked almost frightened at that, lowering her eyes, and Tyrion silently cursed himself.

“I have no wish to remain your husband, my lady, I assure you. Not that you are not beautiful, for you certainly are. But I prefer to choose my own women rather than have them bound to me against their will and mine. The annulment will be accomplished. You have my word on it.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said softly, still looking down. She looked up at him then, appearing to steel herself to look him straight in the eyes and appearing so much like her mother as she did so that it almost made him blink. “And thank you for your kindness. Here . . .and in King’s Landing. And for all you’ve done for us while you’ve been here.”

 _More gratitude,_ he thought. _I’ve received more gratitude from these wolves with plenty of reason to hate me for my name than ever from my own kin._ “You deserve kindness, Lady Sansa,” he said simply. “And I’ve no doubt your parents will see to it that you receive nothing else from now on.”

“You may be assured of that, Lord Lannister,” Lady Stark said quietly but firmly, and he turned back to look at her.

“And so I take my leave of you, my lady,” Tyrion said to her. “Please give your lord husband my regards and my best wishes for a quick recovery to full health.”

“I shall do that.” She raised her eyes to look at all the men and horses assembled near the gate, and he saw her acknowledge Asha Greyjoy on her mount.

“I’ll see that she behaves, my lady,” he assured her.

Lady Stark laughed then. “Oh, I think she’ll see that you behave, my lord,” she said. “Do not underestimate her. She is intelligent and almost fearless, I think. I realize it won’t come easily to you, but do try not to spend the entire journey insulting her.”

“Why, Lady Stark. I am the very soul of courtesy, as you well know. Lady Greyjoy shall have no cause for complaint. I am experienced in accompanying highborn ladies on lengthy journeys. I shall simply have to get used to doing it while not bound.”

She snorted again, and it made him laugh. He would miss her, he realized, and he honestly wished her some measure of peace and contentment here with her Northern lord and their litter of pups. 

“Safe journey,” she told him again. “And while I would advise you to spare Queen Daenerys some of your more discourteous remarks, I hope you will not spare her the benefit of your intellect. She has much to learn, Lord Lannister.”

Mention of Daenerys Targaryen reminded Tyrion uncomfortably that the young queen was even now well on her way to Riverrun on Drogon’s back. Well on her way to Jaime, whose life was now numbered in days. He couldn’t think about that. He had a job to do. He was an advisor to the queen, and Catelyn Stark was right. She still had much to learn. “I will give her what counsel I can, Lady Stark. I promise you that.”

He rode from Winterfell thinking about Catelyn Stark and Daenerys Targaryen and realized with a laugh that it was likely the first time in his life that his mind was so full of two women he wished neither to kill nor to bed.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

It had been a long damn day. Eddard Stark sat in the large bed in his wife’s over-warm chambers and glared at his bandaged leg. The sun had set some time ago although he knew it was not late. The room was light enough thanks to all the candles, but he was tempted to yell for someone to put them out on the slim chance that their little flames added to the warmth. He would have liked to open a window, but it was so bitterly cold outside, he feared that would quickly cool the room beyond what Catelyn could tolerate when she returned.

 _If she ever returns,_ he thought sourly. Sam had been there three times, first to complete the torturous packing of his leg wound, this time with some new potion he’d discovered. It was no more painful in application than any other had been so Ned had suffered it reasonably well. He’d come the second time after midday meal to bring him some reports to look over. Catelyn had sent them for his approval. Ned had laughed at that. She’d obviously seen them and taken any necessary measures already, but undoubtedly knew he’d be out of his mind with boredom. Sam had come the third time just after sundown to check the leg and let him know that Tyrion Lannister and company had departed from Winterfell. He’d expected Catelyn then, but she hadn’t appeared. He wondered if she was still angry at him.

All of the children save Bran had popped in at least briefly. He hoped Bran wasn’t spending all his time alone trying to see what no man, let alone boy should have to see. He worried about Bran. Catelyn did too, he knew. But neither of them knew how to help him. This greensight of his was something far more incomprehensible than the warging. That thought made him laugh out loud. _Gods be good! Have I truly gotten comfortable with the fact that my children are wargs?_

In truth, the children and their connection to their direwolves did seem more a comfort to him than a threat now. The gods knew they still had enough threats to keep him worried for a lifetime. Foremost in his mind at present was this business with Catelyn. _Then we shall finish this conversation,_ she had said.

But what was there to say? He did understand her frustration, and the woman was blind if she couldn’t see how much he shared it. But how could she ask him to accept becoming the instrument of her death? The idea of never making love to her again was more painful than anything he could think of . . . except for the idea of killing her. That was simply unacceptable. He would have to make her understand. He had to find a way.

He heard the door open and looked up to see the his wife enter the room. She smiled at him, and he marveled at the way his heart lifted simply to see it. “Cat,” he said simply.

“You’re sitting up. You look good, Ned.”

“You look beautiful. But tired.”

She came to sit beside him on the bed. “I am a little. But not too much.” She reached out and took his hand. “I’ve been with the children. I wanted to spend some time with them after Lannister and our men left because I won’t be going to the Great Hall.”

“You won’t?”

“No. I told them I’d have food sent here. I haven’t seen you all day. They understood that. They’re likely in the Hall right now. Rickon, of course, claimed to be starved nearly to the point of dying.”

Ned chuckled. “That sounds like Rickon. I don’t see any food, though.”

“I told the cook I would send someone when I was ready for it. We are not to be disturbed.”

“Catelyn,” he said with a sigh, hearing the determination in her voice.

“I told you we would finish our conversation, my lord. Why can you not understand that I cannot stop being your wife any more than you can stop being the Lord of Winterfell?”

She was not one to mince words. He hadn’t spent half his life with her without discovering that fact, so it actually surprised him not at all that she immediately returned to the question she had left him with. Even having had all day to consider it, he was not certain he had an answer which would satisfy her.

“I do understand,” he said. “I do. But, Catelyn, you are my wife. I am your husband. Nothing can change that. We belong to each other in life or in death. You’ve said it yourself. You are no less my wife whether I bed you or not.”

“But there is no reason to keep ourselves apart, Ned! There isn’t! Sam said I was healthy enough and . . .”

“Sam said I could kill you!”

“He did not say that,” she said stubbornly. “That is merely what you heard.” She stood up then and walked away from him. “Either one of us could die for any reason, Ned. I’d have us love each other while we can, for however long we can. It’s one of the things that keeps me from dying every time you ride off to battle.”

“Do you think I don’t want to love you?” he asked her. “Loving you is like breathing to me, and as long as I am breathing, I shall continue to do it. But I cannot risk getting you with child. I know well enough you would refuse moon tea.”

She looked at him with a stunned expression on her face. “Would you ask it of me?” she whispered.

“No.” He shook his head. “I would not, Cat. I couldn’t. But that is why we cannot lie together in any way that could bring a child.”

“I am likely barren now, Ned. You know that.”

“I know that likely is not certainly.” He recognized her expression as one reserved for times she believed him to be impossibly, wrongly stubborn about something, and he forced himself not to relax his own facial features.

“Fine,” she said. “Promise me you will never again leave Winterfell to fight in any battle. Ever.” She stood there with her chin raised and a challenge in her eye.

“You know I cannot do that.”

“It is no different,” she insisted. “If I am forced to live as less than your wife, as someone less than I know myself to be, in order to preserve myself from risk, then I insist you do the same.”

“It is different.”

“It is not.”

“It is.” He could feel the fear and anger both building up inside him as she continued to argue with him.

“How? The birthing bed is simply a woman’s battle. How is that any different than your battles? Other than the fact that women fight to bring life into the world while men fight to bring death.”

“That isn’t fair.”

“Well, you aren’t being fair. How is it different, Ned? Tell me!”

“Because you will never be the one to kill me!”

He shouted the words. He hadn’t meant to, but they exploded from his lips and now hung there between them. Her blue eyes looked into his, still blazing, but now glistening with tears as well.

“It isn’t just losing you that I fear, my love,” he said more quietly. “I cannot kill you, and live. I cannot. I could not bear to look at our children, much less care for them, knowing I caused their mother’s death. I would not harm a hair on your head, Cat. How can you ask me to kill you?”

She looked at him for what seemed like a very long time, and then she walked slowly back to the bed. “Gods be good, Ned,” she whispered. “Is that truly how you see it?”

“I cannot see it any other way,” he said hoarsely. “And I can’t bear the thought.”

She bit her lip then and regarded him thoughtfully as she sat down once more and reached for his hand. “You are wrong,” she whispered. “You are wrong to look at it so.”

“There is no other way to look at it, Cat.”

“Oh, my love,” she sighed. “My mother died in childbed. Just as yours did. Did you view your father as her murderer?”

“Of course not!” He realized she was trying to trap him as soon as he said the words.

“Nor did I believe that of my father. The gods took our mothers, Ned. Our fathers did nothing but give them children. They had no more power to decide who would live or die than you do. If you ever stand above my neck with Oathkeeper in your hands, you will have the power to take my life.” Ned recoiled at the very thought of such a thing. “But in childbearing that power belongs to the gods, my love. Not to you.”

She believed what she was saying. He could hear it in her voice. This wasn’t simply an argument made to bend him to her will. Still, he couldn’t accept all of what she said. “I have no power over life and death as such. That is true. But I have the power to keep you safe by not putting you at risk in the first place.”

“Why did you ever bed me then?” she asked him, raising her chin once more in challenge. “You profess to love me. Why have you risked me so often?”

“But . . .I . . .”

“Nothing has changed Ned. Women die birthing babes every day. I never doubted that I might die, and yet I welcomed every one of our children, and I would still welcome more could I bear them. And it isn’t just the children. You know that. As I grew to love you, I welcomed your touch just to feel you close to me, a part of me. And never once have you withheld it from me. Why were you willing to kill me then, but not now?”

“Don’t talk like that. I have never been willing to harm you. You know that!” He knew why she spoke as she did, but hearing her say such things hurt badly all the same. “I would die before I would harm you.”

“I know that,” she said softly. “But in this one thing, you cannot protect me. You never could. I never resisted your touch because I wanted your children, and because I love you, and your touch is life to me. You never withheld your touch because you didn’t think about the dangers of childbed when you lay with me. You never had to, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t exist. Or that I didn’t know full well the risk to myself.”

She reached up and put a hand to his face, stroking it gently. “Nothing has changed, my love. I could have died with any of our babes. Yes, I nearly died with Brien. But I didn’t. I cannot promise you that I will not die should I ever be blessed with another babe in my womb, although I fear I shall never carry another. But should it be my fate to die in childbed, it will be the gods who take me, Ned. Not you. You will only do what you have ever done--love me, and give to me our children. Don’t let your fear take that from me. I need you, my love.”

“Cat.” Her name came out of him as something between a cry and a plea, and then his arms were around her pulling her to him as his lips found hers. Her hands went around his neck, and she returned the kiss with passion. After a moment, he pulled himself away. “I do want you,” he breathed. “And you must never doubt I love you. But I am afraid.” He ran his fingers through her hair, feeling the soft strands of copper slide over them as he had a million times before. “I would never willingly cause you harm, and I am so afraid that I may.”

“No,” she whispered. “You are the one man in all the world I trust will never cause me harm and who will keep me safe in all the ways that you are able. You are not a god, Ned. I do not fault you for not being all-powerful. Do not fault yourself for it, either.”

She kissed him again and he found himself wanting to believe her words more and more. He started to turn more of his body toward her, but forgot about his leg, moving it far too quickly and crying out. 

“Lie back, Ned,” she said, moving slightly away from him.

He looked at her questioningly. 

“I have been your wife a long time, Eddard Stark,” she said to him with a small smile playing about her lips. “Surely you aren’t questioning the wisdom of my instructions?”

“Only a fool would question you, my love.”

“Then lie back. But let me take your shirt off first.”

He was only wearing a nightshirt and smallclothes as it had seemed like far too much work to put on breeches after Sam had finished abusing his leg. He raised his arms and allowed her to remove the shirt, and then he lay back on the bed without protest. But when her hands went to his smallclothes, he stopped her.

“Catelyn, I am not certain . . .”

“I am. Let me be certain for both of us. Please Ned.”

The feather light touch of her fingers near his cock through the fabric considerably weakened his objections, and he removed his hand from hers, allowing her to continue. She pulled the garment very slowly and carefully over his bandaged leg and then smiled at him. 

“I see that not all of you is quite so appalled at the thought of bedding me,” she teased gently as she looked meaningfully at his rapidly developing erection. 

“You needn’t ever fear that,” he said softly. “I confess I am uneasy about this, Cat, but every part of me will never cease wanting you.”

She smiled more widely then and turned her back to him, scooting closely enough that he could undo the laces of her dress without sitting up. Then she stood and slowly removed every bit of clothing she wore without ever taking her eyes from his. His eyes wandered freely over every bit of her naked flesh, and the sight of her caused his breath to catch as much as it had the first time he had ever seen her so all those years ago. Even more so, in truth, for then she had been merely a beautiful stranger, and now she was his very heart.

“Are you certain, Cat?” he asked her, honestly unsure now what response he most wished her to give. 

“More than I have ever been of anything.” She climbed back onto the bed, carefully straddling his legs up on her knees so that she did not touch him in any way. “I promise I’ll be careful of your leg,” she said with an extremely wicked grin before bending down to put her mouth on him.

He gasped at the contact of those soft lips with his cock, and when she opened her mouth and let her tongue slide over him, he thought he might die of sheer pleasure. He tried very hard to keep himself still both for the sake of his leg and for her sake as she took him in her mouth, but he knew that it would take very little to push him over the edge as he reached down and grabbed handfuls of that glorious copper hair.

A tiny, still coherent portion of his mind thought that mayhap that was his answer. He certainly could not get her with child by this. But then he felt shamed by the words she had said, by her unfailing courage, and her certainty in loving him, and he knew that he could give her no less than everything she had asked of him. He moved his hands from her hair to reach beneath her arms and draw her upward over him.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

When she felt his hands pulling at her, Catelyn was afraid he meant to stop her entirely, but when she regretfully pulled her lips off him and looked at his face, she saw nothing but desire and love in his eyes. Smiling, she allowed him to pull her upward. His arms were surprisingly strong considering how sick he’d been.

She thought he would set her on his cock. She could tell he was close, and she was more than willing to take him inside her and bring him the rest of the way, but he kept pulling her further, moving his hands to her buttocks and pulling her all the way up until her sex rested just above his face. 

“Oh,” she gasped softly when she realized what he was about. She had her knees on either side of his head now, and she placed her hands against the wall at the head of the bed. When his tongue touched her most sensitive places, she cried out and laid her head against the wall as well, the warm stones rough against her cheek. 

His hands on her hips pulled her down against his face so that she could feel the rasp of his beard between her thighs as his lips and tongue worked at her relentlessly. She was vaguely aware that her entire forearms and her chest were now pressed against the wall as her hips moved of their own free will in circles over his mouth. 

Her release caused her body to tremble and she would have fallen back had he not held her so tightly. After taking only a moment to catch her breath, she moved herself back down his body and gripped his cock in her hand to guide it into her opening. Just the touch of her fingers caused him to cry out her name, and when she sank down to take him completely inside her, he gasped for breath.

Her limbs still felt weak and shaky, but she kept her weight on her knees and began moving up and down upon him, trying to keep him from moving his leg. After she’d done that several times, however, his fingers gripped her tightly and he began thrusting up from beneath her in time with her movements. She felt the waves building within her again and they crashed over her just as his body tensed and the warmth of his seed filled her.

She collapsed onto his chest, still straddling him to keep her weight off his legs, and they lay there, hearts beating wildly against each other, unable to speak for some time.

“I love you, Ned,” she finally managed to whisper.

He pressed his lips to to the top of her head and kissed her, wrapping his arms even more tightly around her.

“You are everything, Cat. You are . . .” He kissed the top of her head once more as if he couldn’t find the words to express precisely what she was, and she smiled against his chest.

She felt tears sting her eyes, however, as she considered the word he had found. _Everything. You are everything._ He had honestly feared that by loving her, he could lose everything. And yet he had found the courage to love her anyway. She hadn’t thought it possible to love him more than she already had, but she did.

“No,” she said softly. “We are everything. The two of us together.”

“And the children,” they both said at the same time which caused them both to laugh.

Then they simply lay there wrapped up in each other, and Catelyn felt more at home than she had in a very long time.

“I should probably get dressed and have food brought up,” she said after a bit with a small sigh.

“I don’t need food. I have all that I need right here.”

She carefully raised herself up so that she could move to lie beside him without jostling the leg too much, nestling her head once more against his chest. “You say that now, but soon you will be starving. And you are as impossible as Rickon when you are hungry.”

He laughed his low pitched wolf growl of a laugh, one of her favorite sounds in all the world, and said, “I should know by now not to argue with a Tully.”

She raised up at that and looked down into his face. “Oh, really?” she said, thinking of the argument they’d had today.

He laughed again and pulled her back down to him. “Catelyn,” he said in a more serious voice. “I have long desired to truly win an argument with you. And I fully intend to do so. But I must confess that I am rather pleased at the moment that you are a Tully for this is one argument I am well content to have lost.”

“Good,” she whispered. Sighing contentedly herself, she snuggled closer to her husband and decided that food could wait a bit after all.


	71. In The Winter Wind

“It’s not snowing!” 

Arya Stark jolted awake in her dark room to the sound of someone beating on the door and her brother’s excited shouts. 

“It’s not snowing! Wake up and come see!”

She could hear Sansa and Jeyne stirring nearby. “No one can see anything, stupid!” she shouted back at Rickon. “It’s too dark!”

“It’s morning, though,” the stubborn boy persisted. “And it’s not snowing! We can get out of the Keep today!”

“He’s right,” came Sansa’s irritatingly calm voice from the darkness beside her. “Listen.”

“I don’t hear anything,” Arya grumbled sleepily.

“Exactly,” Sansa said, and Arya could hear her sister rising from the bed, likely to open the door to Rickon.

“What do you . . .oh,” Arya said as she suddenly realized what Sansa meant. She truly didn’t hear anything. She didn’t hear the wind screaming. She didn’t hear ice and snow striking against the window with such force it sounded like stones being thrown against it. Other than Sansa’s muffled footsteps on the stone floor, it was silent, and Arya hadn’t heard silence in days.

“It’s so quiet,” she heard Jeyne whisper. “Is the storm truly over, do you think?”

 _The blizzard_ , Arya thought. That’s what her father had called it. A true storm of winter. She had been both terrified and fascinated when it had begun eight days ago. She and Bran and Rickon were what Mother called sweet summer children, herself having been born just at the end of the last winter. Only Sansa had ever seen winter before, and she had been too young then to actually remember it. None of them were strangers to snow, of course, and Winterfell had been blanketed with snow for some time now. But the worst storms she had ever seen paled in comparison to this.

There was little enough daylight now, but during the blizzard even the daylight hours had seemed dark as murderous clouds covered the sky, and the snow and ice never stopped. At the very beginning, men had tied ropes to various structures out in the yard and used them to pull themselves against the wind whenever they had to venture outside. Rickon had thought it looked like fun and declared his intent to go try it, but Mother had had none of that, of course. 

Dak had gone out once, volunteering to run something to the armory for one of the soldiers who accepted his offer of help, and he had bolted toward the exit before anyone could alert Mother, knowing full well that she would impose the same restrictions upon him as she had her own children. That had been on the third day, and already thoroughly tired of her imprisonment in the Great Keep, Arya had initially been terribly jealous of him. Yet, when he returned, shivering and pale, he had no desire to speak about what venturing into the storm had been like, and he had seemed almost grateful Mother, having been told about his excursion by Rickon, informed him he was under no circumstances to leave the Keep without the explicit permission of herself or Father again.

By the fourth day of the blizzard, the ropes had all been pretty much buried in snow higher than Arya had ever seen, and almost no one ventured into the yard, limiting travel between buildings to what could be accomplished by the tunnels beneath Winterfell’s ground and within its walls. She and Dak had taken Nymeria and gone into the tunnels one day, but Mother had found out about that, too, and forbidden exploration on the grounds that the tunnels were far too cramped to have children and direwolves wandering through them when they were needed to safely get men and supplies from one part of the castle to another.

She and her siblings as well as Dak and Jeyne had taken most of their meals (all too small and mostly served cold) in Mother’s rooms, and the howling wind often made conversation difficult. That wind had made it impossible for Arya to sleep the first couple nights of the storm, but she had since grown so accustomed to the constant noise that its absence now seemed abnormal. 

As Sansa opened the door, a soft glow filled the room from a candle in Rickon’s hand. Sansa took it from him and used it to light several more before setting it in an empty holder. While she was doing that, Rickon bounded into the room followed by Shaggydog. “Look out the window!” he ordered the girls. “I know it’s dark, but you can see enough because of the lanterns.”

Arya got out of her bed at this and ran to put her face up to the window. Sure enough, there were lights moving about, seemingly under the snow down in the yard. As her eyes adjusted, she was able to see that the lights were lanterns carried by crews of men who were digging pathways through snow that stood well over their heads. Quite a bit of progress had already been made.

“They must have gotten started the moment the storm stopped,” Sansa said softly, and Arya realized her sister was standing just behind her, also looking down into the yard.

“When did it stop?” Jeyne asked. She still hadn’t gotten out of her bed. She sat there with the covers pulled up tightly around her and her eyes looking large and frightened.

“More than an hour ago,” Rickon said. “Dak woke me and Bran up then, and there already lights outside. So I took Dak to see what was going on and we ran into Father.”

“Father’s up?” Arya asked. “Where is he?”

“He’d been up a long time,” Rickon said, looking very satisfied at knowing something his sisters didn’t. “He was on his way to Mother’s rooms.”

“He sleeps in Mother’s rooms, Rickon,” Arya said in exasperation.

“I told you he was already up. He was going _back_ there.” Rickon grinned at her in an annoyingly superior manner. “He told us that the men watching at night came to tell him as soon as the storm ended and that he’d ordered the clearing of yard to start immediately.” He pouted a little then. “Dak’s out there now.”

“What?” Arya was stunned. “Dak isn’t big enough to shovel through that stuff!”

“He’s big enough to hold lights up. Father said there were boys doing that, and Dak and I both volunteered. He said I was too little, though.” Rickon’s pout became much more pronounced.

“Mother will kill him,” Arya said, thinking that Mother would likely kill Father, too, if he’d actually let Dak go outside.

But Rickon shook his head. “She knows about it. Father made him go and ask her before he gave his permission. She just asked Father if he was certain the storm was truly over, and when he said he was, she told Dak he’d best bundle very warmly and cover his face because it would still be bitter cold.”

“Maybe I can help, too,” Arya said, suddenly excited by the prospect.

Rickon was already shaking his head. “She knew you’d say that, and she already said no.” 

Before she could protest at the unfairness of it, her brother continued, “But she said that once there’s a clear path, we can take the wolves to the godswood. There will be lots of places where the snow’s too deep to move in there, but Mother says that because of the trees being so close together, a lot of ground will have less snow so the wolves can run.”

“And so can we,” Arya said with a smile. “But how can Mother know how deep the snow will be in the godswood?”

“This isn’t her first winter, Arya,” Sansa said. She’d been standing by the window still, simply listening to the younger two talk. “The winter when I was born wasn’t a long one, but it was winter none the less. And she was here in Winterfell.”

“I suppose you’re right. It’s just hard to imagine there was ever such a storm as this ever before.”

Sansa laughed. “I know what you mean. But just look out the window at those men working. They know exactly what to do. The Starks of Winterfell have weathered storms like this for thousands of years--even if it is new to us.”

“Mother says to get dressed and come up to her room. There’ll be food there,” Rickon said. “I’ve got to go find Tom so he can carry Bran up.” He grabbed his candle and turned back toward the door then. “Come on, Shaggy!”

Nymeria rose to follow her brother, and Arya put a hand out to stop her. “Not so fast, girl. They aren’t going outside yet.” She knew the wolves were even more tired of their confinement than the people. Nymeria hated being inside the castle for too long. The fact that the she-wolf had not made any real effort to escape during the storm had done more to convince Arya of how dangerous it was than anything her father had said about it. She thought briefly of Tyrion Lannister and the good Winterfell men who’d ridden out with him more than a fortnight before the storm hit. Father thought it was possible they had reached Moat Cailin, and Arya hoped that they had. No one should be out in a blizzard that made a direwolf wary.

She scratched between Nymeria’s ears and noted that Sansa was already pouring water from the pitcher into the basin so that she could wash and dress. “Food first,” she told the wolf before moving away from her to gather her own clothes. “We’ll go and see Mother, break our fast, and then we are getting out of this Keep.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Catelyn Stark looked out the window of her chambers, holding Brien up so that he might look as well. The sky was a dull gray, but after days of relentless dark clouds full of snow and furious wind, the light streaming in appeared as beautiful to her as that from any summer sky of her youth. Brien seemed to agree as he laughed and cooed and beat his little hand upon the glass of the windowpane.

“Sunlight, my sweetling,” she said to him with a wistful smile. “Something I fear your childhood will see precious little of.” Her older children were all of the North, but until about two years prior had lived all their lives in summer, save the first few of Sansa’s. _And Robb’s,_ she thought. She still could never think of her children as a group without including him. She doubted she ever would.

Ned fully believed this winter would likely last as long as the seemingly endless summer which had stretched before it. _The Starks never thought it endless,_ she reminded herself. _Winter is coming._ How often had she heard Ned say that? Her husband had never doubted winter’s return, but neither did he doubt the ability of the Starks of Winterfell to endure it, and she found that she now took comfort from those grim House Words that had so often chilled her in the earlier days of her marriage. If winter was a certainty, so was spring. One day it would return, and who better to guide everyone here through the years of cold they must traverse to reach it than a man born of winter itself who had all of winter’s strength and yet all the warmth of the hot springs which gave life to the place of his birth.

Brien interrupted her reverie by tugging at her braid much as Robb had been wont to do as an infant, and Catelyn laughed at herself standing here in the first real sunlight for days reflecting on her love of her husband’s strength and warmth. Ned would certainly shake his head at her if he knew she thought of him in such a manner, reminding her that he was hardly a poetic figure from a song. She laughed even harder realizing that she could contradict him on that point now. 

Only two nights ago, in an attempt to relieve the children’s crushing boredom after so long being kept indoors, she’d invited a kitchen boy they’d discovered had a very pleasant singing voice to sing for all of them as they took their evening meal in Ned’s solar instead of in her chambers. Of course he’d sung “The Old Wolf’s Charge” much to the delight of all the children and the complete embarrassment of her husband. His discomfort had been so entertaining that she’d not even suffered the usual fleeting terrible memories the song tended to bring back to her. As she’d told him more than once, the song obviously wasn’t going away, so they’d both better find a way to make peace with hearing it.

“What has you so entertained, my lady?”

She turned from the window, a smile still on her face, to see that Ned had entered her chambers without her hearing.

“Sunlight,” she said. “And pleasant thoughts.”

He came to her and Brien squealed, reaching for his father. With no sign of discomfort, Ned reached out for him with one arm, leaning on his cane with the other, and pulled the boy to himself with apparent ease. “How are you, my lad? You look rather entertained yourself. Do you enjoy the sound of your mother’s laughter as much as I do?”

The baby grinned widely and laughed himself, causing both Ned and Catelyn to laugh with him. _If only we could simply stay in this moment,_ she thought.

“Did the children get outside?” she asked him as he patiently allowed Brien to grab at his beard.

“They did.”

“Bran, too?”

Ned sighed somewhat heavily. “Aye. I couldn’t very well keep him indoors when everyone else was going out. I told Tom he’s not to stay more than half an hour. It’s simply too cold to sit still out there any longer regardless of how bundled he is.”

He shifted a bit in his stance, and Catelyn recognized that it was becoming difficult for him to stand there holding their son in one arm. Wordlessly, she took the babe from him and moved to sit down, knowing that he would sit if she did although he would never sit down if she simply asked him to. 

“And is he?” she asked when they were both seated. “Well bundled, that is?”

“Aye,” Ned said, with a hint of laughter in his voice. “They all are. Arya was protesting that none of them should be able even to move in all the layers I’d commanded them to wear when Dak came in looking damn near as bloodless as an Other and blue around the edges to boot! He assured them they’d want all the layers they could possibly find. I think he did more to convince them of the extremity of the cold than I ever could have.”

Catelyn remembered well the bone chilling cold which came too often on a Northern winter wind. Simply breathing could become a painful act, and if the wind made her eyes water, the moisture would actually freeze at times. She’d thought she might not survive her first winter here. But she had. And were it not for the Others and the various threats hanging over them now, she would fear this winter much less even if it did prove to last for years and years. _I have become a Stark in truth._

“They know to keep moving in order to keep warm? And Tom has the blankets to put down for Bran? I did tell him if he kept Summer by him, it would keep him warm, but I fear he’d rather let the wolf run so that he might run with him.”

Ned smiled at her. “They’ve been told all these things. Tom will mind what we’ve said at any rate. And Sansa. As to the others . . .” He shrugged. “They will learn. And I will not allow them to stay out long enough to come to real harm.”

“Of course you won’t.” She bit her lip and looked at him. “Ned, it is quite likely that Lord Tyrion and his companions reached Moat Cailin before the storm hit, if indeed it even hit as fiercely further to the south. But . . .Lord Seaworth and Stannis’s daughter . . .” Her voice caught. No ravens had been received of Davos Seaworth and Shireen Baratheon since the letter announcing the man’s intention to bring her here.

“I don’t know, Cat,” Ned said gravely. “We’ve no way of knowing how far they had come or what shelter they might have found when the blizzard found them. I’ve no doubt it did find them, though, as it came from the north.” He frowned. “If the weather remains clear, I’d like to send riders out to seek them. And the party from White Harbor.”

A raven had come from White Harbor the day before the blizzard hit informing them that a supply caravan had started out for Winterfell--a rather large company of men and sleds with a significant amount of much needed commodities. “If they are far enough east still, do you think it is possible the storm missed them?” she asked.

Ned sighed. “Possible, yes. Or at least it may have been less severe. According to young Jeyne, a blizzard quite similar to this one struck Winterfell not long before we came here, and while we certainly saw snow, it was nothing like this when we were nearer White Harbor.”

She nodded. “I hope it is the same for them.” She smiled at her husband. “Mayhap we shall receive more ravens now.”

“Possibly.” 

They had just begun to receive responses from Ned’s bannermen to the letters they’d sent out when the storm hit. They hadn’t heard anything from Riverrun yet, and that worried Catelyn as Daenerys Targaryen had surely reached her brother long before the foul weather arrived riding on that black dragon of hers. Of course, snow squalls and sudden winds were commonplace even during what was considered good weather now, so it was entirely possible a raven from Edmure had gone off course. She was just about to ask Ned if he thought they should send another letter to Riverrun when a knock came at the door.

“Come in,” she called. After all these years and all the time he spent here, Ned would never give permission for anyone to enter her chambers without her leave. 

When the door opened, both Samwell and Letty came inside.

“I came to see if you wanted me to take him yet, milady,” Letty said, indicating Brien, whose little head now drooped sleepily against her chest.

“That would be fine, Letty. He nursed just a bit ago, and I let him gnaw on a bit of bread soaked in water because I think he has a tooth coming through.” She smiled down at her drowsy son. “I believe he’s ready for a good nap now.”

“I’ll take him to the nursery and stay by him, milady.”

“Thank you, Letty.” 

The nursemaid curtsied and bent to retrieve Brien from her arms in one fluid motion. The baby cried out briefly at being taken from her, but quickly laid his little head on Letty’s familiar shoulder and allowed her to carry him out. As the woman left the room with her son, Catelyn realized that Sam remained standing rather hesitantly just inside the door and that Ned had not spoken at all since Sam and Letty had arrived in the room.

“So, Sam, what can we do for you?” she said, arching her brows.

Sam looked nervously toward Ned and then at his feet. Catelyn realized he carried a bundle of what looked like linen and medicaments. Neither man said anything. 

“My lord. . .what is going on here?”

Her husband had been studying the his hands in his lap, but he looked up and met her eyes now. “I asked Sam to come and wrap my leg well enough that I might go outside.”

“What?” She nearly shrieked the word and forced herself to breathe several times before saying anything else. “Ned, you are not well enough to walk around the Great Keep as much as you do. You certainly have no business venturing out into this weather.” She turned toward Sam. “And you! Surely, you can’t agree with this.”

“He doesn’t,” Ned said quietly. “But as I have informed him I am going out regardless of his wishes, he has agreed to do what he can to see the leg do as well as possible.”

She turned her eyes quickly back to him. “And you were simply going to go without even speaking to me.”

“No,” he said. “I am in your chambers, am I not, my lady? And I had Sam come to me here. Had I intended to leave the Great Keep without your knowledge I could simply have asked him to come to my own room.”

His grey eyes had not looked away from her once. She knew him well enough to see that he would not be moved on this, but still she shook her head. “Your leg is not well enough,” she insisted. “I would not have you injure yourself. You need to get stronger and . . .”

“I must be strong enough now!” The words were not actually shouted, but she could hear the underlying anger and frustration in his voice. Sam heard it, too, and he appeared to actually attempt to make himself shrink into the wall by the doorway. She didn’t shrink away, however, stubbornly meeting his grey gaze with her own eyes.

They stared at each other for a moment, and then he sighed. “I must be strong enough now, Catelyn,” he repeated more softly. “Even if you believe me weak. I am the Lord of Winterfell. I have been here a moon’s turn and haven’t left the Keep once except to see the Dragon Queen go.”

“And you shouldn’t have done that,” she snapped. Taking a deep breath, she added softly. “You are not weak, my love, and you must know I would never believe that. But you are not well, Ned. Not yet.”

“I never will be.”

She started to protest, but he held up a hand. “Cat, my leg will never be well. It will not even be what it was before. You know that to be true. I cannot change it by hiding myself in your chambers. If I do not move about and test it, I shall never know what I can and cannot do. I must be the Lord of Winterfell, my lady. The people here deserve to see their lord about the castle and to know that he is indeed capable of being their lord.”

He kept his voice perfectly even and his expression changed little, but she could she could both hear and see the depth of his feelings as he spoke. He doubted himself. He truly feared that he was no longer fit to be Lord of Winterfell. No longer strong enough. No longer man enough. 

_Oh gods,_ she thought. _I have made him feel this way._ She certainly hadn’t intended anything of the sort. In fact, since he had relented in the face of her arguments and bedded her once more, she had taken every opportunity to show him precisely how much a man she considered him and how much she needed him. Once Sam had stopped packing the leg wound and declared it healed enough for only more superficial ointments and dressings, Ned had dispensed with any attempts to be cautious of the leg during their lovemaking, and she had joyfully obliged him. Yet, outside her bed, she had continued to question every step he took and sought to limit any time he spent outside this room. She was quick to assist him in rising and dressing even when he did not wish for her help. 

_I only want to keep him safe!_ But even as the thought formed, she heard his own words. _I will not risk you,_ and she heard herself furiously railing against them time and again. _How can I do to him what I would not have him do to me?_

“You are the Lord of Winterfell,” she said evenly, “And you are far more than capable.” Then she turned to Sam who seemed startled at being addressed once more. “Sam,” she said briskly. “Tell me truly. Does Lord Stark risk anything other than pain and possibly slowing his own recovery by walking around on that damned leg more than we would like him to?”

“I . . He . .no, my lady. He does not.” He seemed to recover a bit of his courage then and took a few steps further into the room before he continued speaking. “The internal tissues are healed over enough that fever and blood poisoning is unlikely at this point. He should, in fact, be using the leg to strengthen it. He simply should not do too much too quickly.”

Ned snorted. “I am sitting right here,” he said irritably. “I would prefer the two of you not discuss me as if I were not.”

Catelyn simply gave him a rather severe look and turned back to Sam. “Well, I am afraid how much he uses the leg is entirely at Lord Stark’s discretion now, Sam,” she said matter-of-factly. “It is his leg, after all. But in the interest of keeping it as well as can be done, I would have you show me now what linament you will use and how you intend to wrap it so that I might do it for him myself as I have in the past.”

She rose from her seat and turned to look at her husband then, extending a hand to him to help pull him to his feet. “By the time we have accomplished that, it will likely be high time our children come in from the cold, my lord. Might I ask you to send them in when you go out?”

He looked at her, and she could see the muscle move in his throat as he swallowed. His eyes looked into hers intently, and she knew he would have spoken much more had they been alone in the room. But with Sam standing right there, he only raised her hand to his lips, and replied, “Certainly, my lady,” before brushing those lips softly against her skin causing her hand to tingle.

She and Sam then led him to lie down on the bed, and as Sam began to carefully lay out the things he had brought with him, Catelyn looked at her husband and reminded herself that both of them had to love without allowing fear to rule them, or winter would be cold indeed.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Gods, it felt good to be outdoors again! The bitterly cold air bothered him not at all even as it stung his windpipe with every breath. He was a Stark, and Starks were made for the cold. Even the cursed leg bothered him less as he walked slowly along the newly cleared paths, leaning heavily on the cane that he both despised and needed. 

He’d been gratified to see so many men out clearing essential pathways throughout the castle grounds. Other men and boys were on the rooftops, knocking down some of the heavy snow to prevent excessive stress on the structures. Winterfell had not stood thousands of years in the North without its people knowing how to deal with winter’s fury.

Several men had stopped to greet him as he shuffled along flanked by Sam and Deryk, and he’d answered questions and given instructions, feeling in some ways more like himself than he had since his arrival back from Last Hearth. He wasn’t a fool, whatever Catelyn may think, and he knew he couldn’t walk about on the leg for terribly long, so he’d proceeded more or less directly to the godswood where he’d found his children and their direwolves.

Sansa, Arya, and Rickon had all agreed to go inside after only minor protests, and Ned could see that they were chilled to the bone, truthfully ready to go in and get warm in spite of their joy at being outside again. Dak had not come with them, having gotten his fill of the frigid air while helping the men clearing snow earlier, and poor Jeyne Poole, of course, could not even think of going out through a courtyard so full of the exuberant shouts of men glad to see the blizzard’s end. 

Only Bran had objected strongly when Ned had decreed that Tom must take him in. His face had been wrapped in his scarf so that only his blue eyes showed, but Ned could see frost on those eyelashes. Still, Bran had begged for just a little more time sitting before the heart tree, promising his father through chattering teeth that he was not very cold. Ned had known better, of course, and had insisted that he and Tom go in right away, and he hadn’t needed to see all of Bran’s face to know that he scowled as the big young man picked him up.

Bran was a worry--one that Ned didn’t quite know what to do about. One moment he would seem fully present and mostly content to be with Catelyn and himself and his siblings, and then he would be so far away that he seemed all but unreachable. More and more, Ned found himself sharing Catelyn’s unfavorable opinion of the greenseer Lord Brynden the Bloodraven.

Once all the children including Bran had been ushered from the godswood, he and his two companions continued on to the rear of it to inspect the glass gardens accompanied by Summer. The children had elected to let all their wolves remain in the godswood, but where Nymeria and Shaggydog had run off to, Ned couldn’t say. He was only glad to see Nymeria making a half decent effort at running as it irrationally gave him hope for himself. Their shared lameness had kindled within him quite a feeling of kinship with Arya’s wolf. 

“Milord!” The man walking toward them called out in surprise and obvious joy. “I didn’t expect to see you out and about so soon!”

Ned simply looked at his head gardener and said evenly, “My leg is not so bad as all that. If I go slowly, I can go where I am needed. Did any of the panes suffer damage in the storm?”

“No, milord. Not that I can tell so far. We’re still digging out in some places, but it all looks good, and the temperature inside’s warm enough even as the air out here’s gone bitter cold.”

“Good,” Ned responded. It was good. The glass gardens were life. And even within the panes of glass, the extended hours of darkness would allow the temperature to drop far too low for most crop plants to grow were it not for Winterfell’s hot springs heating the very soil they grew in. 

He, Sam, and Deryk followed the man into the gardens and once inside, he unwound the scarf from around his face and removed his gloves. He would be unbearably hot in here within very little time, dressed as he was for the Northern winter wind. The place did seem to be in good repair, and what plants were growing appeared healthy enough. There weren’t enough plants, though. The glass gardens were but half the size they had been prior to Bolton’s bastard sacking the castle, and Ned worried about the scarcity of fresh produce through the long winter ahead. His thoughts went once more to the caravan coming from White Harbor. Supposedly, they carried more panes of glass as well as foodstuffs for the present, and Ned hoped fervently that both the men and their cargo had managed to remain sheltered from the storm. Still, all that could be done was being done, and Ned was gratified to see yet more evidence that while the terrible wars had certainly interfered with preparations for winter, his people knew what to do. For all the problems he knew lay ahead of him in a winter possibly lasting a decade or more, he was actually relieved to deal with problems he understood. The deprivations of winter were a known commodity, even if they promised to be more severe than any he had previously suffered. He felt himself much more equal to the task of dealing with them than with Others or dragons or mysterious visions of the future.

He listened to all the gardener had to tell him and asked a lot of questions about the man’s thoughts for maintaining the plants through the long winter. When he finally thanked the man for his time and wrapped the scarf around his face once more to head out into the cold, his leg was throbbing painfully, but he felt the time had been well spent. Summer had waited patiently at the entrance to the glass gardens and moved close enough to Ned that he could lay his free hand on the wolf’s strong grey back even as he leaned on the cane with the other. _Thank you, Bran,_ Ned thought.

Sam noticed his increasing limp, of course. “Are you ready to return to the Great Keep, my lord?” he asked in tones that clearly indicated Ned should return to the Great Keep.

Likely the man was right, but Ned was determined to at least visit the Great Hall, and possibly the armory. He felt as if he hadn’t seen most of his castle in far too long a time. He started to say as much to Sam when a young man came running up to them, rather out of breath.

“My lord! Captain!” he gasped as he approached them, addressing Ned and Deryk. “There’s a man! Coming up toward the North gate!

 _The North Gate?_ It didn’t face the Kingsroad and was little used by most travelers, although Ned supposed the Kingsroad was so covered in snow it was hardly discernible from the surrounding landscape at present.

“One man alone?” he asked the watchman. “On horseback?”

The young man shook his head. “Only one man,” he said, “But on foot. We never would have seen him except for his dark clothing against all the snow. He’s having the devil’s own time getting through it for it appears to be over his head in many places.”

“My gods,” Ned breathed. “A lone man on foot out during any part of that storm? It is a wonder he is alive. Send men out to bring him in, Deryk. I shall go to my solar, and if he is well enough, bring him to see me. If not, fetch Samwell to him and bring me word.”

Deryk nodded, and with a quick “Yes, my lord,” followed the other man back in the direction of the North Gate.

“I suppose I must go back to the Great Keep now, Sam,” Ned sighed. “I am most curious as to who this man could be and what tidings he brings, but I know well enough that I should not be climbing the castle walls.”

Sam smiled at him. “No, my lord. I wouldn’t advise it. I shall walk with you to your solar, and then I’ll go and await this visitor for you.”

 _Help me to my solar,_ you mean, Ned thought bitterly, but he stopped himself from saying it. Sam did only mean to help, and it was due to Sam that he was walking at all so he he shouldn’t be angry at the man. 

The two of them walked in silence the rest of the way to the Great Keep. Sam didn’t reach out to take his arm, allowing him to make his slow progress leaning ever more heavily on the wolf and the cane, but Ned noted that the young man stayed very close beside him should he stumble. Once they reached the Keep, Summer silently trotted away in the direction of the boys’ room, and Ned sighed as he stood inside looking up at the staircase leading toward his solar.

“Give me your arm, Sam. I fear the stairs may prove more of a challenge than usual at the moment.”

Wordlessly, Sam assisted him up the staircase and then immediately stepped away to allow him to continue on to the solar on his own power. Once he had shed his outer garments and gratefully sunk into his chair, he looked up at the young man who had become such an integral part of the household. 

“Thank you, Sam,” he said earnestly. “I could not have done this without you today.”

He watched the familiar nervous swallow before Sam’s response. “You are welcome, my lord.”

Ned sighed. “And now I suppose before you head for the gate, you should find my lady wife and send her here. While I have no wish to be interrogated about the state of my leg, she will undoubtedly want to hear of the man approaching from the North and be here when I receive him.”

Sam smiled then. “I will tell Lady Catelyn you have done quite well with the leg, my lord. And that you did not stay out too long.”

Ned actually laughed at that. “She won’t believe you, Sam. But I thank you for the support.”

When Sam had gone from the room, he closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs as far out as he could, working the ankle of the bad one to feel the pull in his calf muscle which caused him to grimace slightly. He continued, however, because he knew it would benefit him to keep the muscle as stretched and limber as possible. As he concentrated on the movement, he thought the muscle possibly relaxed just the smallest amount which encouraged him to attempt to flex and extend his foot even further than he had before. The resulting jolt of pain up his calf to the back of his knee caused him to cry out briefly and reach down to grab his booted calf.

“I believe that is quite enough, my lord.”

He looked up to see his wife looking alarmed and stern at the same time standing in the doorway.

“Catelyn!” He breathed, removing his hands from around his calf and sitting up straight. “I did not expect you so quickly.

“Obviously,” she said, arching a brow. Shaking her head, she walked around the desk and knelt down to tug at his boot. “Here. Let’s get this off. If your leg swells as a result of your exertions, it will be difficult to remove later.

“I don’t think . . .” he started, but she already had the boot nearly off so he simply closed his mouth.  
She pulled a chair over near his, but rather than sitting down in it, she raised his foot again and rested it there. 

“Cat . . .”

“It will swell less if we keep it raised.”

“Yes, Maester Tully.”

She rolled her eyes but then bent to kiss him, and he realized she was not as angry at him as he’d feared. “There is a man approaching the castle on foot,” he said when their lips parted.

“What?” She stood upright, obviously surprised. “From where?”

“From somewhere north apparently. At least that is the gate he is making his way toward. I’ve asked Deryk to send out men to bring him in.”

“Gods be good, Ned! There is little to the north of here for miles! Can someone truly have survived that storm out there?”

“It would appear so. Get a chair, Cat. I won’t have you just standing over me like a serving maid.”

Her lips twitched a bit at the corners, but she brought a chair over to sit beside him. Taking his hand, she said, “I am anxious to hear more of this man, my love, but I confess I am more concerned with your leg. Tell me truly how it fared on this excursion of yours.”

“Walking to the glass gardens is hardly an excursion,” he said irritably. Then he sighed. “It hurt. It hurt like hell by the time I got back inside, but I did it, Cat. And I could do it again if need be.”

She looked unconvinced.

“Honestly, though, I was thinking of having Sam wrap it even more tightly and trying it out on horseback later.”

The expression on his wife’s face told him clearly she had lost her patience with him and suspected strongly that he had taken leave of his senses.

“It will be less strain than walking,” he said hurriedly. “I can keep my seat with the strength of my thighs, and we have a good number of horses that respond as well to the rein as the legs. It’s how I rode to the Twins, and I . . .”

“And you couldn’t even stand when you got off your horse there! And that had been . . .what? A year since your original injury? It’s been barely a moon’s turn since Sam sliced that leg open nearly to the bone, Ned!”

“And that first injury was worse! And I’d been locked in a little room with no means to exercise it. It received no care at all once the Summer Islander went away, and the gods know I didn’t give a damn about it once I heard that you had been . . .that you and Robb . . .” He couldn’t say it. After all this time, he still found it nearly impossible to speak the words aloud--the words he had once wanted to murder Donnell Boden for daring to utter.

“Killed,” she said flatly. “You heard we had been killed.” After a very brief silence, she continued, “I’ll forgive you for not giving a damn if you lived or died then, Ned, because I know how that felt. Living was agony, and I honestly couldn’t force myself to care about continuing to do so even when the man put that noose around my neck.” He closed his eyes against the terrible image of her on that gibbet in the yard at the Twins. “There are moments still, my love,” she said almost too softly to hear, “that I remember I will never again hear Robb’s laughter or see his smile, and I still find life almost too painful to bear.” The desolation in her voice ripped his heart to shreds, and he reached for her. She grabbed onto his hand and continued speaking. “But those moments are fleeting, Ned, because I still have you, and I have all our other children, and I want to live for all of you. I must live for you!” She said the last fiercely. “And you must live for us. You cannot be careless of yourself, Ned. It is different now.”

She held his hand so tightly that her grip was almost painful, but he made no attempt to pull his hand away. He met her eyes and said, “It is different. I know that well, Cat. I will never again be careless of any of us. We have lost too much already.” He pulled her to him and she came into his lap, allowing him to put his arms around her. He simply held her for a moment, and then said softly, “But my leg is different this time, too, my love. This injury has further damaged it, yes, and it won’t recover quite as fully as it did before. I know that well. But this injury wasn’t as terrible in itself as the first one, and I have had you and Sam caring for it almost continuously. Whatever healing is possible will take place far more quickly than the last time. I believe that, Cat. And I have spoken with Sam about it. I must test my limits that I might find where they lie, and I cannot delay in doing so. The North needs its lord, Catelyn, and I am the lord they have. For good or ill.”

She regarded him, biting on her lip in such a manner that he knew she was considering her response when a knock came at the door. 

“My lord!” It was Deryk’s voice, and he spoke with some urgency.

“Come in!” Ned called, and Catelyn quickly got up from his lap and stood beside his chair.

Deryk entered the solar accompanied by two soldiers supporting a man who seemed unable to stand on his own. They were followed quickly by Sam who hurried to direct them to bring the man to a chair beside the hearth.

“Good gods, Deryk! This man needs a bed, not an audience with me,” Ned protested.

“He insisted upon seeing you at once, my lord. He would not be put off.”

Ned looked at the slight, ragged man being helped into the chair. He still wore a fairly thick cloak, but shivered uncontrollably. Whatever hood and scarf he might have worn had been removed, and Ned could see ice crystals in his brown hair. At first, he thought there was even more ice in the man’s beard, but then realized that, like his own, it was simply far more greyed than the hair on his head. The man raised up a pale face, marred by obvious frostbite, to look at him, and Ned realized with a start that he knew him.

Catelyn’s audible sharp intake of breath told him she recognized the man as well.

“Lord Seaworth,” Ned nearly gasped.

“Lord Stark,” the man croaked. “You must . . .we must . . .go to them.” 

“Bring him something warm to drink!” Catelyn commanded before Ned could respond. “And get that cloak off him. It’s covered with snow. It’ll be sopping when it melts. And put more wood on that fire. Make it hot.”

“The drink is on its way, my lady,” Sam said quickly. “I ordered it already. But he needs to be gotten out of all these clothes, wrapped up and laid down somewhere very warm. And I need to see to his skin.”

Ned nodded as he watched Stannis Baratheon’s onion knight continue to shiver in his chair as Deryk built up the fire and the other two men tugged and pulled at his outer garments. “Lord Seaworth, allow my maester to see to you, and then we can speak.”

Before he’d finished speaking, the man cried out, “No! They’ll f-f-freeze. We m-m-must go to them!”

His eyes were wild and frightened, and Ned felt a terror begin to build in the pit of his stomach. “Who, Lord Seaworth? Who will freeze? Where is the young Lady Baratheon?”

Davos Seaworth gripped the arms of his chair and seemed to will his body to be still and his voice to be steady. “The queen is in a tower north of here. In that endless forest of yours. With my s-s-son.”

“A tower?” Catelyn started to ask, a puzzled look upon her face.

Ned held up his hand. “A ruin, do you mean?” he asked sharply, and the man nodded.

“Do you know it?” he rasped.

“Aye,” Ned said. “You’ve walked from there?” he said incredulously. “You had to leave well before the storm ended!”

Seaworth nodded again. “Had to find help,” he said. As he spoke, another knock came at the door, and Sam hurried to open it to a serving girl carrying a tray filled with mugs of some steaming liquid. “I didn’t think that damned storm was ever going to stop. And . . .and we had no fire . . .almost no food. I . . .” He began coughing, and Sam pressed one of the mugs into his hands.

Ned was impressed that he managed to hold the mug as steadily as he did, and it still shook to the point of spilling quite a bit of the liquid. Seaworth took no notice of that and put the mug to his lips, eagerly drinking.”

“Careful, man,” Ned warned. “Go slow, lest you burn your throat.” As the man sputtered once and then resumed drinking more slowly, Ned went on. “Get that down, slowly, and then you’ll be able to speak more easily and tell us what you must.”

“What ruin, Ned?” Catelyn asked him as Seaworth drank his fill.

“There’s an old watchtower, possibly nearly as old as Winterfell, in the wolfswood. Do you recall it? Abandoned for much longer than I’ve been alive. I don’t even know what it was for. Mostly fallen down, but the vault’s still intact. I cannot think of anyplace else.”

She bit her lip again, and then seemed to recall it. “That’s well into the wood! Well over a day’s walk from here in good weather!”

Ned nodded grimly, and looked at Seaworth again. He still looked like pale death, but the shivering seemed to have eased at least a bit. “That old watchtower is nowhere near the road, man. How did you happen to come there?”

“Chance,” the man said. “And that storm.” He shook his head. “I’d never seen anything like it. It was as if the seven hells descended upon us. The horses went mad in the wind. Some of them galloped off immediately with the men clinging to them, screaming. Several fell in the snow, throwing their riders, and I was trying to get mine to settle, and I yelled at Devan, that’s my son, to stay with the queen, and I rode to try to help those men and ordered the men still with me to do the same. Within minutes, though, we couldn’t see an inch in front of our faces, the snow fell so thick. All the horses were bucking then.”

Ned nodded. He recalled the carcasses of the Frey’s southron warhorses as he and his men had pursued the men who took Catelyn. It seemed likely these men would have southron mounts as well, unsuited to Northern snowstorms of any magnitude and worse than useless in a blizzard.

After taking a sip of his drink, Seaworth continued, “I couldn’t find any of the men with us, and I got concerned that I wouldn’t be able to find my way back to Devan and the queen, so I turned my horse back toward them. I couldn’t see them at all, but then I heard Her Grace scream and Devan call her name.”

The man paused again, and Ned thought the pallor on his face then was as much from memory and fear as it was cold. "I followed the sound of Devan’s voice and found him at the edge of that wood, barely managing his horse. He’s a good rider, my boy, but he’s just turned four and ten, and the beast was wild. He screamed at me that Shireen’s horse had bolted into the trees with her still on it.”

Ned noticed that the man had used Stannis’s daughter’s name then, forgetting in his distress to use the title with which he so loyally referred to her. “Then I heard another scream, and I headed my own horse after it, shouting for Devan to follow if he could. By some miracle I managed to come upon her. She’d been thrown. Her horse was nowhere to be seen, even among the trees where at least some of the snow was kept off us. She’d twisted something, and she couldn’t get up. I dismounted to get her, and my damned horse broke away from me as soon as my feet were out of the stirrups, bolting away.”

“Oh, gods,” Catelyn breathed.

“I thought I’d gotten us killed for sure when I lost that horse, but then I heard Devan calling out to us, just barely audible over the wind, and I called back until he came walking up to us carrying his saddlebags. Clever boy had realized he couldn’t keep his seat on the horse much longer, and he undid the bags so they’d fall and jumped off after them. What little food we would have was in those bags.” He shook his head. “I didn’t know what to do. We were all twisted around, and I wasn’t sure where the road was. We started walking. I didn’t know what else to do.” The man looked dazed even now.

“I thought the poor girl was injured,” Catelyn said.

Seaworth nodded absently. “I carried her. I carried the queen, and Devan carried the bags.”

Ned tried to imagine carrying one of his daughters through a blizzard and shuddered. He thought Stannis’s daughter was of an age with Arya. How had this man survived all this?

“I thought we were dead,” Seaworth continued. “I was so cold. I thought that old tower was a dream when we came upon it. But it was real. I got them inside, and we all huddled together to keep warm. At least we were out of that terrible wind. I don’t know how long we were there. I couldn’t tell night from day really. Finally, the little bit of food from Devan’s bag was nearly gone. I bid him stay with the queen, and I went to find help--hoping I could manage to walk mostly southeast.” He swallowed. “When the storm finally stopped, I could navigate by the sky and thank the gods, I’d been coming more or less the right way.”

“Aye,” Ned said. “You’ve come the right way, my lord. And I don’t know that any other man could have done it. But now you must allow my maester to see to your hurts.”

“We must . . .”

“We shall ride to find Shireen Baratheon and your son at once,” Ned assured him. “I know the old watchtower well enough to find it.”

He heard the small sound of dismay his wife made, but she said nothing.

“My place is with the queen,” Seaworth protested. 

“Your place is in a bed at the moment, my lord. You know you’re in no condition to ride. I promise you we will ride to the tower with all haste. You have done your part. I gave Stannis Baratheon my word I would see to his daughter. I mean to keep that word.”

Seaworth regarded him a moment and then nodded in exhaustion and gratitude, and Ned ordered the soldiers to move him to an empty bedchamber, preferably the warmest available. Sam went out with them. Then Ned directed Deryk to select a small number of good men to ride with them and to choose and prepare horses, admonishing him to select a mount very responsive to the reins for him to ride.

Deryk looked at him a long moment, and Ned did not miss the man’s quick glance to Catelyn, but he simply said “Yes, my lord,” and left the solar.

When they were alone, he looked up at his wife who still stood beside his chair. “You don’t have to do this, Ned,” she whispered. “I am certain there are other men in Winterfell who know the way to that abandoned tower.”

He stood up and faced her, gingerly placing a little of his weight on the bad leg. “I promised him, Cat. The man was dying and the only promise he asked of me was that I do right by his daughter.”

She looked up at his face, and he could see the tears fill her eyes. “You promised him,” she whispered. She shook her head slowly and raised her hands to cradle his face. “Damn you, Eddard Stark, she said sadly.”

“Damn me?” he asked her, reaching out to put his hands on her waist.

“Yes. Damn you and your promises and your bloody honor.” She didn’t sound angry though, only resigned.

“Would you have me be a dishonorable dog then?” he asked with the hint of a smile, hoping to make her smile as well.

She did smile a bit, although the tears did not leave her eyes. “I would have you just as you are,” she said simply. “But I would also have you safe beside me, and those two things seem too often at odds.”

He had no response to that so he kissed her, long and slow, allowing his lips upon hers to say what his words could not. He wanted nothing more than to stay beside her, but he could not leave Shireen Baratheon and the younger Seaworth to freeze if they hadn’t already. And he couldn’t ask other men to keep his promises for him. He knew she understood that. He hoped she understood how much her love and understanding of him meant.

She pulled away after awhile. “Sit down,” she ordered him rather sternly.”

“What?” he asked, stunned by her sudden change in demeanor.

“Sam will be occupied with Lord Seaworth for some time, I fear,” she said. “The poor man looked near death, and if his poor face has that much frostbite, I don’t even want to think about his feet.” She had bent down and retrieved his boot as she spoke and now she knelt to help him put it on his foot. “We are going to my chambers, my lord.”

“Catelyn . . .”

“Sam will be occupied,” she repeated, “And if I am to re-wrap that leg tightly and thickly enough to make sitting a horse even somewhat tolerable for you, I will need you lying down.” Her words were steady, but she had been looking down at his boot as she spoke them. He reached down and tilted her face up toward his, and was not surprised to see the tears shining in her eyes still.

He bent to kiss the damp lashes softly. “I love you, Cat,” he assured her. “And I wish to live here many more years with you and the children far too much to be careless of myself. I promise you that, my lady,”

“And you keep your promises,” she whispered before standing up and stepping out of his arms. Her voice only trembled slightly as she handed him his cane and said, “Come along, my lord, and let me see to your leg.”

As he offered her his arm to walk from the solar, he prayed silently that he and the men would be able to get quickly enough to the tower to find the two young people alive to be rescued, and that he could ride back to Winterfell in all haste to this woman he was quite certain he did not deserve.


	72. An Orphan Queen

Catelyn sat in her chambers with Sansa, Arya, and Jeyne Poole, all mending clothes--Sansa and Jeyne in relatively companionable silence, and Arya scowling, but not protesting out loud. Brien slept in the cradle near Catelyn’s chair. He was getting fairly large for it and normally slept in the nursery now, but she had just finished nursing him and had wanted to keep him by her when he fell asleep against her chest.

“Ow!” Arya jumped and then stuck her finger in her mouth.

“Are you all right, sweetling?” Catelyn asked her in a voice of forced calm, not looking up from the shirt she was mending herself.

“No,” Arya complained, not taking her finger from her mouth. “I’m bleeding.”

Catelyn sighed, raising her eyes to meet her daughter’s stormy grey ones then. “Well, do try not to bleed on Bran’s shirt, Arya. He likes that one quite a bit.”

Sansa and Jeyne both giggled, and Arya huffed angrily before tossing the shirt into the floor. “Bran doesn’t care about shirts,” she spat out. “He doesn’t care about anything except that stupid heart tree and that old greenseer north of the Wall. He might as well be a tree for all he talks to anybody anymore!”

“Arya!” Catelyn snapped. “Don’t you dare say such a thing.” Her breath came short, recalling what Ned had told her of Bran’s description of the man who had once been Brynden Rivers, locked into some unnaturally long life, essentially one with the roots of an enormous weirwood far to the north. “Never say that! Do you hear me?”

All three girls stared a her with shock on their faces, and Catelyn realized she was shaking. Then something flickered in Arya’s eyes and her expression became horrified. “Oh, gods, Mother! I didn’t mean . . .I mean I only . . .I . . .”

The difference in the expressions on her two daughters faces told Catelyn that Bran had obviously shared more about the Bloodraven with Arya than Sansa, for while Arya now looked dismayed at her own choice of words, Sansa and Jeyne both still looked stunned more by the vehemence of Catelyn’s reaction.

She forced herself to take a deep breath. “It is all right, Arya,” she said. “I am sorry I shouted at you. I know you are merely worried for your brother. We all are.” Her eyes flicked to the darkness outside the window. “And, of course, I now worry for your father as well,” she said softly. It would be foolish to pretend that this little mending party was anything other than a feeble attempt to take their minds off the fact that Ned and his men had ridden out of the castle into an impossibly deep snow and bitterly cold temperature in search of Shireen Baratheon and the Seaworth boy. 

“I’m certain Father is all right,” Sansa said, and Catelyn nearly smiled at the forced brightness of her elder daughter’s voice for it reminded her very much of her own in such situations. “He’s taken me riding to that old tower more than once. It isn’t far.” Sansa’s own eyes went to the window then. “Although, I am afraid the snow and the dark will make it more difficult.”

“True,” Catelyn said with a fond smile, laying aside her own mending and rising from her chair. “But winter snow and darkness are hardly strangers to your father, girls” repeating the very words Ned had told her as she’d wrapped and bound his leg in preparation for his leaving. “He told me plainly not to expect him back this night as the horses will have little more speed than a man on foot in such deep snow and serve only as a way for the men to conserve their own physical energy and to transport young Shireen Baratheon and her companion back here more easily.”

“It’s so dark,” Jeyne said almost too softly to be heard. “Surely they’ve stopped for the night.”

Catelyn shook her head. “It isn’t night, Jeyne, not truly. The sun sets in the midafternoon, you know. Lord Stark knows the way very well, and they’ll be going very slowly because of the snow so they’ll have ample time to look about with lanterns on their way. He will not stop until he reaches that tower--with food and drink and blankets and dry firewood. How long they tarry there will depend on how they find the children.” She bit her lip, not wishing to speak or even think of the worst that Ned might find.

“Do you think they are still alive, Mother?” Arya asked, forever her child least likely to shy away from talk of death. 

“I pray they are, sweetling. I pray they are.” She walked to the window and looked out at the lanterns burning in the courtyard below. The sky was clear, but there was hardly any moon, so Ned and his men would be heavily dependent on their own lanterns to clear snow or fallen branches and debris from the storm which might block their path. _Please,_ she prayed, as she did in almost every moment of stillness. _Please keep him safe. Bring him home._

She turned then to smile at the girls. “It can’t be much more than an hour until the evening meal. We’ve done enough sewing for one day. Why don’t you find Dak and your brothers and see about getting everyone ready to venture out to the Great Hall. We’ll have to bundle well, I’m afraid, for it’s a good bit colder since the sun set.”

“All right,” Arya said without hesitation. “I’ll go to Bran’s room. Dak and Rickon are probably still messing about with those stupid wooden swords in the corridor upstairs.”

Catelyn smiled. Arya only called the wooden practice swords stupid when she was not allowed to train with the boys. As no real training could be accomplished in the narrow confines of the corridors, Catelyn had decided her daughter’s time would be better spent in more feminine pursuits. She had promised the child that when the yard was cleared enough and the weather fair enough during the short daylight hours for actual training to occur, she could join the boys as she had before. 

The smile faded as she caught her daughter biting her lip, a pensive look on her face, and she realized that for Arya to voluntarily choose seeking out Bran over gloatingly informing the other boys it was time to stop their swordplay, she must be very worried about her brother.

She walked to Arya and put her hands on her shoulders. “Bran will be all right, Arya,” she said softly. “He is a Stark, and he is home with us.”

“Sometimes it seems like he’s not really with us,” Arya whispered.

“None of us are unchanged, sweetling. You know that well. Bran may never be precisely the boy he was before, but he remains your brother. I think we must allow him his silences, but not allow him to remain within them too long.” She did smile a little then and squeezed Arya’s shoulders. “Go and annoy him out of this one, and keep him company until we all go down to the Great Hall.”

Arya tried to smile back, but only partially succeeded. “I will, Mother,” she said. “May I bring the wolves in with me?”

“I don’t want you going out into the godswood now. There is no need to be in this cold and dark until we must go to our meal.”

Arya simply looked at her as if she were very dimwitted, and just as she was about to reprimand the child for disrespect, it occurred to her why she had been given such a look, and she laughed. “Of course, if the wolves simply show up at the door of the Great Keep, you have my permission to let them in.”

Arya’s grinned at that. “I knew you weren’t really that slow, Mother,” she said.

“Arya!” Sansa exclaimed in shock, but when Catelyn laughed, she laughed, too. “You’ve likely already called Nymeria, haven’t you?” she said somewhat wistfully. Turning to Catelyn, she said, “I’ll walk Jeyne back to our room and fetch Rickon and Dak, Mother. Likely we’ll all end up in the boys’ room.”

Catelyn nodded and turned to take Jeyne Poole’s hands in hers. “Will you join us this evening, Jeyne?” she asked encouragingly.

The girl hesitated only a moment before saying, “No, my lady. Not . . .in the dark.” Then she looked down, as if ashamed of herself.

“That’s quite all right, Jeyne,” Catelyn assured her. “We’ll make sure you get plenty to eat. I just want you to know you are always welcome at our table when you are ready to come.”

Jeyne nodded. She had taken all her meals with them during the storm, having gradually accustomed herself even to Ned’s presence, and in truth, had seemed less a prisoner of her own fear during the time they were all prisoners of the weather. Now that everyone else could leave the Great Keep once more, poor Jeyne once more became isolated more than Catelyn would have liked. But there was little help for it. 

As the girls put away their mending, preparing to leave Catelyn’s room, a knock came at the door, and Samwell Tarly entered after Catelyn called out a greeting.

“Lord Seaworth would like to see you, my lady. He’s most insistent,” Sam said. 

“He’s awake?” Catelyn replied, shocked. The man had been given poppy earlier when Sam discovered, having removed his boots, that three of his toes were frostbitten beyond salvage--already black and dead. They would have to be removed soon, but the man refused enough poppy to have it done humanely now, wishing to wait at least until Ned arrived back with Shireen Baratheon. Sam had allowed that a delay of a few days should not harm anything. He’d insisted the man take a small amount of poppy, however, to dull the pain which would no doubt be terrible once the feeling returned to the parts of his flesh which had been frozen only to the point of somewhat reversible injury.

“He is awake, my lady,” Sam confirmed. “He did sleep for a bit more than two hours, but he is much too agitated to sleep now and quite determined to speak with you.”

Catelyn sighed, turning once more to her daughters who’d been listening. “Go on now, girls. If I haven’t come to join you in the boys’ room soon, go on to the Great Hall without me. But no one is to go out without wrapping very warmly--including scarves around faces. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother,” Sansa and Arya said in unison. “But I want you to come and eat with us,” Arya added.

Catelyn ran a hand over her hair, still tangled from the scarf and hood she’d worn outside earlier. “I shall try, sweetling. But I must attend Lord Seaworth.”

Arya looked unhappy, but nodded, and the three girls left the room. 

“Let’s go see the Onion Knight, Sam,” Catelyn said when they’d gone, and she and Sam went to the room where Ser Davos had been laid abed.

The dark haired man was sitting up in that bed when they entered the room.

“Lady Stark,” he said, “Thank you for coming to speak with me.” His voice was still hoarse and rasping, but stronger than it had been in Ned’s solar.

“You are our guest, Lord Seaworth. What can I do for you?”

“Sit down,” the man said, raising his hand to his mouth as his words became a cough.

Catelyn noted that the skin on that hand looked reddened, but relatively healthy as did the skin on the hand that lay atop the fur covering the lower part of him. She thanked the gods that the man had at least apparently kept his hands well gloved and wrapped for he hardly needed to lose any more of his fingers. His face would scar, but she thought it likely he would keep both his ears and all of his nose except possibly the very tip. 

“Here,” she said, reaching for the mug by the bed and gratified to find it half full. “Drink, my lord. Slowly. And do not try to speak until the coughing passes.”

He took the mug from her hand, and she noted that his hands were also much steadier than they had been in Ned’s solar. After nodding to Sam that he could go, she pulled a chair near the bedside and waited quietly as he sipped at the drink between coughs which gradually lessened and then ceased altogether.

He sighed deeply and let his hands and the mug sink to his lap. “Your maester tells me Lord Stark departed some hours ago.”

“Yes, my lord,” she answered, leaning over to take the mug from his hands and replace it on the table.

He smiled at her then. “You remind me of my wife,” he said. “She looks nothing like you. And she hasn’t your fine manner of speech. But she’s got a . . .presence about her. And a way of making a person feel welcome.”

Catelyn returned the smile. “You deserve to feel welcome at Winterfell, Lord Seaworth. You have done much for the North, and Lord Stark and I shall never be able to repay you for the recovery of our son. I am quite honored you would compare me to your wife.”

The man laughed at that, causing him to cough again, but only briefly. “Ah now, my lady. Marya’d turn redder than your hair to hear you say that. And she’d tell you that you’ve got that all backwards.”

Catelyn’s own cheeks reddened slightly at that. “I would like to meet Lady Marya one day,” she said.

“Lady Marya,” Seaworth repeated, shaking his head slowly. “She does like the sound of that, you know. More than she’ll admit.” He smiled at Catelyn again. “She was born no more noble than I was, my lady. A carpenter’s daughter. I tried to give her what I could, of course, but I never thought I’d make her a lady. She deserves it, though.”

Catelyn realized that this man was honestly more pleased that Stannis’s conferring a lordship upon him had given his wife a title than he was about his own title, and it made her like him even better. “You deserve your title, Lord Seaworth,” she said softly, “And you’ve done more to bring honor to it than many a man born to theirs.”

His face turned serious then, rather suddenly. “That is why I wished to speak to you, my lady.” He frowned. “I had nowhere to bring the queen except to Winterfell, and I know your husband to be a man of honor who would not harm a guest under his roof.”

“Harm?” Catelyn said, bristling at the suggestion that Ned could even wish ill upon any guest in Winterfell, much less a man who had done as much for them as Davos Seaworth. “Speak plainly, my lord.”

The man’s frown deepened, making him look much older. “The queen must be protected, and I shall do that with my last breath.”

At his words, Catelyn began to understand. He was speaking of Shireen Baratheon, of course, and naming her queen, just as he had in Ned’s solar upon his arrival. “You know that my lord husband has bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen on behalf of the North,” she said firmly. It wasn’t a question.

“I do,” Seaworth said. “But I cannot.”

Catelyn looked at him with pity and respect mingled as she wondered if Stannis Baratheon had truly realized what a loyal man his Hand had been. “I fear there is little choice now, my lord. Her dragons are quite fearsome. Even the Others cannot stand against them.” She swallowed. “I am very sorry for the loss of King Stannis.” She could give the man the bloody title he’d claimed now that he was dead, and found herself wanting to do so more for respect of the man sitting up in the bed before her than for Stannis Baratheon himself. “My lord husband was with him when he died. It was not an easy death, I fear, but he tells me the king met it bravely, and that he spoke of his daughter at the end.”

“The Targaryen woman told me the death was an accident.” He spoke it as a statement, but Catelyn heard the question in it.

“The dragon did it purposely,” she answered without flinching. “But that dragon was mad, and it was certainly not the intent of Queen Daenerys for such a dreadful thing to happen. She slew the beast herself not long afterward.”

“You know this to be true, my lady?”

“I do. Neither my husband nor myself saw the attack on King Stannis or the white dragon’s demise, but Lord Commander Snow saw both, and he spoke of it us.”

“But is it true what they say? That the Lord Commander’s a Targaryen himself? And if so, how can we accept his word on things?”

The man questioned her unapologetically, but not rudely, and Catelyn sighed, thinking that Jon Snow’s parentage, and what precisely it meant, was likely being debated in many places across the North now. “Jon Snow is the son of Lyanna Stark,” she said simply. “He has no less Stark blood in him than my lord husband’s children do.” The irony of finding herself in the position of defending Jon Snow’s Stark blood was not lost on Catelyn, but she had no options here. “He was raised in this castle by my husband alongside those children. Jon Snow would not lie to Lord Eddard Stark.”

Davos Seaworth looked at her very intently for a moment. “That is good,” he said finally. “She offered to make Shireen Baratheon the Lady of Storm’s End, and to give her all the Stormlands as the Baratheons have held them since Oryn.”

“She told us as much,” Catelyn said carefully, not mentioning that it had been Ned’s suggestion. She didn’t know if Daenerys Targaryen had told Lord Seaworth that or not.

Lord Seaworth sagged back againt the pillows on the bed then, closing his eyes. “I suppose it could be viewed as a generous offer, although Queen Selyse certainly did not see it as such.”

“I am sorry for her loss, as well,” Catelyn said, and she was. No one should die as Selyse Baratheon had.

“Our men left at the Wall---Queen Selyse’s men, really---all thought Queen Shireen should write and accept that offer as soon her mother was cold.” He opened his eyes and looked up at Catelyn gravely. “Like you and Lord Stark, they say we have little choice now.”

She regarded him silently and waited for him to continue.

“But I have no choice at all,” he said after a moment. 

“Everyone makes choices, Lord Seaworth,” she told him.

“Aye,” he said, “And I made mine long ago.” He raised himself wearily up to a full sitting position once more. “I spoke of my wife. Marya is at our home on Cape Wrath with our youngest two boys, Stannis and Steffon. I haven’t seen any of them in longer than I can even say. I shall likely never see them again.” He put up a hand as Catelyn began to speak. “I know not if I shall see my son Devan again. That lies in the hands of your lord husband and the gods. I know for certain that neither Marya nor I will lay eyes upon our oldest four sons again, for they all died on the Blackwater.”

Catelyn shuddered, thinking of her own oldest son, and the cold, inescapable ache of his loss. Grasping at the fabric of her skirt, seeking something tangible to hold onto lest she fall into that abyss, she found her heart breaking for the unknown Marya Seaworth, the carpenter’s daughter risen to nobility only to lose as many sons as Catelyn had ever birthed. “You can see your wife again,” she said, suddenly unable to contemplate this woman losing any more. “We can write to Queen Daenerys, tell her that Shireen Baratheon is pleased to accept Storm’s End, and you can go to Cape Wrath, my lord. There is war in the Stormlands, as you likely know, but the queen needs to know what takes place there. She would likely even give you men if you should volunteer to . . .why do you shake your head at me like that?”

Seaworth looked pained. “Because that cannot be, my lady. I swore upon my honor--and by whatever honor an old smuggler has, I shall keep my oath.”

“And what oath is that?” Catelyn asked, thinking she didn’t truly want to hear the answer.

“I swore to put Stannis Baratheon in his rightful place on the Iron Throne and that if he fell, I should see his daughter and heir to that throne . . .or die in the attempt.”

Catelyn looked at him, wanting to howl in frustration at the sheer idiocy of it. The wastefulness of it. The gods knew she valued honor. She had endeavored to live by the words of her House since she’d been old enough to understand them, not that she’d always succeeded. But she did try. She still tried. She understood futility, however, and the price of this man’s oath to a dead man was too high. “You cannot put Shireen Baratheon on a throne, Lord Seaworth,” she said flatly. “An army could not put her there as long as Daenerys Targaryen’s dragons live, and one man alone should not even contemplate it. You will die.”

“That may be,” the man said stubbornly. “But Robert Baratheon was the rightful king, Lady Stark. King Stannis was his only legitimate heir, and Queen Shireen is his only heir--the last of her line. I will keep my word and I will do my duty.”

I will do my duty. How many times had she thought or spoken those words over the course of her life? Thousands? A thousand thousands? She didn’t know. She did know she’d often adhered to as rigid a definitition of honor and duty as this man before her did now. “What of your wife?” she asked him, almost angrily. “Have you no duty to her? Has she not lost enough, my lord?”

The hurt in Seaworth’s eyes was real, but he only shook his head again. “My wife has lost too much,” he said. “And she lost me when I became King Stannis’s Hand if not before then.”

Catelyn felt cold once more, remembering how she’d tried to let go of Ned in her heart when he’d told her she was to stay at Winterfell while he traveled to King’s Landing to be Robert’s Hand in another lifetime. She hadn’t been able to do it, though. Not truly. She wondered if this Marya in Cape Wrath had been able to let go of her husband any more easily.

“I am hopeful that Danerys Targaryen will allow Marya and my youngest boys to retain our home should I fall. I have no reason to hope that except that she has shown herself at least capable of some mercy in the matter of Queen Shireen.”

“You cannot do this,” Catelyn said in a voice barely above a whisper.

“I cannot do otherwise, my lady, even though I realize your lord husband would.”

That struck Catelyn as an insult to Ned, given this man’s position, and she took offense. “Do you dare proclaim yourself more honorable than the Lord of Winterfell?” she asked him, rising from her chair.

“No,” he said simply. “I most certainly do not. But I believe men can see honor differently, my lady.”

“What do you mean by that?” she said, still bristling.

He sighed. “Your husband once asked me if I loved my wife.”

“What?” Catelyn was stunned by that statement as she could not imagine her intensely private husband ever asking any man such a personal question. It made no sense.

“You had been taken from camp by the Freys,” he said, and Catelyn felt ice in her veins at the memory.

“I had offered to ride out and search for King Stannis to seek his help in recovering you, but your lord husband didn’t want it.”

Catelyn swallowed. Ned had never spoken of this to her. “Go on,” she said softly.

Seaworth looked up at her, meeting her eyes directly. “He didn’t want the king because he knew the king would put the interest of the throne above anything else.”

“Including me,” Catelyn said softly. _Oh, Ned._

Seaworth nodded. “His honor would demand he do no less, my lady. Your husband, however, pointed out rightfully enough that there is honor in making a woman your wife as well as in ruling a keep, or castle, or kingdom. I’ve remembered those words.”

Catelyn bit her lip hard, willing herself not to cry as she thought of the pain her husband must have been in to speak so to Davos Seaworth.

“He told me that honor had ever been his guide, but that it wasn’t always a very clear one when it could demand you do contradictory things. He told me that choices weren’t always simple, but that he’d come to believe that love and honor both were empty without the other, and that he couldn’t act based only on one, even though he knew King Stannis would.”

The tears in her eyes were difficult to keep back, and she could not answer him because she knew she would be unable to hold them in if she tried to speak, so she merely held his gaze.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever met a man who thought more deeply about honor than Lord Stark, my lady.” 

“I know I haven’t,” she managed to whisper then.

“For all I know, your lord husband has the right of it, Lady Stark. I’m not an educated man. I never even learned to read until after I became Hand of the King. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that I do love my wife, even though sometimes I can barely recall her face. I love my sons as well, although I would likely not know Stannis or Steffon if I saw them now, and they would certainly not know me.”

“How can that not matter?” Catelyn said softly, sinking back down into the chair, not understanding at all.

“I don’t mean that it doesn’t matter,” Lord Seaworth said almost as quietly, and twice as sadly. “It does matter to me. But it cannot matter in this. I made my choice long ago, my lady. I am King Stannis’s man, first and foremost, and I know what honor meant to him. He wouldn’t ask these questions, and his path would be clear. It is his honor I carry now. And I shall carry it for his daughter, the one true queen.”

She felt a single tear escape her eye then and run down her cheek, and she honestly couldn’t say whether it was for Ned, for herself, for the far away Marya Seaworth, or for the terribly sad yet determined man in front of her.

“Ned will find Shireen Baratheon and your son, Lord Seaworth,” she said, wanting to give him what comfort she could in spite of him having just declared himself at odds with her husband and herself in the matter of the Iron Throne. “And he will bring them here safely.”

“I pray you are correct, my lady,” he said. “And then I pray that he will grant me time. Time for my queen to heal her injuries before he feels compelled to tell the Targaryen dragon woman we are here.”

 _She knows you are here,_ Catelyn thought. _Or at least that you were coming._ She supposed that Seaworth could not know that Daenerys had been here when his letter arrived. _He has been ordered to keep Stannis’s daughter here, and he will not allow you to take her anywhere._

Unable to sit here with the man and contemplate such things any longer, Catelyn rose once more. “They will not return before the morrow,” she said. “You and my husband can speak then. I must join my children for the evening meal, my lord. I will be certain that something is sent for you as well, and then you really must sleep.”

He nodded weakly. “I shall try, my lady,” he told her. 

She was nearly to the door when she heard him say, “I am sorry it must be this way, Lady Stark, but I truly have no choice.”

She turned only long enough to nod once in acknowledgement of his words before leaving the room. _Ned has no choice either,_ she thought desperately. _He cannot defy a royal command. We must keep Shireen Baratheon at Winterfell. And what are we to do with you, Lord Seaworth?_

She prayed to Ned’s gods and her own as she walked to her chambers to get her cloak and wrappings. She prayed once more for the safety of Ned and his men in the dark and cold. She prayed for the safety of Shireen Baratheon and Lord Seaworth’s son. She prayed that Ned would return on the morrow, and that he would find some way through this new problem with Davos Seaworth.

“Honor!” She nearly spat the word as she pulled on her gloves and began winding her scarf around her neck to be pulled up over her face when she reached the door. For one brief instant, Catelyn Tully Stark thought angrily that life might be far simpler if neither she nor her husband had ever heard that word, but then she recalled Lord Seaworth’s recounting of her husband’s words after her kidnapping and felt the tears rise again. Ned’s honor was as much a part of him as his grey eyes, and she would have him no different.

 _Please let him find an answer to this,_ she prayed fervently. _Please do not let us bring Lord Seaworth to harm. He gave us Rickon! Please, gods, please._ As she walked out of the Great Keep, pulling the scarf up over her face as the frigid blast of air hit her upon opening the door, she never stopped praying. _Please, gods . . ._ She bent forward against the wind as she made her way to the Great Hall by the dim points of light in the various lanterns hung about, watching their flames shrink to almost nothing when the wind was it its peak and spring brightly back whenever the wind died down. They never went all the way out in spite of the bitter wind, and somehow that gave Catelyn hope. She continued praying all the way to the Great Hall, her prayers once more confining themselves to that single word she hoped the gods could understand and see fit to answer. _Please._

_____________________________________________________________________________________

He couldn’t actually feel the leg any more, and while he wasn’t entirely certain that was a good thing, Ned was grateful for it at the moment. He found it far easier to ride with the leg numb than with it throbbing each time the horse’s hooves hit the ground. It had been bitterly cold since the sun went down far too long ago, and he actually found himself pulling his cloak more tightly around him.He wondered how cold it must be in the old tower with no fire for those two children. 

They’d never been able to go faster than a walk, as someone was forever having to climb down from their saddle and clear snow enough for the horses to pass. Catelyn had extracted a promise from him that he would remain upon his mount until they reached their destination, and she’d gotten him to say it in front of Deryk, who had been diligent about holding him to that promise. As frustrated as he was with feeling less useful than the men who rode with him, Ned supposed it was for the best. It had been difficult to mount up at Winterfell. Now that he’d been in the saddle so long, he couldn’t imagine what difficulties he’d have if he were trying to get off and on the horse repeatedly. Likely, he’d only slow them down.

He rode with his head bowed low against the wind, but a howl from somewhere up ahead caused him to look up.

“That little Lord Brandon’s wolf?” Deryk asked from the mount beside him.

Ned started to reply that he couldn’t honestly tell one wolf’s howl from another when he realized he was quite certain that it was Bran’s wolf. He couldn’t begin to explain how he was certain, but he was. “Aye,” he said.

“It’s coming from slightly off that way,” Deryk said, pointing a bit to the right of their current direction.

“We ride toward it,” Ned said without hesitation, already tugging the rein to turn his horse toward the fading sound of Summer’s howl.

He hadn’t been surprised when the wolf showed up no more than a half hour after they’d left the castle. It had stayed far enough from the horses to keep from panicking them, but had run ahead of them, obviously knowing where they were going and how to get there. Or at least Bran knew where they were going. Ned had ridden into the woods as far as the old ruin with the boy more than once before . . . Ned pushed that thought away. The past was gone. Bran’s days of freely riding and running where he wished were gone with it.

Summer howled again, and Ned realized it sounded closer. The wolf must be still. It had gone further ahead of them once the sun set, sniffing about in the dark. They wouldn’t have been able to see it then in any event, even if it had stayed close. Ned didn’t think he’d seen or heard it in several hours. He knew they were quite close to their destination now, and he wondered if Summer was already there.

He didn’t like to think about Bran inhabiting the wolf’s skin, howling in the dark amid the stones of the old ruined tower. But he supposed he’d rather his son be there with Summer, doing something he could at least comprehend rather than sending his mind or his spirit or whatever it was he sent far away to seek out sights and knowledge that Ned feared must be terrible.

They had long since left any sort of path. The benefit to that was that the snow was at least less deep among the thick trees, and it was darkness that forever had at least one man at least on foot now, leading his horse and holding a lantern before him to find a way through the underbrush. Every man in this party had ridden here before and knew the way, but the dark made all things look different, and Ned was thankful for the wolf’s assistance. He knew the animal could see far better in the dark. Likely, it could smell the two children as well once it got close enough. 

“There, milord!” The man just ahead of him holding the lantern shouted. “It’s just over there!”

Ned urged his horse up to where the man stood and could make out the slightly blacker outline of the ruined tower against the dark sky, rising above the trees. The direwolf howled again, and Ned realized it must be there in the shadow of the tower which was no further away than a couple hundred paces by foot. “Peace, Summer,” he called out clearly. He would have called the animal to him, but he didn’t need his horse to jump.

Summer howled no more, and Ned rode forward at a slow pace. There was no sound or movement discernible from the tower. When he was within a hundred paces, he called out loudly, “Lady Shireen! Young Seaworth! Are you there?”

There was no response. Even the wolf stayed silent. 

“Help me down, Deryk,” Ned said softly, and his Captain of the Guard dismounted and came swiftly to his side. 

“I cannot swing the bad leg over,” Ned said in little more than a whisper when he reached him. “I’ll have to dismount on that side, and I don’t know if it will give or not when I swing the other. I’d rather not topple into the snow.” 

“You’ll not fall, my lord,” Deryk said just as softly, but with great certainty.

The man was true to his word, bracing Ned at the hip as he swung the other leg over the horse, and very nearly lifting him to the ground. He did not withdraw his hand until Ned had his weight firmly settled onto the good leg as he leaned against the horse and reached for the cane which was bound to it.

“Walk with me, Deryk,” Ned commanded. To the four other men, he said more loudly, “Wait here. I don’t want to frighten them.”

Leaning heavily on the cane and Deryk, he willed the bad leg forward and was gratified to find that it moved, albeit stiffly. By the fifth step, it was no longer numb, either, and the pain knifed up through the knee all the way to the hip each time he touched it to the ground. 

When they’d gotten a bit of space between themselves and the horses, Ned called softly, “Summer. To me.”

The wolf padded over immediately. Bran’s wolf always responded to him more quickly than the other two, and Ned wondered if that indicated Bran’s better control of the animal or simply Summer’s calmer temperament. He thought it might be both. “Stay close by me now,” he said softly, realizing he was speaking to the wolf as if it were Bran.

More loudly, he called again. “Lady Shireen! I am Lord Eddard Stark! Lord Seaworth sent me!”

After another span of silence, a hoarse, male adolescent voice called back, “I have a sword!”

Ned almost smiled. “Well, I should hope so, Devan Seaworth!” he shouted, devoutly hoping he had remembered the boy’s name correctly. “Seeing as how your father left you here to guard the Lady Baratheon.”

At that, Ned heard movement, and could dimly see a door opening in the blackness of the tower. “Lord Stark?” the boy said hesitantly.

“Aye, lad,” he replied kindly. “That is who I am.”

“She . . .she’s hurt,” the boy said then, sounding suddenly much younger. “And it’s cold. So cold.”

“It will be all right now,” Ned said, hoping he spoke truly. “Bring the firewood!” he shouted to the men behind him. “Bring up all the supplies.”

He then made his way toward the young man in the doorway as quickly as his damned leg allowed, cursing at his lameness with every step. When he got near enough to actually see the boy, he could tell little about his appearance for the cloak and hood that covered nearly his entire face. He could see well enough how he shivered though.

“Let’s get you back inside, lad,” he told him.

The boy wordlessly stepped inside followed by Ned and then Deryk who now carried a stack of thick furs. Ned nodded toward the boy, and Deryk took one of the furs and put it over his shoulders.

“Give that to Her Grace,” the young man said. “She’s freezing.”

 _Her Grace,_ Ned thought. The boy was certainly his father’s son. “We have plenty more,” he assured young Seaworth. “That one’s yours.” 

He could see a figure lying on the ground as far as possible from the door and the open place high in one of the walls. She appeared to be wrapped in two cloaks at least, and she wasn’t moving. Ned moved to her side and painfully knelt down to look at her. By the light of the lanterns his men had carried in, he could see black hair and a pale face marred by some type of scarring over one side. _Greyscale,_ he remembered. Stannis’s daughter had suffered from greyscale when very young. Her eyes were closed and she lay very still.

“Lady Shireen?” he said softly, but she did not respond. He removed his glove and placed a hand to the flesh of her face on the unscarred side, and it felt cold, but he could feel the warmth of her breath. “Blankets,” he said sharply, and Deryk was beside him instantly. 

“Spread some of the furs on the floor so she isn’t lying on the cold ground,” Ned said. “Then cover her, and go outside and get Summer.”

Deryk’s eyes flew to his then, widened in surprise. 

“That wolf can provide more heat to the girl than all these furs. His warmth once kept me alive north of the Wall.”

Deryk swallowed. “Will the wolf come with me?”

“Tell him what you need of him. Speak it plainly.” Ned wondered if Deryk would question him further, but the man had considerable experience with the children’s direwolves, and he merely nodded as he spread the thickest fur on the ground beside Shireen Baratheon.

“Build a fire,” Ned commanded to no one in particular. “There is more than enough ventilation in here.” He could hear the men moving to comply with his instructions as he helped Deryk move Lady Shireen onto the fur. She moaned softly, but did not wake.

“Careful of her leg!” Devan Seaworth nearly shouted. “I think it’s broken.” Ned looked up to see the boy standing just behind him, concern on his face---a face that looked quite a bit like his father’s now that there was enough light in the tower to see him by. 

Deryk had just laid the other furs on top of the girl and stood to go back out for the wolf. Ned moved painfully to down to her feet. “By the ankle, lad? Your father said she’d twisted something.”

Devan nodded. “The left. It’s very swollen.”

Ned lifted the furs enough to find the girl’s ankle. Her boot was off, and he could feel it was swollen. She whimpered and pulled it back a bit at his touch. He couldn’t feel anthing terribly out of place, but he was no maester, and he thought if the ankle remained tender enough to provoke her to respond like that even when unconscious this many days after her fall, it likely was broken.

“We have a fine maester at Winterfell,” Ned said. “He’ll fix her up.” He sat back and looked at the boy. “When was she last awake?”

“I don’t know,” Devan said. “It’s hard to tell time here. But she talked to me not long after the sunset, I think.”

“That’s good,” Ned said. “It hasn’t been dark for more than several hours yet. She’ll do well when she’s warmed up a bit.” The boy had stopped shivering, but now Ned noted the thin, hollow look to his face. “Go and sit by that fire they’re building up, lad. We’ve got food and drink, and you look like you need it.”

He shook his head. “I stay by the queen,” he said. Then his eyes went wide and he jumped up, exclaiming “R’hllor save us!”

Ned turned to see Summer padding silently toward them. “It’s all right, son,” he said quickly. “That’s Summer. He’s ours. He’ll keep Lady Shireen warmer than anything else will.” 

“That’s . . .that’s a direwolf, isn’t it?” the boy said breathlessly.

“Aye. But he won’t harm her.” 

The boy looked doubtful, and Ned reached a hand up to touch him on the leg. “Steady, lad. Just watch and see what he does.”

He could feel the boy trembling through the cloth of his breeches, and he didn’t think it was the cold now, but as Summer merely stretched himself out beside Shireen so that his warm furry body was in contact with hers over its entire length, Devan seemed to relax slightly.

Ned took his hand away from Devan then and reached out to scratch Summer between his ears. “Good wolf,” he said. “This is Devan, Summer. He guards the Lady Shireen.” He looked up at the boy again. “Summer belongs to my son, Bran. All of my children had direwolves at one time, although two are dead now.”

Devan stared at the wolf in fascination, and Summer looked back at him with those big golden eyes. 

“Go on to the fire and get yourself fed, Devan,” Ned said, calling the boy by his name.

“My . . .my father . . .is he?”

“Your father is a brave man,” Ned said. “And a strong and resourceful one. Not many men would have made it to Winterfell in that storm. He’s suffered from being out in that cold, and I could not let him ride back out with us, but he will be fine, lad. He hasn’t done himself any major damage.” _At least, I don’t think he has,_ Ned thought, praying that he was correct about that. He did have confidence in Sam’s ability to treat any injuries the elder Seaworth might have.

“I’m glad,” Devan said, looking very relieved. “I was afraid for him.” He suddenly looked embarrassed, and Ned realized it was because he had admitted to fear.

“Of course you were. Only a fool wouldn’t fear that storm. And you and your father are neither one fools. You are merely brave enough to do what you must in spite of your fears. Now go and eat. I know you’ve had nothing for awhile.”

“Yes, my lord,” Devan said, moving toward the fire. Ned watched his men make a place for the boy to sit and hand him bread and a mug. Someone already had a pot over the fire, so the child would have something warm to put in his belly soon.

 _He is little more than a child,_ Ned thought, looking at him. “How old are you, Devan?” he called to him.

“I’m four and ten, my lord,” the boy said around a big bite of bread.

 _Four and ten. Robb was four and ten when he rode to war for my sake._ Ned felt a terrible stabbing sensation in his heart as he looked at Devan Seaworth’s impossibly young face in the firelight and thought about how his son had spent the last precious moons of his young life. _Would that you had become a man more slowly, Robb, and with greater joy in it._

“Devan?” the soft voice from beside him drew Ned back from his black thoughts. He looked down to see Shireen Baratheon’s eyes were open. Blue eyes, he noted. Like her father’s. Like Robert’s.

“Where’s Dev . . .Oh!” The girl’s question became a startled exclamation as she became aware of the wolf lying beside and half atop her.

“It’s all right,” Ned said hurriedly. “The wolf is a friend. He’s keeping you warm. And Devan is just over there.” He motioned hurriedly toward the fire, expecting the girl to attempt to jump away from the wolf in panic.

She didn’t though. She merely gazed up at it with those Baratheon blue eyes as if its presence beside her were more puzzling than frightening. “You are Lord Stark,” she said, looking back to Ned after a moment. “I saw you when you came to the Wall. And . . .you look like the Lord Commander.”

“I am Lord Stark, my lady. I am most pleased to see you awake.”

“Is this wolf yours? I liked Lord Commander Snow’s wolf, This one isn’t all white, though.”

“No. Jon had the only white wolf. My other children’s wolves are all shades of grey, save one who is black.” He smiled at her. “This is Summer. He belongs to my son, Bran.”

Shireen wrinkled up her face as if she were trying to remember something, and Ned noted the scarred side did not move like the other. While she was certainly no great beauty, her face would have been pleasant enough had it not been for that terrible scar. “Bran is your son who is crippled.”

Ned nodded, wondering how she knew of Bran.

“The Lord Commander used to tell me of his brothers and sisters, my lord,” the girl said as if in answer to his thoughts. “When my mother allowed him to speak to me at all. She kept me inside most of the time.”

“I was sorry to hear of your mother’s passing,” Ned said.

“Thank you. She . . .she tried to do what was best, you know. She didn’t mean to . . .” The girl’s voice broke a bit, and Ned put a hand on one of her arms.

“I know,” he said softly. “Your lady mother had suffered a great many losses. She did love you, though.”

The girl pressed her lips together tightly and nodded.

“Your father did as well.”

Shireen looked rather surprised by that statement. 

“He did,” Ned said emphatically. “I was with him, my lady. His last words were of his love for you.”

The girl’s eyes teared up then. “Truly?” she whispered.

“Truly.”

She looked back up at Summer and weakly raised a hand to rub his fur. “I’m not cold,” she said, as if stunned by the fact. “Did Lord Seaworth bring you?”

Realizing the question was directed at him even as she kept her eyes on the direwolf, Ned answered, “He walked all the way to Winterfell to send us to you. And he is safely there awaiting you and his son.”

“I’m glad Devan’s father is all right,” she said softly.

“I am, too,” came a voice from directly behind Ned. He looked up to see Devan Seaworth standing there. “I’ve brought you something to eat, Shir . .Your Grace. Do you think you can sit up?”

“I . . .” She looked at the direwolf which had not moved off her at all.

“Summer, go on now,” Ned said, and the huge animal slowly stood up. 

Before it moved away, Shireen said, “Thank you, Summer,” and the wolf turned its eyes toward hers a moment before ambling toward the door to be let out. “I . . .think I need help, Devan,” she said then.

Ned surveyed the girl carefully. Her quiet voice had had conveyed such a surprisingly mature calmness that he’d nearly forgotten how young and weak she was, nearly frozen and half starved besides. He leaned forward to grip her arms and pulled her easily into a sitting position. “You can lean back upon me, my lady, and young Seaworth here can help you eat. It will do you good.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Shireen replied, breathing rather heavily simply from the effort of sitting up.

Devan Seaworth, however, looked at him rather coldly. “Your Grace,” he said sternly, but he was looking at Ned. “I would ask that you address Her Grace by her proper title, Lord Stark. She is the the one true queen.” 

Ned almost laughed because while the boy’s sentiments echoed his father’s, his manner of speech and the tone of his voice were an echo of Stannis Baratheon’s. 

“Don’t be rude, Devan,” Shireen said tiredly. “Lord Stark has brought us food and furs and fire. He can call me whatever he likes, and I’ll still thank him for it.” She looked at Ned then for what seemed like a long moment with those eyes so disconcertingly like her father’s and uncle’s. He thought the intellect there was more Stannis than Robert though. “For now, however, ‘my lady’ will do fine, Lord Stark.”

Ned bowed his head slightly to her in acknowledgement and thought that in another world, one without dragons and Others and too many powers greater than the strength of men, this unassuming, but surprisingly strong daughter of Stannis Baratheon might have grown to be a fine queen.

He supported her as Devan sat down beside her and began to feed her the warm broth from the bowl he carried.

“I can feed myself, Devan,” she protested after two bites.

“I know. But you don’t have to.”

“You must be hungry, too.”

“Not anymore. I’ve had three bowls full.” Young Seaworth grinned at her, and for a moment Ned saw only two children who cared for each other and was reminded of his own children.

“Will we be leaving right away for Winterfell?” the boy asked suddenly.

“No,” Ned answered, hearing the eagerness to be gone in the boy’s voice. In truth, he shared it, but these two needed food and an actual night’s rest with a real fire to keep warm before heading back to Winterfell. If he were honest with himself, his own leg needed time off horseback before the return trip as well. “Riding through the deep snow wears the horses out quickly, and the going is easier when there is at least some light. We shall rest here and then start for Winterfell on the morrow, not long before sunrise.” That would be later in the morning than he’d like, but it would give men and horses ample time to rest as well as make the actual travel easier.

Devan started to protest, but Shireen stopped him with a hand on his arm. “He is right, Devan. I don’t think either of us has slept. We only lie here and shiver, and lately worry about your father. Now we we know him to be safe, there is food in our bellies, and I am truly warm. I’d forgotten how it felt to be warm. We will both be better travelers on the morrow.”

Devan still looked unhappy, but he said nothing. “Lord Stark would have told us if anything were amiss with your lord father,” Shireen said softly to him. She then looked at Ned, and he saw the slightest doubt in her eyes. She needed some confirmation of this fact.

“I fear Lord Seaworth suffered some minor frostbite, but nothing that will trouble him greatly,” he assured her. “I had difficulty persuading him not to accompany us back here to find you. He is most anxious to have both of you safe.”

“See, Devan?” Shireen said with a little smile. “Your father isn’t going to die. He’s not like everyone else.” The smile faded as she said the last, and Ned realized that everyone in this girl’s family was dead--father, mother, uncles. Oh, she had some Florent relatives, and he wondered briefly what Axell Florent had said of Davos Seaworth departing for Winterfell with Shireen upon her mother’s death. He then wondered if Florent had possibly been among the men who’d ridden south with them only to be lost when the storm hit. He hadn’t remained in Winterfell to question Seaworth at length. In any event, this child had lost everyone closest to her.

“You can eat more than that, Shireen . . .Your Grace,” Devan said to her then, encouraging her to take another spoonful.

 _Perhaps not quite everyone,_ Ned thought, looking at the two of them and warmed once more by thoughts of his own children at Winterfell.

With the fire, the extra furs and the added bodies of the Winterfell men in the small confines of the ruined watchtower’s vault, the air was almost too warm for Ned. When watches were drawn and everyone bedded down for the night, he reclined not far from the two young people, stretching his leg out and then bending the knee, flexing his ankle back and forth. It hurt, but he needed the leg to remain as supple as it might for the return trip. He dared not unbind it and examine it for he knew he could not wrap it nearly so well as Catelyn had. Finally, he fell into an exhausted, but uneasy sleep, allowing thoughts of Cat and home to force other less pleasant thoughts from his mind.

The ride back to Winterfell the following day was blessed by fair weather, and that was the only good thing that could be said of it. The day was not quite so cold as before, and they made the majority of the journey during the brief hours of available daylight, but it was still slow going through the snow. Devan Seaworth was a fair enough rider, but the boy was in a more weakened state than he’d appeared the night before--fortified first by fear and then the excitement of imminent rescue. Shireen Baratheon could not put her left foot into a stirrup at all without suffering terrible pain, so Ned had her set upon a horse in front of Deryk. He felt angry and useless that he couldn’t put her on his own horse. She was a fairly tiny thing--of an age with Arya, for the gods’ sake--but he did not trust his own leg to keep him on his horse reliably, much less an injured girl as well.

The leg felt as if it were being repeatedly stabbed the entire journey, never going numb as it had the day before. He supposed not losing sensation might be a good thing, but it damned sure didn’t feel like one, and he found himself almost wishing for the bone chilling temperatures of the previous evening’s ride. He’d been away from home for scarcely more than twenty-four hours when he beheld the walls of Winterfell rising up against the already dark sky--which produced more light than before as all the clouds had now fled and the moon was waxing.

Summer had sprinted ahead of them, howling as he went, and it surprised Ned not at all to hear the horn blowing when he knew they were still too far off to be seen clearly from the gates. When at last they did ride through those gates, he saw his family assembled, including Bran in Tom’s arms. Much more snow had been cleared in his absence, and the courtyard was illuminated by a large number of lanterns and torches which burned steadily as the last of the bitter winds of the storm seemed to have disappeared.

“Father!” Rickon’s shout rang out and the little boy ran forward to meet them causing Ned to smile. 

He rode his horse nearly to the place where they all stood before stopping to dismount. The bad leg nearly gave out as he swung himself out of the saddle and down onto the ground, but he did not want to be assisted off a horse in front of his children, and he gritted his teeth against the pain as he attempted to reach for the cane and avoid being knocked to the ground by Rickon’s exuberant welcome.

“You came back!” the little boy was shouting. “You came back quickly this time!” 

The realization that his son was honestly surprised to see him returned home struck him forcefully. It seemed Rickon still assumed that any departures inevitably meant long absences. Ned’s head swam from the pain in his leg, the pain of his son’s fear of losing his family, and the pain of realizing that poor Shireen Baratheon had lost hers. Just as he thought he would lose his balance and fall, he felt two hands with long fingers grip his arm firmly.

“You are home, my lord, and I see you have brought both the little lady and little lord safely to Winterfell.”

Her voice strengthened him as much as her steadying hands, and he looked into the blue eyes that searched his face for any hint of trouble or pain. “Aye,” he said. “We have been most fortunate, and it is good to be home.”

The other children had crowded around him now, and Ned allowed himself to be briefly embraced by all of them including Dak. Catelyn maneuvered his cane into his hand and kept her hold on his other arm as the children peppered him with questions. Over those questions, he heard Catelyn ordering the accompanying servants that the young guests be taken to the rooms she’d assigned them. “Put them to bed, and Maester Samwell will attend them as soon as he’s seen to Lord Stark,” she finished.

He shook his head, turning away from Arya’s protests that he’d forbidden her to send Nymeria after him, and it wasn’t fair that Bran had just sent Summer anyway without even asking, to look at his wife. “No,” he said. “Send Sam to Lady Shireen first. I think her ankle may be broken. And she cannot walk to her room.”

“I’ve got the lady, Lord Stark,” came Deryk’s voice, and Ned looked up to see that he spoke truly. Wintefell’s Captain of the Guard carried the young Lady of Storm’s End cradled in his arms, already being led toward the Great Keep by two chamber maids.

“She looks well enough for the moment,” Catelyn said through pursed lips. “Your leg concerns far more right now.”

“Go with her, Catelyn.”

“Ned, I would see you to bed first.”

“She’s lost both her parents, my lady. She saw her mother die.” Ned said softly, hating the pain that crossed Catelyn’s face at that. She had seen their son die, and he did not miss the way her eyes instinctively went to all of the children gathered around them now. “I will go directly to your chambers, my love. I promise.”

She bit her lip briefly, but nodded. “Sansa, come take your father’s arm, and all of you children walk with him up to my room. Dak, run and fetch Sam. I think he’s with Lord Seaworth. Have Sam go directly to Lord Stark, and then you help Lord Seaworth to his son’s room. It’s right beside his.”

Dak nodded and headed off at a sprint before Ned could say anything, and Sansa was already taking her mother’s place at his arm.

“Sam should go . . .” he started to say, but Catelyn simply laid a finger on his lips as she stood facing him. 

“I will go to Lady Shireen now,” she said. “And I will stay with her until Sam comes. But he will see to your leg first.”

There would be no arguing the point, and he thought it likely Shireen Baratheon might take more comfort from Cat than from Sam anyway, so he simply kissed the finger on his mouth quickly causing her to smile. 

“I will come to you when I can,” she said, and then she turned to follow the group that had already taken Shireen toward the Great Keep.

Ned then began his own halting progress in that direction, assisted by two daughters, a son, and three dire wolves which, in truth, hampered his ability to move more than aided it, but he had no intention of sending any of them away. Tom followed along as well, carrying Bran. They were stopped a few times by men with some question or another for him, but finally they reached the door of the Great Keep, and Arya was still protesting that he had “allowed” Summer to come out to the Wolfswood with him.

“I allowed nothing,” he finally said tiredly to his persistent second daughter. “It didn’t occur to me to tell Bran to keep his wolf at home, and I am glad now that it didn’t. Summer was a help.” He smiled over his shoulder at Bran then and was rewarded by something at least approaching a smile in return. “I spoke to you before I left, Arya, because you are the one I suspected most likely to send along your direwolf, and I had no wish for Nymeria to tax her leg as I have.” He smiled down at the girl. “It is quite enough to have one of us lame at the moment.”

She bit her lip briefly, just as Catelyn had, but said no more of direwolves. Instead, she proclaimed. “Well, I suppose we should do as Mother asked and get you to bed to rest your leg. Then no one will be lame!”

When they reached Catelyn’s chambers, Sam already awaited them for Dak had moved much more quickly than they had. Ned allowed the children to remain only long enough to see him lie down upon the bed where Sansa insisted upon removing his boots for him, and then he embraced each of them once more and sent them off. He had no wish for them to look upon the leg or to witness his reactions to any painful ministrations Sam might have to make to it.

Much later, he was startled to realize someone was easing into the bed beside him. “Cat?” he asked in confusion.

Her soft laugh reached him in the darkness. The candles were all out. “Were you expecting someone else, my lord?”

“I . . .what time is it?”

“Late,” she whispered. “Sam told me you’d fallen sound asleep after he tended your leg. He also told me what a mess you’d made of it.”

He could hear the frown in her voice.

“But he also told me you’d done no new lasting damage, so if you promise to stay off it as much as possible for the next several days, I promise not to be too cross with you,” she sighed. “I do understand that you had to go.”

He pulled her to him and kissed the top of her head.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. “I had food brought to Shireen and Devan, but you were asleep, and I . . .”

“No. I’ll likely be starving come morning, but I’ve no wish for anything at the moment but to lie here with you. How is Lady Shireen?”

“You were right about the leg. Both bones are broken near the ankle, but Sam doesn’t think the larger bone is broken all the way through. He has it splinted, and he says it will heal well. He doesn’t expect her to any trouble walking once it does.”

“I’m glad of it,” Ned said softly.

“But, Ned,” Catelyn continued, curling against him in the dark. “I believe that poor girl is the saddest child I’ve ever met.”

Ned sighed. “She has lost everyone and everything she’s ever known, Cat.”

He felt her nod against his chest. “Yes, but . . .” She was silent for a moment, and he imagined she likely bit her lip in thought. “I don’t believe she’s ever been an exuberantly happy child. She’s certainly been lonely, I think. Even when her parents were alive.”

“You talked a lot with her?”

“Yes. Well . . .as much as she would say. Getting the girl to say much is like . . . .well, it’s rather like getting you to speak when we were first wed,” she said with a laugh.

“That bad, huh?”

“Perhaps not quite,” she teased, the smile still in her voice a moment before she turned serious once more. “She is very young and afraid of a great many things, but she is also quite intelligent and thoughtful, and in some ways seems older than any of our children--even Sansa.”

“It sounds to me as if you put a great deal of effort into understanding our young guest, Cat.”

“I did. We need to know her mind because . . .she does seem quite fond of young Devan and Lord Seaworth. They both came to see her in her room briefly.”

“Seaworth’s out of bed?”

“He shouldn’t be, but I couldn’t keep him confined when his son was returned. Neither of us would remain abed in such case. And he does recover well. Sam says he’ll certainly lose both of his smallest toes and possibly some others, but otherwise, he will be fine. He’s a strong man.” She sighed deeply. “And he holds tightly to his opinions and even more tightly to his word of honor.”

“Cat?” Something worried her, but she wasn’t speaking plainly. 

She stretched up and kissed his cheek, and he turned his head to capture her lips with his. That kiss lasted for some time as they wordlessly expressed their mutual joy in being reunited even after an absence of only just over a day. Then she lay her head upon chest once more. “I am glad you are home, Ned,” she said softly. “I don’t think I slept last night.”

“Brien . . .” he said suddenly, realizing he had not seen his youngest son since his arrival.

“He sleeps well at night now, my love,” she said, with affection in her voice. “and is the only member of the family who wasn’t aware of your absence, so he gave me little trouble. I’ve just come from the nursery, and I’ve no doubt he’ll sleep until morning.”

Ned felt vaguely disappointed that he wouldn’t see the babe until morning. He ran his fingers through her hair. “Ah, then your sleep was troubled by my absence? Your absence certainly troubled my own sleep.”

“Mmm. I was cold, And don’t laugh!” she said, hitting him lightly on the chest. “I know my rooms are warm, but I am always cold without you.” She lay still against him, and he felt the worry again.

“Cat, what more have you to tell me?”

She sighed. “Nothing that will not keep until morning,” she said. “Truly, Ned. We do have much to speak on, but nothing so pressing that it should keep me from sleeping now that my husband is returned to me. And I confess I am weary.”

“Then sleep, my lady,” he said, holding her safe in his arms. “And I shall do the same.”

He was troubled by whatever worries weighed on her mind, but much more, he was happy to be within Winterfell’s walls, to have his children safe, and to have his wife beside him. New worries could wait for the morrow. Before long her even breathing let him know that she slept, and soon afterward, he followed her into slumber.


	73. The Voices of Children

“Why are you following me?”

The older boy had stopped and turned around so suddenly that Rickon didn’t have time to turn around or think of any respone. “I’m not following you,” he said emphatically for lack of anything better to say.

The older boy walked back toward him, and Rickon stood up as tall as he could, refusing to back away even if this boy was bigger than Dak, nearly as tall as Sansa. It was his castle after all.

“You are following me, boy, and I would know why,” the older boy asked, looking down at him. He was the onion knight’s son. That’s what Arya said. Only Sansa said the onion knight was a lord, and it wasn’t proper to call him the onion knight. 

_Well, my father is the lord of this castle, and it’s not proper for an onion knight’s son to call me a boy,_ Rickon thought angrily. “Don’t call me ‘boy,’” he said, sticking his chin out and wishing that he had Shaggydog with him. This new boy carried a blade at his side, and that made Rickon jealous. Mother wouldn’t let him carry one, even though she let Arya take her Needle everywhere. And Arya was a _girl!_  
“I live here, and I can walk anywhere I like,” he added.

The older boy looked almost amused at that. “Maybe so,” he said. “But it still isn’t courteous to follow people about. Didn’t your mother teach you any manners? Or does she not have any herself?”

That was more than Rickon could take. He threw himself at the rude boy with his fists clenched, shouting, “My mother is Lady Catelyn Stark, and you will take back what you said now!”

The awful boy was actually laughing as he reached out to grab Rickon by his arms and hold him away from himself, but Rickon watched the laughter go right out of his face as he realized what he had heard. “Who is your mother?” he asked sharply.

“A better lady than yours!” Rickon spat at him, still angry at what he’d said about Mother’s manners. “I am the son of Lord Eddard Stark and the Lady Catelyn. And I can walk anywhere in this castle I like. And let go of me right now!”

The boy looked serious now, but not actually frightened. “Forgive me,” he said simply. “I meant no disrespect to Lady Stark. But I don’t think either of your parents would approve of your stalking after guests in their castle.” 

Rickon didn’t respond to that as it was undoubtedly true. Finally, the boy let go of his arms. “I am Devan Seaworth,” he said as he released him. “Son of Lord Davos Seaworth, squire to King Stannis Baratheon, and now servant of Her Grace, Shireen Baratheon.”

Rickon scowled. This Devan Seaworth seemed to think a lot of himself. Sansa might care about all those titles and people, but he didn’t. And he hadn’t meant to be discourteous. He was only curious about the boy and girl who’d been out in that terrible blizzard, and Mother had said they were resting and shouldn’t be disturbed. Only Rickon had found this Devan wandering through the corridors of the Great Keep and decided to see where he was going. “I didn’t mean to follow you,” he said sullenly. “I was going to ask Mother if Shaggy could come in, and I saw you. I wondered where you were going. This corridor doesn’t go to your room.”

Finally, Devan Seaworth looked a bit uncomfortable. “No,” he said after a moment. “I got tired of being cooped up in my room, and there’s nothing wrong with me. Not even any frostbite. So, I thought I might explore a bit, and maybe find Shir . . .Her Grace.”

Rickon looked up at the older boy, thinking carefully. “I can take you to her room. I know where Mother put her.” He didn’t add that he wanted to see Shireen Baratheon as well. He remembered her father, and he hadn’t liked him much. He wondered if the daughter would be the same. He knew a lot of different ladies and girls--Mother, Osha, Sansa, Arya, Jeyne, some of the maids, Lady Brienne (thinking of Lady Brienne made him sad, though, because she was dead now). They were all different, but none of them were like that mean old king who’d made Sansa angry and sat in Father’s chair and tried to boss everybody when Mother was so sick. He hoped Lady Shireen wasn’t like that. Of course, King Stannis was dead now, like Lady Brienne and so many other people, so Rickon tried not to think mean thoughts about him. Mother said it wasn’t right to speak ill of the dead, but he’d heard her say terrible things about the Bastard of Bolton after he was dead.

“That would be kind of you,” Devan Seaworth said now, still talking too much like a man grown--kind of like Sansa did sometimes, but Dak and Arya never did. Bran didn’t talk like that, either. He talked about things Rickon didn’t always understand, but he didn’t talk like the lord of anything--even though he would be one day. “I am afraid I have gotten a bit turned around.”

“You mean lost,” Rickon said bluntly. “The Great Keep confuses a lot of people. Just wait until you see the rest of the castle. There’s places that are more confusing. I can show you the tunnels.”

“Tunnels?” Devan’s face showed an enthusiasm for that idea that made Rickon decide he might be an all right sort of boy after all. “I would like that! But, I really do want to see Shireen first.”

“Come on,” Rickon said. He turned and walked back in the opposite direction, grinning at the knowledge that the older boy had been going in the completely wrong direction.

When they reached the room, Devan knocked upon it without hesitation, and Rickon heard a girl’s voice call, “Come in!”

Shireen Baratheon lay propped up in a bed, and she smiled when she saw Devan Seaworth. Rickon noticed that her smile seemed sort of crooked, like one side of her mouth wouldn’t move as far as the other. She didn’t see him come in after Devan at all because she was only looking at the older boy.

“Devan!” she exclaimed. “They let you out of bed?”

The older boy grinned at her, and Rickon thought his face looked much nicer with the big smile on it. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be up, but there’s nothing wrong with me. Well, except for my sense of direction. I’m afraid I got completely turned around trying to get here.”

“You were here with your father last night!”

“I know,” Devan said sort of sheepishly. “I was really tired then. I don’t think I paid much attention to the way. But I was rescued by the young Lord of Winterfell here.” He jerked his head over toward Rickon, and the girl on the bed seemed to see him for the first time.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry! It is good to meet you.” Now that she faced him, Rickon could see that her eyes were blue--not blue like Mother’s or even like his, but a dark blue like her father’s. She had black hair like her father, too. And the one side of her face didn’t just move funny. It looked odd--stiff and grey like it was made out of stone instead of skin. He stared at it.

“What’s wrong with your face?” he blurted out without thinking. He then turned bright red, remembering how angry his father and his brothers and sisters got whenever someone said something about the marks on Mother’s face.

“You have no manners at all!” Devan shouted at him then. “Lord or no lord! Apologize to Her Grace right now!”

Rickon swallowed hard. He didn’t like the older boy chastising him, but he knew his question had been discourteous. Before he could make himself say anything at all, the girl on the bed spoke again. “Devan! Don’t shout at the poor boy! He only asked a question.” 

Rickon had been staring at the floor, but now he looked up at her, and she smiled again. It was a nice smile, even if the one side of her face didn’t move right. Her ears were too big, too, he thought--they stuck out through the black hair that fell down on either side of her face. He didn’t mind, though. At least she didn’t seem angry. “I’m sorry, my lady,” he mumbled.

“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s greyscale. I had it when I was very little, but it didn’t kill me so I’m actually lucky. It just left me with this scar.”

He looked closely at her again, and she actually turned her face so he could see the scar better. “Does it hurt?” he asked. 

“No,” she said softly. “It doesn’t feel anything at all really. I mean, I don’t feel very much on that part of my face or neck really.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Rickon said with sympathy.

She smiled again, although she looked a little sad. “Don’t be. I don’t remember being any other way, so it doesn’t bother me, really.” She studied him as closely as he must have been looking at her. “You’re Rickon, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” he said, surprise and somehow pleased that she knew his name.

“Your brother told me about you.”

That confused Rickon. He didn’t think Bran had been up here since Lady Shireen and Devan had been brought here the day before.

She must have seen his puzzlement because she clarified. “Your half-brother, I mean. Lord Commander Snow . . .or, is he your cousin now? I’ve heard some interesting tales, although not from him.” She looked directly at him, and for a moment, Rickon was reminded of her father because her blue eyes held his gaze with the same unflinching intensity that made him feel uncomfortable, but unable to look away. He’d hated when King Stannis had looked at him like that and had been grateful that the man had mostly just ignored him.

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he knew what to call Jon, and that made him even more uncomfortable. First, he’d been Father’s son, but not Mother’s. And then he’d been dead Aunt Lyanna’s son and not Father’s. And he called the queen his aunt, but he still called Father, ‘Father’. Unable to stay silent beneath that uncompromising blue gaze, he finally settled on Arya’s words. “Jon is my brother, my lady,” he said simply, hoping she wouldn’t ask anything more.

She didn’t, but Devan Seaworth suddenly got all angry again. “Why do you persist in denying Her Grace her proper title?” he demanded. “She is Shireen Baratheon, First of her Name, the one true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Rickon stared at Devan. Lady Shireen’s father had called himself a king. He knew that. But he also knew that Daenerys Targaryen was queen now. He’d bent his knee to her and watched his parents do the same. And he’d heard his mother refer to this girl as Lady Shireen. Devan Seaworth was wrong.

“No she’s not,” he said stubbornly. “I met the queen when she brought her dragons here.”

Both of the other two stared at him then. Finally, Shireen said softly. “Daenerys Targaryen was here?”

Rickon nodded. “She came twice. The first time, her white dragon, the bad one, almost killed my lady mother and my sister, and I was glad when she left. But when she came back the second time, after Jon saved us from the White Walkers with his dragon, Rhaegal, she only had the big black one, Drogon. He’s really scary looking, but he does what she says.”

“You saw all three dragons?” Devan asked. He looked a little uncertain about it, so Rickon nodded vigorously.

“I even rode on my brother’s dragon,” he said. He knew perfectly well that sitting on Rhaegal’s back under Jon’s watchful eye in the courtyard was not the same thing as riding the dragon, but he didn’t care. He was tired of being either questioned or yelled at like he was a baby who didn’t know anything. The way both of the older children’s eyes widened caused him to smile and stand up straighter.

“I thought only Targaryens could ride dragons,” Shireen said, with a slight hint of disbelief in her voice.

Rickon shrugged. “Rhaegal does whatever Jon wants him to,” he said confidently.

“Then Lord Stark has bent the knee to the dragon woman?” Devan asked abruptly.

Rickon frowned. Devan spoke like Father had done something wrong, and Father would never do anything wrong. If he said Daenerys Targaryen was queen, then she was. “You shouldn’t call her the dragon woman,” he said, trying to take the same tone Devan had used when he’d reprimanded him. “She is the queen.”

Devan drew in his breath, but before he could say anything, Shireen quickly said, “Peace, Devan! He’s just a little boy. Don’t interrogate him any further.”

“I am not a little boy!” Rickon insisted angrily. “My seventh name day is less than two moons from now! I am almost a man grown!”

Then to his complete horror, Devan Seaworth started laughing, and Rickon felt his face heating up again. After what seemed like a very long time, the older boy stopped laughing and looked at him coldly once more. “I will do as my queen says,” he said. “But I would advise you not to speak treason in my presence whether you are the future Lord of Winterfell or not.”

Rickon wasn’t certain what Devan was talking about or even what the word treason meant, so he latched on to the one thing he was certain the boy was wrong about again. “I’m not the future lord, stupid,” he said, falling back upon one of his sister’s favorite words in his anger, even if Mother didn’t like any of them to use it. “That’s Bran! But I am a Stark of Winterfell, and I can say anything I want here!”

He didn’t realize he was shouting until the last voice he wanted to hear cut through the silence after his words. “Rickon Stark! How dare you treat our guests in such a manner?”

He whirled around to see his mother standing in the doorway behind him, and her blue eyes looked far more threatening than Shireen Baratheon’s ever had.

“M . . .mother . . .I . . .”

“I told you our guests were not to be disturbed. And now I find you here. You have been not only disobedient, but discourteous, and your lord father will hear about this, I assure you.”

That was far more than Rickon could take. “Discourteous?” he shouted back at her, even though she had not raised her voice at all. “Discourteous? The onion knight’s boy said you had no manners and he tried to order me around and . . .he yelled at me even though I always said ‘my lady’ just like I’m supposed to and I was never ever rude to Lady Shireen at all . . .and he thinks Father is wrong, and Father is NOT wrong and he told me I can’t talk and . . .and . . .he doesn’t even know who the queen is . . .and I’m not a baby to be yelled at by stupid onion boys!” In spite of his protestations that he was not a baby, he felt the tears stinging his eyes, and by the time he finished his list of Devan Seaworth’s crimes, he was crying almost as hard as Baby Brien did.

Nobody said anything for a moment, but Mother’s expression softened just slightly, and she opened her arms to him. Deciding that he didn’t care about the other two in the room any more, he ran to her and put his face against her dress, allowing her to put one of her arms around him.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he heard her say. “You and young Lord Devan should not be subjected to such behavior after your trial in the storm, but I fear that my son has suffered trials of his own. I must see to him now, and then I shall return. I would like to speak with both of you if you could remain here, Lord Devan.”

The boy mumbled a “Yes, my lady,” and Rickon felt his mother tugging him toward the door. 

She said nothing to him until they were in the corridor, but once they were in the corridor, she bent down and hugged him tightly against her. “Oh, Rickon, my sweetling! I am so sorry for all of these things you cannot understand. But you mustn’t lose your temper with our guests. It won’t help anything. Do you understand?”

He looked up at her face and was alarmed to see that she had tears in her eyes, too. He wasn’t certain he did understand, but he nodded anyway. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he mumbled.

She sighed. “Come to my chambers, sweetling. I need to talk with you, and then I must return to speak with our young guests. Your father is going to speak with Lord Seaworth now, and . . .” She sighed again. She looked worried about something, and that bothered Rickon, but as no one was watching him at the moment, he simply allowed her to take his hand and lead him away toward her chambers.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Catelyn took a deep breath as she once again approached Shireen Baratheon’s room. She still felt a bit unsettled after dealing with Rickon in the aftermath of his outburst. He seemed all right for now. She’d told him to call Shaggydog to come from the godswood, _(Is “call” even the right word for the way the children communicate with their wolves?)_ , and then sent Letty to find Osha, bidding her to tell the wildling woman to find the wolf at the door to the Keep and bring it up to her chambers.

Selfishly, she would have preferred leaving Rickon in the care of one of his sisters rather than the woman he still considered a mother of sorts, but her son had to matter more than her petty jealousies. He cared too much about being grown up in front of all his siblings. With Osha, he allowed himself to be small, just as he did with her. Only with the two of them did her fierce little pup ever cry or admit that he wanted to be held. Even with Ned, he tried always to be brave and strong. And he’d been through so much over the past nearly three and a half years. 

Catelyn hated to think of him believing himself abandoned by her when word came of Ned’s arrest and then Robb rode away. Then she wasn’t here to hold him and Bran when they heard of Ned’s “death” or when Theon took Winterfell, killing men they had known all their young lives. She shuddered to think of him hiding in those cold, dark crypts and being forced to leave the only family member he had left behind. She never even allowed herself to dwell upon his time on Skaagos. As with Arya’s time from Ned’s arrest to her reunion with Sansa in White Harbor, and Bran’s time north of the Wall, and Sansa’s time first as a prisoner of the Lannisters and then of Littlefinger, Catelyn feared that some of her children’s hurts were almost more than she could stand to know.

And even since Rickon had been returned to them, he’d suffered through losing her again immediately when Hosteen took her, and then watching Ned leave him once more in pursuit of her kidnappers. He’d regained siblings he barely remembered, but even as he slowly found his way back into the family, he’d lost more people--Brienne and Ian, in particular. He’d nearly lost her again at Brien’s birth, and he’d suffered too many more long separations from Ned. He’d lived through the horrible nights of the attacks by wights and Others, and he’d seen what dragons could do. She’d never discussed any of these things in detail with him. To her knowledge no one had. She’d wanted to simply allow him all the happiness and peace he could find here without dwelling on all the dark things he’d seen, but she wondered if that had been wise. Perhaps her little boy needed to talk about it. Perhaps he needed her or anyone to make sense of it all for him. Not that Catelyn could make much sense of the last years for herself.

For now, she’d contented herself with assuring him that she wasn’t angry with him and that he wouldn’t be punished. She’d tried to briefly explain while he was quite correct in his assertion that Winterfell acknowledged Daenerys Targaryen as queen, that there were actually several different people who had some claim to the throne and that different people across the kingdoms might support any of them at the moment.

He’d looked at her with those blue eyes of his, still more like hers in color, but with each passing week, appearing more like Ned’s in shape and even with a faint hint of grey their depths, and he’d said, “But Daenerys Targaryen is the true queen because Father would only support the true queen.” He’d spoken with the certainty of childhood, and it had nearly broken her heart.

She’d given the only answer she could, telling him he was correct. She’d gone on to say, however, that good and honorable people could disagree on such things without it making them dishonorable, and he must never argue with guests about these matters. He must simply be courteous and leave such discussions to his lord father.

That had seemed to satisfy him at least enough to allow her to leave him in Osha’s care. After all he’d been through, after barely remembering either her or Ned and behaving almost as if he hated them, he believed steadfastly that his father could take care of whatever problem presented itself, including this dispute over rightful queens. That belief warmed her heart, and she prayed that he was correct. Even as she prayed, however, she knocked on the door of Shireen Baratheon’s room, determined to help Ned succeed in meeting Rickon’s expectations any way she could.

“Come in,” came Shireen’s voice, and Catelyn opened the door to enter.

Young Seaworth had pulled a chair near to the bed and sat close beside it. Both young people looked up at her as she stepped into the room, and she smiled at each in turn. “Rickon sends his apologies,” she said smoothly. “I have him confined to my chambers for the present, but he truly meant no disrespect.”

“Please do not be angry with him, Lady Stark,” Shireen said hurriedly. “He didn’t mean to be discourteous. Truly, he didn’t.” The girl looked toward Devan who remained silent, and Catelyn wondered what conversation had passed between them in her absence. The Seaworth lad did not look very happy.

“No, he didn’t,” Catelyn said softly. “But he still must learn to keep his temper unless there is very good cause for anger.” She moved her gaze briefly to Devan. “That is a skill that all men should learn to exercise.”

Shireen actually smiled. “You are correct about that, my lady,” she said.

Catelyn returned the smile. “Might I sit down so that we might talk, my lady?” she asked.

Devan Seaworth bristled slightly at the form of address, but almost immediately looked embarrassed, nearly falling as he rose from his seat, and Catelyn covered her smile then with her hand as she recognized that he had just realized he’d remained seated when the lady of the castle had come into the room. “Please, Lady Stark,” he stammered, nearly knocking his chair over in his haste to get away from it, “Take this chair.”

She thought the poor boy might die of shame if she refused him, so she nodded her thanks and moved to sit down, pointing him toward another chair against the wall on the other side of the bed as she did so. When he sat down in it precisely where it was, she had to smother her laugh. “Please, Devan,” she said, speaking to him as she would one of her own sons or Dak, “Bring the chair over here and join us.”

When they were all seated together, Catelyn looked to where Shireen’s legs stretched out beneath the furs on the bed. Sam had set the break last night and didn’t want her up on it at all for the first few days. “How is your leg, my lady?” she asked the girl.

“It feels better than before, Lady Stark. I think your maester is very skilled at healing.”

“He is,” Catelyn agreed. “We are quite fortunate to have Sam here, but I fear he’ll object if you call him Maester, Lady Shireen. You see, he hasn’t actually earned his chain.”

The girl looked toward her legs. “I’d rather him have the skill than the title,” she said thoughfully. Then she looked up at Catelyn in that very direct manner that was so reminiscent of her father. “Skill is something of value,” she said firmly. “Titles are words. And words are wind.”

“Your Grace,” Devan said, sounding startled.

“My name is Shireen, Devan,” Shireen sighed sadly. “I suppose it’s just a word, too, but it’s a word I miss hearing. You always called me by name before, and now you only do it by accident--and correct yourself when you realize it.”

“You are my queen, Your Grace. I would give you the respect you deserve,” the boy said formally and somewhat stiffly. He reminded Catelyn suddenly of an equally formal young man who had been only five or six years older perhaps when he had stubbornly persisted in using her own title even as he'd taken her to wife, determined to give her respect when she’d so desperately needed warmth. 

“You needn’t use a title always, Devan,” she told the boy. “Lady Shireen knows well she has your respect and your fealty. If you accede to her wishes in this, you simply show her even more respect.” She smiled. “And you’ll make her happier.”

“But . . .my lady, I would not have anyone think that I do not . . .”

Catelyn waved her hand at his stammering. “Young Lord Devan, I assure you that no one is in any doubt that you proclaim Shireen Baratheon as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” She smiled a bit at the boy’s obvious confusion. “Speak whatever title you wish when you are in any formal setting or with people you do not know well, but here with the three of us, please abide by Lady Shireen’s request. I have no more doubt about your fealty to her than she does.”

“Please, Devan,” Shireen Baratheon echoed. “Please.”

The boy looked at her and nodded without saying anything else.

Catelyn sighed. “Now, Lady Shireen, I am quite certain that my lord husband spoke to you any number of times on the journey here, and no doubt, he addressed you formally.”

“He called her ‘my lady,’” Devan put in hurriedly. “Just like you do . . .my lady.”

“And no doubt you attempted to correct him,” Catelyn said brightly. “Just as you would attempt to correct me now, had Lady Shireen not forbidden you to do so.”

His eyes grew so wide at that remark that she couldn’t entirely suppress her laugh. “Oh, I wasn’t listening at the door, I promise. It’s merely that I spent a great deal of time with the Lady Shireen last evening, and not once did I call her ‘Your Grace’ and not once did she object to that fact. You object, of course, but your lady is far too courteous to allow you to insult your hostess on her behalf over something which does not bother her.”

“You are very observant, Lady Stark,” Shireen said then.

“So are you, my dear,” Catelyn said. “We spoke about any number of things last evening, but we did not discuss the form of address I called you by. You understand what it means, though. I know you do.”

“You and Lord Stark intend to declare for Daenerys Targaryen,” she said with no discernible change in her expression or the tone of her voice. Truly, she had a tremendous amount of poise and self-control for a girl so young. Shireen was of an age with Arya, and Catelyn couldn’t imagine her younger daughter remaining so even tempered through a conversation such as this one. “Your son said as much,” Shireen continued. “He said that she had been here with her dragons more than once.”

“She has been to Winterfell twice,” Catelyn said without hesitation. “The first time, she came at my husband’s invitation to discover what had become of her green dragon.”

“The green dragon?” Shireen asked. “That’s the one with Lord Snow. I’ve seen it a few times . . .at the Wall. Never up close, though.”

Catelyn nodded. “It is. The dragon flew to find Jon Snow for they share a certain connection.”

“Like he has with the white direwolf?” the girl asked quickly, and it was Catelyn’s turn to be surprised. Obviously, it showed because Shireen spoke again. “I don’t know what it is, my lady, but Ghost always seems to know what the Lord Commander needs. Is it like that with the dragon, too?”

She’d been surprised again when the girl used the direwolf’s name, but she recovered more quickly this time. “It is much the same, I think. In any event, Jon wrote to Lord Stark to tell him of the dragon, and Lord Stark wrote to Daenerys Targaryen, and she came here.”

“And he bent the knee?” she asked, her eyes looking straight into Catelyn’s.

“He did not,” Catelyn said firmly. “Oh, he called her Queen, but made it clear he spoke of her throne in Meereen.” Catelyn paused briefly and realized that she was biting her lip. Ned would have smiled to see it, but she quickly released the lip from between her teeth, and continued. “Your father was still alive at that time, my lady. He had ridden from Winterfell to meet the Others which had breached the Wall. My husband had not pledged himself to Stannis, either, but he would not swear fealty to anyone else while your father took up arms to defend the North from enemies.”

Shireen remained silent, but Catelyn saw her lip tremble slightly. “Your father was a hard man, Shireen,” she said softly. “But he was an honorable and just one. My lord husband respected him greatly.”

“Then he should declare his fealty to Queen Shireen now, and help my father win her throne for her!” Devan exclaimed.

“That will not happen, Devan,” Catelyn said evenly. “And with or without my lord husband’s support, Shireen will never sit on the Iron Throne.”

“How dare you . . .” Devan started to protest, actually rising from his seat, but Shireen Baratheon raised her hand to silence him.

“You don’t think anyone can defeat her, do you?” she asked softly.

“No,” Catelyn said simply.

“And so you simply disregard all honor and bow down like a craven to save your skins?” The Seaworth boy was out of his chair and shaking with anger. “My father told me Lord Stark was an honorable man, but this is not honor! This is . . .” 

Catelyn stood herself. She was taller than the young man, but only just. “You will hold your tongue in my home, boy, before you will say one more word against my lord husband.” Her voice wasn’t nearly as loud as his had been, but he fell silent all the same. “Sit down,” she ordered, and he complied rather sullenly.

“Do not presume to know anything about my husband’s honor because I will tell you that no man alive has more.” She took a dreep breath then in an attempt to follow her own advice and keep her temper in check. “Daenerys Targaryen came here declaring herself queen. My husband did not acknowledge her claim. He simply told her what threatened the North and indeed all the realm. She could have burned Winterfell and all within it with her dragons, but she did not do so. She chose to listen, and then she chose to go and fight--not against the Lannisters and their allies who sit on the throne she names as hers, but against the Others, in defense of the people here--most of whom had at some point or another, declared themselves to be for Stannis Baratheon.”

Catelyn looked Shireen then. “She made the same decision your father made, my lady. The honorable one. And when one of her beasts killed both your father and Lord Yohn Royce, she made the honorable choice once more--the difficult choice. She killed that dragon with her own hand.”

Neither of the young people said anything in response to this. “So yes, with Stannis dead and the realm still in need of a monarch to take the crown from the Lannister bastard, my lord husband declared his fealty to this queen who had proven herself both honorable and strong. The North stands with Daenerys Targaryen, my lady.”

“But it isn’t right,” Devan insisted, although more quietly, with an almost desperate quality to his voice. “Shireen is King Stannis’s heir. Not Daenerys Targaryen.” He looked at Catelyn almost as if pleading for her to make everything fair and right.

“Shireen is Stannis’s heir,” Catelyn agreed. “As Stannis was Robert’s. No one here denies that. But who was Mad Aerys’s heir when the Kingslayer spilled his blood? Rhaegar lay dead in the Trident by then. But Aerys had another son. And a daughter. As Viserys was Aerys’s heir, then surely Daenerys is Viserys’s.”

“But . . .but the Rebellion fought to put Robert Baratheon on the throne,” Devan insisted. “Your own husband fought for that.”

“He did,” Catelyn agreed once more. “But he never claimed that Robert’s throne came by right of direct succession. Oh, much was made of Robert’s Targaryen blood, I know, but no one claimed he was a direct heir. How could they when two of Aerys’s children lived? That throne came to Robert by conquest, just as it once came to Aegon the Conqueror. And I tell you that Daenerys means to take that throne back. Just like Robert did, she will speak of her blood. She will declare herself the rightful ruler by virtue of it. Just like with Robert, there will be some truth in that, although others, including yourself, my lady, could assert their ‘right by blood’ to that throne as well. In the end, the throne will come to her just as it came to Aegon the First and Robert Baratheon. It will come to her because she is strong enough to take it.”

“And because he cannot win, your husband will not fight, my lady?” the Seaworth boy questioned stubbornly. _He is his father’s son,_ Catelyn thought tiredly, _And Stannis’s man, no matter that he is still a boy._ “I have no wish to speak discourteously to you. But where is the honor in that?”

Catelyn sighed wearily. “Where is the honor in a thousand dead bodies, young Lord Devan?” she asked him. “What is honorable about men, women, and children--lords, ladies, and smallfolk alike--burning in dragonfire?” She shook her head. “Should Daenerys Targaryen have proven herself evil, my lord husband would have opposed her, regardless of the cost. If it were only a matter of his own life or even only his own castle, he may still have opposed her in order to see you on the throne as your father wished for you. I cannot truly say. But the cost of opposing her is far higher than that. Better to stand with her, preserve the strength of our people for other battles, and work toward making certain she is a just ruler.”

“But would she truly use her dragon in such a manner if she is honorable, my lady?” The question came from Shireen Baratheon, voiced in the same quiet thoughtful tones she always spoke in.

Catelyn sat back down, both because she felt suddenly more tired than she’d felt in days and to bring herself closer to the very young woman in the bed. “Yes,” she said softly, but firmly. “She wouldn’t like it, but if she had to do it to secure the throne, she would. And Lady Shireen, if your father had a dragon, he would have done the same.”

Shireen Baratheon actually lowered her eyes then, staring at her lap. 

“King Stannis was a man of honor and justice,” Devan insisted, standing once more, not in anger or defiance, but simply to look Catelyn in the eyes as he spoke of the man who’d been his king.

Shireen looked up at the young man then, and Catelyn saw both grief and understanding in her face as she did. “He was, Devan,” she said. “And he considered his pursuit of the Iron Throne just and honorable. How did he view any who opposed him?” Before the boy could answer, she continued. “My father was never one to hesitate when it came to meting out justice. Just look at your father’s fingers. He would have used any weapon at his disposal. He would have done no more violence than necessary. I believe that. But I also believe that whatever violence was required to take that throne would have been necessary in his eyes.”

She looked up at Catelyn then. “Am I to be your prisoner here then, my lady? Will your husband turn me over to his queen?”

Catelyn shook her head slowly. “You are our guest, Lady Baratheon. And you are the Lady of Storm’s End. The queen has already decreed it to be so. Of course, your castle is currently occupied by another claimant to the Iron Throne, but once he is driven from it, you are to be sent home.”

“Home,” Shireen repeated softly. “I’ve never lived at Storm’s End. King Robert gave it to my Uncle Renly. I know that made my father angry.”

“Well, if Storm’s End should have been his, then no doubt, he would be pleased to know his daughter shall have it,” Catelyn said nearly as softly.

“Do you think the dragon queen truly means to give it to me?” Shireen asked, sounding more like a little girl as she asked that question than she had since Catelyn had met her.

“I do. She has not failed to keep her word on anything since she has arrived here. Even those vows which have been painful to keep. And this is to her advantage, my lady. Robert Baratheon’s old bannermen would be among the least likely to accept a Targaryen back on the Iron Throne. Having a Baratheon back in Storm’s End might ease their discontent to some extent.”

Everyone was silent for a moment after that, and Catelyn became aware that at some point, Devan Seaworth had sat down again as well. She’d been so focused on Shireen that she hadn’t noticed.

Shireen Baratheon broke the silence. “I would like to speak with your lord husband, my lady. Might you send him here?”

“I am afraid he has gone to speak with Lord Seaworth,” Catelyn responded. “The man refused to allow Samwell to give him the milk of the poppy necessary to allow for the amputation of his deadened toes until after he discussed your status here with Lord Stark.”

“My father swore to King Stannis that he would see Shireen on the Iron Throne if the king himself should fall,” Devan said. “He will never go back on his word to his king, Lady Stark.”

“I know that, Devan,” she said. “Your father takes this word very seriously. So does my husband. I fear they are likely at an impasse.”

“I need to go to them,” Shireen said. “If I am the topic of their conversation, I deserve to be a part of it. Will you help me to walk to Lord Seaworth’s room?”

“You can’t walk on that leg, Shireen!” Devan protested.

“He’s right,” Catelyn said, and the girl looked disappointed for she’d thought Catelyn would certainly side with her in this. “However, it so happens that my son Bran has a wheeled chair, and as Lord Seaworth’s room is on this floor not far away, it should not cause you any discomfort to simply be pushed there.”

In truth, Catelyn didn’t know whether Sam would approve this plan or not, but she didn’t intend to ask him. She didn’t have any choice, really. She was putting rather lot of faith in a girl of three and ten, but again, she had no real choice. 

“Can you send for it?” Shireen asked her.

“I shall go to Bran’s room myself and have someone bring it here. I won’t be long.”

Devan Seaworth did remember his courtesies well enough this time to rise as she stood to go, and as she closed the door behind her, Catelyn wondered what he would say to Shireen now that she had gone. She hoped he wouldn’t try to persuade her of the rightness or necessity of her continuing to seek the Iron Throne. As she hurried to the stairs which led down to the boys’ room, she prayed that she had done more good than harm by speaking so frankly to Stannis’s daughter. _Please,_ she prayed as she descended the stairs preparing herself to face the reaction of the two men when she pushed her way into Davos Seaworth’s room with Shireen Baratheon. _Please._

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

“No, my lord. You are not a prisoner here,” Ned said, trying very hard to not to shout. The onion knight was sorely trying his patience.

“You just informed me that you will not permit me to take Her Grace from Winterfell,” Seaworth insisted, looking up at him from the bed with his jaw set in a hard line. At least the skin on that angry face had more red, rough places than blackened dead patches, and for that at least, Ned was grateful. He wished no ill upon the man.

“Lady Baratheon is to remain a guest at Winterfell until such time as it is safe for her to take up her seat at Storm’s End,” he told the man clearly and firmly. “A guest, my lord. And I shall safeguard her as I do my own family. No harm shall come to her.”

“Unless she tries to leave,” Seaworth responded, glaring up at him.

“Damn it, man! No harm will befall Shireen Baratheon in my castle whatever she does!” Ned shouted. “Why can you not see I wish the girl no harm?”

“The queen, you mean, Lord Stark. Do not refer to her as a girl!” Seaworth raised his own voice and raised himself to a completely upright sitting position.

Ned glared back for a moment and then forced himself to take a deep breath. He concentrated for a moment on the throbbing pain in his leg rather than the rapidly developing headache Davos Seaworth’s stubborn foolishness was giving him. Samwell would likely be apoplectic when he discovered he’d left his bed, but this conversation couldn’t wait, not after Catelyn had told him of her own conversation with the man. He’d promised his wife he would sit down as soon as he reached Lord Seaworth’s room, but he found that this talk simply wasn’t conducive to sitting and had remained standing over the man’s bed, leaning heavily on his cane. Now, concentrating on that pain allowed him to rein in some of the fury and frustration he felt toward Stannis’s one-time Hand.

“Forgive me for shouting, my lord,” he said in a cool _(Catelyn would likely say cold)_ , controlled voice. “It was unworthy behavior on my part. I do not view Lady Baratheon as my prisoner any more than I view her as my queen. But you are not the only man in this room who gave promises to her father. I promised him on his deathbed I would see that she was cared for and that she received her inheritance. I swear to you now that young Lady Shireen has nothing to fear from me.”

“You would deny her the crown.” Davos Seaworth spoke more quietly once more as well, never looking away from Ned’s face. “When you know it is hers by right.”

Ned sighed. “By whose right, Lord Seaworth? Daenerys Targaryen claims the throne is hers by right of inheritance through the line which held that throne for hundreds of years. The man calling himself Aegon Targaryen claims it by the same right.” Ned made no mention of the other Targaryen who would claim a dragon, but had no desire to claim the throne. “Shireen Baratheon claims it by right of inheritance through the line which took it less than two decades ago.” He waved his hand to quiet the man’s protest. “I do not say that her claim is weaker, my lord. But who am I to say it is stronger?” 

The leg pained him terribly now, and he felt a jarring sensation all the way up to his hip as he took a step closer to the bed. “Tommen Waters is neither a Baratheon of any ilk nor even a trueborn Lannister and has no claim to the Iron Throne. Upon that we are agreed. Beyond that, I do not believe the answers are as clear as either of us would like. But I do know one thing. No force of men can defeat Daenerys Targaryen’s dragon.”

“Your boy on the Wall has a dragon,” Seaworth said carefully. “Could you not influence him to . . .”

“Jon is not a boy,” Ned interrupted curtly, though still retaining his calm, frosty demeanor. “He is Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and the Night’s Watch takes no part in disputes within the realm. You know this, my lord.”

“But the boy is your son!” Seaworth exclaimed. “Or as good as, anyway!”

“My lord,” Ned said sharply. “You were correct when you chastised me for calling Lady Baratheon ‘the girl.’ It was most discourteous and dismissive of her station. I would ask you to give Lord Commander Snow equal courtesy.”

The man nodded his head in acknowledgement of that. “Forgive me, Lord Stark. But surely he might intervene. If Winterfell were threatened . . .he came here once already to answer a threat. I have heard much about his actions in my short time here.”

“Wintefell was under attack by Others,” Ned said simply. “They are the foe the Wall was built to repel. The enemy that the Night’s Watch is sworn to fight--more so than the wildlings have ever been. It was entirely his place to join that battle. A war between claimants to a faraway throne is not his fight. Not even if that fight comes to Winterfell.” In truth, Ned did not know what Jon might do if Winterfell and his family were attacked by enemies within the realm, but he did not intend to cause such circumstance to come about.

“He would abandon his family?” Seaworth questioned.

“He would keep his vow.”

Seaworth laughed then, but without much mirth. “I believe we’ve had a similar conversation before, my lord. Not precisely the same, certainly. But similar enough. You believe there’s honor in your son’s or nephew’s or whatever’s vow to the Night’s Watch even if it brings harm to those he loves?”

“I do,” Ned said without flinching. “He knows well enough that I am here to protect Winterfell, the Starks, and the North. All of us are more secure if both he and I know where our duty lies.”

“And you’ve decided yours lies with Daenerys Targaryen.” It wasn’t a question, and the man did not wait for a reply. “I cannot accept that. Her Grace and I thank you for your hospitality, but when our wounds are sufficiently healed, we must not remain here.”

“And where would you take her?” Ned asked evenly. The man was silent. “You have no answer, do you? I’ll allow that if you see me as enemy, you may simply not wish to make me privy to your plans, but I am certain that you have none. You wrote to me, Lord Seaworth. You had nowhere else to take your charge. You still don’t. Inside these walls there is at least safety and sustenance. Outside them, there is only winter. And the further you go from them, more and more enemies.”

Seaworth continued to look up at him without speaking, so Ned spoke again. “I will not lie to you, my lord. Queen Daenerys did ask me to host Lady Baratheon at Winterfell until the Stormlands are reclaimed from Jon Connington and the man known as Aegon. She desires this for the lady’s protection, my lord, whether you choose to believe that or not. And whether she had asked it or not, I would keep Lady Baratheon here for the promise I made her father. For yourself, you and your son are welcome to remain here as long as wish, or to ride for the Stormlands and see to your wife and your home. I would give you what men I have available to ride with you in that case.”

“You are an honorable man, Lord Stark,” Davos Seaworth said thoughtfully. “I scarcely know Daenerys Targaryen, but I know you to be an honorable man. That’s what makes this so difficult, my lord. Because I must defy you in this. I told your lady wife that I swore an oath to my king. His death does not absolve me of it. Just as I was sworn to see him to rightful his place on the Iron Throne, I am now sworn to see his daughter there, or to die in the attempt.”

“And to have me die in the attempt as well, Lord Davos?” The quiet voice caused both Ned and Seaworth to jump. Ned turned to see Shireen Baratheon in the doorway to the room, seated in Bran’s chair with Catelyn standing behind her. Obviously, no one had knocked, and Ned had not heard the door open.

“Your Grace!” Seaworth sputtered.

“Would you see me dead as well, Lord Davos?” Shireen Baratheon asked again, leaning forward as if attempting to reach the man. Catelyn obviously interpreted the motion as such for she began pushing the chair forward until she and Shireen reached the foot of the bed. “If my fate is to be discussed, my lord, I believe I should be a part of the discussion.”

“Your Grace, I thought you were not to be out of bed,” Seaworth said, still seeming off balance.

“I am not to be on my feet, and as you can see, I am not,” the Baratheon girl said, stating the obvious with an expression extremely reminiscent of her father. “But what are you and Lord Stark discussing, my lord?”

“I would have you remain our guest at Winterfell until your home at Storm’s End is taken back and made safe for you, my lady,” Ned said quickly. Seaworth still looked a bit nonplussed by his young queen’s sudden arrival, and Catelyn appeared to remain intentionally silent.

“Home,” Shireen said softly. “I’ve never lived at Storm’s End, Lord Stark. King Robert took it from my father before I was ever born. I don’t know that my father could truly say he was ever the lord there. I know he held it during the Rebellion, but his older brother was still considered Lord of Storm’s End at that time, and once he was king, he gave it to Uncle Renly.”

“Of course, Storm’s End is not to be your home, Your Grace,” Davos Seaworth said firmly, seemingly finding both his voice and his resolve. “The throne is yours. You are the one true queen, and King’s Landing is your place, although the Stormlands are yours by right as a Baratheon to do with what you would.”

“Truly? I can do with them what I would? Then let’s send ravens out and simply ask the Lannisters and Tyrells to leave the capital and command the pretender from Essos to vacate Storm’s End. We’ll simply tell them these places are mine, and they’ll comply.”

Davos’s face turned red even where the frost hadn’t marred his skin. “Your Grace, I don’t mean to jape. You have many enemies who must be defeated before you can take what is yours.”

“Forgive me, Lord Davos,” Shireen said then. “I spoke unkindly, and you did not deserve that. You’ve done nothing but serve my father and me loyally. I fear I sounded like my mother just then--only she believed those words where I do not.”

“You mustn’t give up, Your Grace,” Lord Seaworth said earnestly, leaning forward himself. “You are the daughter of Stannis Baratheon. It isn’t in you to give up. You were born to be a queen.”

The young lady was silent then for some time, and Ned marveled that she looked somehow both younger and older than her three and ten years as she sat there beneath the intense gaze of the three adults. But mostly, she looked very sad. “No,” she said finally. “I was born a girl. I was born a daughter to a second son. I was never meant to be queen.”

“Had King Robert had trueborn children, Your Grace, that would have been true, but you know that he did not. Circumstances changed, and when your father knew for certain that he was your uncle’s only heir, he did not shirk his duty. He would not have his daughter shirk hers.”

“He would have his daughter dead, my lord?”

“No,” Ned said before Seaworth could respond. He remembered Stannis Baratheon’s final hour all too well. He remembered the one blue eye staring at him unflinchingly and the sound of the ruined voice when he spoke of his daughter. “He would have you safe. He had me promise I would see to your care.”

“My care or my throne?” she asked him.

Ned thought carefully, seeking to remember the man’s precise words. “He asked for my promise to see that you receive all that is your right.”

“You see, Your Grace? Your father would see you crowned.”

“My father is dead, Lord Davos, and so he can see no such thing.” She turned her head to look up at Catelyn, and Ned watched his wife reach around the chair to take the girl’s hand. “My mother is dead, too, and both of my uncles.” Her eyes were completely dry, but she still looked unimaginably sad. “Do you think my father would have our line come to an end for this quest?”

“Your Grace,” the man in the bed said almost pleadingly. “You know I will protect you with my life.”

“I do know that,” she almost whispered, and Ned thought he could see tears in her eyes then. “But I would not wish for that. I have been speaking with Devan and Lady Stark. I wish to remain at Winterfell.”

“Certainly, Your Grace, until you are healed, we will . . .”

“No. I wish to remain here until I can go to Storm’s End, not to take it, but to have it given to me by Daenerys Targaryen.”

Seaworth’s eyes went to Catelyn’s face then, and Ned could hear the anger in his voice as he spoke. “What have you said to her, my lady? What have told her to get her to speak so? She is young and . . .”

“I spoke only truth,” Catelyn said flatly. “And I certainly did not tell her what to say to you. I didn’t even ask her what she would say.”

“She speaks as you and your lord husband would have her speak,” Seaworth said darkly.

“Do you see me as your queen, Lord Davos?” Shireen asked suddenly.

“You know I do, Your Grace.”

“Then why are you suddenly treating me as if I am your child instead? I am young. But I am not a child. You speak of honor often. You tell me of my father’s honor, and I believe you. I’m afraid I know my father less than I would like, but I do know he held honor above all things. And that he also believed in duty.”

She took her eyes from Seaworth to look at Ned and then Catelyn before looking back at the man who would willingly give up his life to give her a throne. “Stannis Baratheon was no more born to be a lord than I was a queen. He was merely a lord‘s second son,” she said then. “But he was no less honorable or dutiful for that. When his brother bid him hold Storm’s End, he did it, and he was not much older than Devan is now, was he?”

“Seventeen,” Ned said softly.

“Seventeen,” Shireen repeated. “At seven and ten, my father held that castle. He did not give in regardless of the depridations they faced in the siege. And he meted out justice for your crimes, my lord, even as he rewarded your heroism. Afterwards, he was not made Lord of Storm’s End as he believed he should have been. Instead he was sent to Dragonstone, and once again he did his duty. He always did his duty to King Robert, my lord, whatever he may have wanted.”

“I know these things, Your Grace, and that is why he would want . . .”

“Want me to do my duty, I know,” she said quickly. “But what is my duty? Shall I call men to fight and die by sword and arrow and dragonfire for a throne I cannot win and do not want? How is that honorable? Is it not better to accept my inheritance as a Baratheon? To want to heal my lands rather than scorch them? Why can I not choose to do that? Lord and Lady Stark both believe that Daenerys Targaryen is no mad tyrant like her father was. Why can’t we reach an accord?”

Ned was stunned by the young woman’s words. He had thought her intelligent, but to speak so clearly and eloquently to the problem facing all of them . . .she left him speechless. He wished Stannis Baratheon could hear her speak. Had he known the strength of his daughter’s mind?

“Your father believed the Iron Throne was his duty . . .and yours,” Seaworth repeated stubbornly, and Ned found himself more than weary of the man’s insistence on this one point.

“No,” Shireen Baratheon said again. “I don’t believe that was entirely duty. Oh, he believed himself to be Robert’s heir and he believed in his duty to be king and a good one. But this desire to become king whatever the cost?” She pursed her lips. “That was the Lady Melisandre. That was her talk of Azor Ahai and the visions she saw in her nightfires. She made my mother believe every word she spoke. She made my mother believe my father was more than a man, and when he was killed by the dragon, I’m afraid that belief made her mad.” She looked up at Catelyn again. “She was mad at the end, my lady. My mother would never have . . .”

“I know, child, I know,” Catelyn said soothingly, petting her as she would one of their own children. 

After a moment, Shireen looked back up to Lord Seaworth. “I think she made my father believe it, too. Not all of it, perhaps. But he did believe in her power. And I think there was ambition as well as duty in his quest for the throne.” She looked down at her lap. “I do not have that ambition. I do not want the throne. Whether that makes me strong or weak, I do not know, but I don’t want it. And I don’t want you and Devan to die trying to get it for me.” She looked back up at Lord Seaworth, and her eyes definitely held tears now. “I will do my duty, my lord, but I would prefer to do it as the Lady of Storm’s End. If you truly see me as your queen, then I ask you to obey me in this.”

No one spoke for a very long time after that until Davos Seaworth finally said, “If this is what you wish, Your Grace. But know that I am your man, as I was your father’s. I will serve you above any king or queen, and I will protect you with my life.”

“Thank you, Lord Davos. I accept your service as I always have.” She looked up at Catelyn again. “My lady, would it be all right if Devan came in. I would like to speak with him and Lord Davos . . .privately, if that is all right with you and Lord Stark.”

Catelyn looked to him, and he nodded. If the girl was more comfortable making requests of Cat than of him, he would not chastise her for it. “Of course, Lady Shireen,” she told her.

“Shireen,” the girl said. “You told Devan it was all right to use just my name. I’d like you to use it, too.”

Ned watched the smile bloom on his wife’s face. “Certainly, Shireen. If you like.” Then she looked up at him, and he saw the relief and joy on that face as she smiled at him. “Come, my lord. I believe I know where we can find young Devan, and you must be returned to your bed.” Her gaze moved down to his leg, and her smile became a frown.

“As you wish, my lady,” he said quickly. “Lady Baratheon,” he said, bowing to the girl in the wheelchair. “Your father was indeed an honorable man who understood the meaning of duty. You are very much his daughter.” He turned to face Seaworth. “Lord Seaworth, your liege lady is fortunate to have you in her service. When you have concluded your discussions, please have your son fetch Samwell. It is past time to have those toes taken care of.”

“I will see that it’s done, Lord Stark,” Shireen Baratheon said.

“I thank you for your continued hospitality, Lord Stark,” Seaworth said rather gruffly. Ned knew that letting go of something he’d held so tightly for so long did not come easily, but he hoped that the prospect of both Shireen and his son living to adulthood as well as the prospect of a reunion with his wife and other sons would help him accept that Shireen Baratheon had made the correct choice. The only choice for life.

When he took the first step toward Catelyn to walk out with her, he knew she saw his grimace, but she said nothing. She only came to him and took his arm, supporting him nearly as much as he supported himself with his cane.

“You didn’t sit down once, did you?” she hissed when they were out in the corridor. “Ned, are you determined to be lame?”

“I was determined to have that man see sense once you told me his mind.” He shook his head as they walked. “I confess I wasn’t having much success. What did you say to Shireen Baratheon, Cat?”

“Not much,” Catelyn said. “I spoke of Daenerys Targaryen’s time here, answering her questions. I spoke of why we chose to do as we did.”

Ned stopped walking and turned her to face him. “What did you tell her of that, my lady?” He did not regret his decision to support Daenerys, but he could not completely shake the feeling that he had somehow betrayed Robert and all they fought for when he did so. Listening to Stannis’s daughter speak today, he thought she might have made a fine queen. _It does not matter, for it could never be._

Catelyn looked at him with understanding and lifted one hand to touch his face. “You chose correctly, my love. Just as young Shireen did today. I knew last night the girl had no wish to be queen. She certainly had no wish to lose anyone else in war for a throne she didn’t want. But she is her father’s daughter. She could never forget her duty or act in a manner she saw as dishonorable. So I told her that Daenerys seemed an honorable queen rather than a tyrant, and I asked her where the honor is in needless deaths. I said a bit more. I don’t remember it all. Essentially, she needed to know that she could be honorable without being queen.”

“You are marvelous, you know.”

“Mmm. We’ll see if you think so once I’ve tied you to the bed. I honestly believe it’s the only way I’ll keep you in it.” She shook her head. “Your poor leg, Ned! You can hardly walk.”

“I’ll mend. Enough, anyway. Shouldn’t you be off to fetch young Seaworth?”

“I’ll get you to bed first. Rickon is in my room with Osha. Do you still want to go there or would you prefer your own room?”

He simply looked at her, and she laughed out loud. He was already cheered at the prospect of Shireen and the Seaworths having been brought into their alliance, and the sound of that laugh lightened his heart to the point that he scarcely noticed the pain in his leg. 

“My room it is,” she said. “Mayhap we should take our midday meal there with Rickon. You‘ll be eating there in any case.”

“A bedside picnic with the children?” he asked.

“No. Only Rickon. I think perhaps we should spend more time speaking with him.”

“About what?”

She sighed. “Whatever he wants to talk about.” She shook her head as if something troubled her. “He’s nearly seven, Ned. Do you realize we missed almost half his life? And even the parts we’ve been here for . . .”

Ned wondered if something had happened with their second youngest. He pressed a quick kiss to his wife’s lips. “Rickon has suffered, Cat,” he said. “As have all our children. But when I looked at Shireen Baratheon in there, I saw what our children might have been, had you truly died at that cursed wedding. And when I saw how that poor girl looked at you, I thanked the gods that you are here because whatever their hurts, I know our children will be all right. They have you, my love.”

She bit her lip. “I want them to be all right, Ned. I want that so much.”

“They will,” he assured her. “And so will I, whether the damned leg heals up or falls off. Because I have you as well.” Then he held out his arm and allowed her to help him walk again as they made their way slowly to her chambers.


	74. The World Outside Winterfell's Walls

Catelyn looked up from Ned’s desk as Samwell entered the room.

“Another one?” she asked him in some exasperation.

“Another two, my lady,” he said with an apologetic smile, holding out two rolls of parchment.

“Gods be good!” she exclaimed, shaking her head. “I would dearly love to know where all these birds hid themselves during the storm. They certainly seem to be appearing from everywhere now.”

“These are both from Riverrun, Lady Stark,” Sam said quietly. At those words, Catelyn stood and nearly ripped the letters from his hand. “They weren’t sent at the same time, I don’t think. The letter with the Tully seal appears the worse for wear. I suspect its raven was sent out earlier than the other.”

Catelyn glanced briefly at the red wax with the Targaryen seal on one of the parchments and tossed it onto the desk among the letters she’d already opened, sitting back down in Ned’s chair as she broke the seal on Edmure’s letter and began to read.

“Shall I stay, my lady? In case you have a response?”

“What?” she murmured distractedly. “Oh, no, Sam. I’ll be taking all of these to my chambers for Lord Stark to read before we send any replies.” She waved one hand vaguely over the parchment collection on the desk. “You can go.”

He hesitated. “Does . . .does he mention the Queen, my lady?”

“Yes,” she said simply, not taking her eyes from Edmure’s letter. “Yes, he does.”

When she spoke no more, she heard Sam leave and felt a small stab of guilt. Of course, Sam was as anxious as they all were for news of the world outside Winterfell, but Catelyn’s heart had leapt at the sight of her brother’s handwriting, and she wanted to have his letter only for herself for a few moments. Then she would share it and all these others with Ned before showing them to anyone else. It was difficult enough keeping him in bed. If he thought for one moment he received his own letters only after everyone in the castle had seen them, he’d never stay put.

She read Edmure’s letter again, smiling widely at the last bit of it even it did cause her a pang of sadness at the thought of a long winter combined with the distance to Riverrun. She almost envied Daenerys Targaryen her dragon--not that she’d ever actually take to the sky on one of those beasts even if she could. She leaned back in Ned’s chair, closing her eyes, clasping Edmure’s letter, and trying to conjure a clear image of her brother, Roslin, and the nephew she’d never seen. She knew little Hoster had Tully hair and eyes, and the babe in her mind looked like Robb. She found she could easily call to mind the memory of Ned holding Robb upon his lap in the Great Hall on their son’s first name day. She’d only been at Winterfell a few moons then. It had been winter then as well, but not so cold as this. Strange to think now how she’d found little warmth here except for Robb at that time. Now, in spite of the constant dull ache of Robb’s absence and the colder weather, Winterfell provided all the warmth she wanted or needed. She’d not leave it easily in spite of how dearly she’d love to see her brother and his little family.

Sighing, she opened her eyes and picked up the letter which must be from Daenerys Targaryen. Unlike Edmure’s, it was addressed only to Lord Eddard Stark without mention of her. That hadn’t stopped her from opening other letters, but now she decided she’d been long enough away from her husband. She gathered all the letters she’d already read and rose to take them along with the Queen’s up to her bedchamber.

Ned was lying on his back with his eyes closed when she entered and looked to be asleep. He was uncovered, but had risen at some point to put on his breeches so she couldn’t get a good look at his leg. It had looked better that morning, and it certainly hadn’t seemed to pain him when he’d pulled her to him.

Watching the regular rise and fall of her husband’s bare chest as she recalled precisely how he’d awakened her that morning caused her own breath to catch just a bit. While she tried to focus her attention on whether she should let him rest longer or wake him now to go over the letters, she found herself instead wanting very much to walk to the bed and trail her hand over the exposed skin of his chest as memories of the morning warmed her.

She looked at his face and smiled as she recalled waking to the sensation of his hand reaching over her and moving gently over her nipple. She’d made a sound, and his grip on her had tightened. They’d both been lying on their sides, close together with her back against his front, and as he pulled her tightly against him, she’d become aware of a new sensation as his hard cock pressed against her hips.

“Oh my, Lord Stark,” she’d said with a sleepy laugh. “Whatever have you been dreaming about?”

“You,” he’d said gruffly. “I always dream of you.” His lips had begun to explore the back of her neck then, and she’d begun to move her hips against him, encouraging him to act upon whatever sweet dreams had caused him to wake wanting her.

He’d required very little encouragement, parting her legs gently with his knee to enter her from behind, making love to her the way he had so often done when she’d grown too large with their children to lie on her back beneath him, moving in and out of her in a slow, sleepy rhythm as his lips found her earlobe and his hand moved from her breast down along her belly and finally between her legs. She’d reached a hand behind her to caress the back of his head and barely had time to suffer that tiny familiar pang of regret that she would likely never carry another child when he’d shifted his weight to lie atop of her, pressing her belly into the bed and thrusting into her with an increased urgency that made her forget anything other than the feel of him.

He’d kept one hand beneath her, fingers pressing against her most sensitive place and moving in quick circular motions. He’d braced himself with his other arm, and his mouth had moved over her shoulders and her upper back as he’d continued to move rhythmically inside her. She’d grabbed at the bedding with her fingers and pushed her hips up into him, as she’d shattered beneath him, swallowed by a wave of sensation she knew so well now, but which still left her trembling in its wake. He’d felt her release and moved both his hands then to grip her tightly as he sought his own release by driving himself more deeply into her, and he’d gasped and held himself still after several more thrusts before collapsing down onto her.

She’d liked the weight of him there, but as always, he’d rolled off too soon, ever worried about hurting her even after all these years. She’d moved with him, though, keeping him inside her even as his cock began to soften. When their breathing had finally stilled, he’d pressed an almost formal kiss to her cheek.

“Good morning, my lady,” he’d said. “I hope you find yourself well rested. I’m feeling very well this morning, myself.”

He’d almost, but not quite, kept the laughter out of his voice, and she’d lain there in his arms shaking with her own laughter.

Now that same voice with the barest hint of laughter in it interrupted her reverie. “I do hope nothing in one of those letters has brought that particular glow to your face, Cat, or I fear I shall I have to call out the man who wrote it.”

Startled, she realized she was standing there halfway between the doorway and the bed with the letters in one hand and a length of her hair in the other. She was toying with it as he always did. His eyes were open now, and he stared up at her in obvious amusement, and she swallowed.

“No,” she said, as she felt her cheeks go crimson. “I was not thinking about the letters.”

“I thought not,” he said with a rather wolfish grin. She laughed in spite of her embarrassment and wondered if anyone else in the world ever saw this particular expression on his face. She rather hoped not. She liked that this side of Ned was hers alone. “Come here, my love, and tell me precisely what you _were_ thinking about,” he teased.

He sat up, patting the bed beside him and looking entirely too proud of himself. She forced herself to stop laughing and walked to sit beside the table rather than going near enough for him to touch her. She could see all too clearly where that would lead. “I was merely reflecting on how well rested I am today, my lord,” she said primly, and she watched the amusement creep back into his eyes in place of the disappointment which had showed so clearly when she’d sat down out of his reach. “But I am here about the letters. We’ve received several, Ned.”

“So I see,” he said with a sigh. “Do I need to read them all, or can you summarize them?”

She smiled. “This one,” she said, holding up the first, “is from Lord Manderly. It would seem the storm did hit White Harbor, although later than here and not quite so fierce. He sent the raven as soon as weather permitted to ask after the supply party he’d sent.”

Ned frowned at that. “We can tell him little on that score as of yet. Our men rode out in search of them, did they not?”

Catelyn nodded. “Yesterday, my love. Too soon to expect them back yet unless they encountered Manderly’s men nearly at our gates.”

Ned nodded. “We’ll wait and reply to him when we have something to say,” he said grimly. “Does he send any news?”

“The plague in the Stormlands is worse. It’s definitely not just a rumor, and Lord Manderly feels fairly certain it is greyscale. While no one he has spoken to directly has seen any of the victims, he feels his sources are good.”

“They generally are,” Ned said grimly. Lord Manderly was one of the best informed people they’d ever met. “Gods be god, Catelyn, greyscale is a dreadful way to die, and while it doesn’t spread as quickly as some other contagions, it does spread. We cannot have it here in the North. We are weak enough already.”

She nodded. “White Harbor is closed to any ship that’s made port in the Stormlands. Lord Wyman has set up a patrol of ships between Oldcastle and Sisterton to stop all incoming vessels and question the crew. Ships from any port where plague has been reported are turned back before they even reach his harbor.”

“It’s a good plan even if I’d hate to be one of the men assigned such duty on winter seas. He cannot very well send ships back out without the opportunity to resupply though. That’s sentencing men to their deaths.”

Catelyn smiled. Of course, Ned would be concerned for that. “The patrol ships carry rations and other staples from Oldcastle to offer for sale. The crews would have to pay for anything purchased in White Harbor anyway so Lord Wyman sees no wrong in asking them to pay at sea.”

“No,” Ned said softly. “The man’s done a hell of a lot for us. And the harbor should be closed to potential plague ships. I won’t begrudge him his profit, for I don’t think he’d actually cheat the sailors.” His frown deepened. “What else?”

Catelyn laid aside that letter and picked up another she thought she could dispense with quickly. “Nothing more from Lord Manderly. This one’s from Tyrion Lannister. They made it safely to Moat Cailin before the storm hit and intended to wait it out there. Apparently some of the crannogmen you have stationed there told him the weather was going to turn foul within a day of his arrival, and the Imp had the good sense to believe them.”

Ned grunted. “The Lannister is many things. But he isn’t a fool. Have they left now?”

“I would imagine so. He sent this soon after his arrival, before the storm hit. Poor bird just now made it through. I would have waited until after the storm to send it, so perhaps he is more a fool than you think.” She had intended to make him smile, and she was gratified when he did.

“Not a fool. Only an ignorant southron,” he said.

She made a face at him. “In any event, he stated they would continue on their way as soon as the weather broke, so I have no doubt they are are moving toward Darry as we speak. He did say that the men you promised to the Queen from Greywater Watch were there at the Moat. For that, he was grateful. He supposes the storm will delay any men from White Harbor and Barrowton, but he intends to ride on without them, leaving instructions for them to come straightaway to Darry.”

Ned grunted again, and Catelyn knew he cared little for the gratitude of Tyrion Lannister. Nor did he think Northmen would care much for taking ‘instruction’ from the Lannister dwarf. “We’ll have Sam send a raven to the Moat right away giving the men my own orders that they proceed for Castle Darry,” he said. “Did he say anything of Asha Greyjoy?”

“He says she has been a most pleasant traveling companion,” Catelyn said. In truth the dwarf had written at length about the ease of traveling with Lady Greyjoy as opposed to herself, but Ned didn’t need to hear that. “There was nothing else of note in his letter.”

“Isn’t that Edmure’s seal?” he asked, pointing at one of the parchments.

“Yes. We’ll get to that one in a moment. This one’s from Andar Royce,” she said, laying down Tyrion’s letter and picking up the missive from the Vale. “You may want to read it in its entirety. It isn’t very long. Essentially, he thanks you for your letter concerning his father’s death, and informs you that he appreciates your assessment of Daenerys Targaryen.”

“But?” he said when she paused.

“He will allow the Vale men currently serving along the Northern front and at Moat Cailin to remain here to fight under your direction,” she said, hesitating only briefly before plunging ahead, “But he will not yet send any men to directly support Daenerys Targaryen.”

“What? Does the man not understand what a dragon can do? Does he want that beast in the Vale?”

“It seems that he does, my love,” Catelyn said carefully. “He has sent her an invitation to come to Runestone upon her dragon for he would see the beast and hear her own words regarding his lord father before he sets the Vale upon a course of open rebellion against the Iron Throne.”

“The Vale’s already in rebellion if I have charge of hundreds of their soldiers!” Ned blustered. “There’s no one that doubts I’m in rebellion other than fools who still doubt I’m alive!”

“I know that,” Catelyn said calmly and quietly. She’d known this letter would upset him. He wanted the Vale with them wholeheartedly. “I believe Lord Royce knows it as well, but he has his pride.” Her lips curved into a sad sort of smile as she remembered the man she’d always think of as Lord Royce. “His father’s pride. He wants the Queen to ask for his help in person. He wants to face her dragon because he knows his father did. And I think he wants her to acknowledge his father’s death in some way.”

“She won’t apologize to him, Cat,” Ned said darkly. “She has at least as much pride as Yohn’s boy does, and she’s a Queen.”

“I realize that. But _Yohn’s boy_ is Lord of Runestone now as well as Lord Protector of the Vale for little Robert Arryn , and if young Daenerys would be his queen and seek his fealty and his men, she should treat him with respect. Hopefully, she can remember that. And he did say that he would not take up arms for Tommen Baratheon or Aegon Targaryen either. Nor has he invited them to his home.”

Ned sighed. “I suppose it is better than nothing. It is more than the Vale offered during your sister’s rule there in any event.”

“My sister was completely under Petyr Baelish’s control, and you know that, Ned,” she snapped. She only had to recall that her sister had once tried to push Sansa through the Moon Door to lose all sympathy for Lysa, herself, but she couldn’t help defending her to others, even to Ned.

“I know, my love,” Ned said soothingly. “I know.” He sighed. “What of Edmure’s letter? How does your brother fare?”

“Well enough,” she said. “He finds Daenerys Targaryen a trial, I’m afraid, but that is no great surprise. He wants the dragon gone from Riverrun, indeed from the Riverlands as soon as possible. But he is grateful she has agreed to turn it upon any remaining pockets of Lannister support should they not surrender or retreat from his lands immediately. And he’s bent the knee as we told her he would.”

“You look troubled, Cat. What aren’t you telling me?”

“The wars have ravaged the Riverlands, Ned, and Edmure says more refugees are arriving daily. He fears he won’t have enough food stores to get his own people through this winter, let alone any to send north.”

Ned nodded slowly. “I feared as much. It will be a hard winter for everyone, I fear, Cat. But we will endure. Lord Manderly assures me that he has good trading relations with many places to the south and even in Essos. We will find a way to feed our people. Edmure must look first to his own.”

“He is hearing of more and more plague, too,” she said then. “Though he did not write as certainly as Lord Manderly that it is greyscale. Many refugees from the south are being turned away and others are being pulled into camps to keep them from mixing with the people until their health can be ascertained. There is quite a bit of snow through most of the Riverlands now. Nothing like here, of course, but Edmure thinks that the weather will soon stop a great deal of the flow. However bad conditions are further south, the people there are not made for the cold.”

Ned actually laughed then, and at first Catelyn was shocked for the news was hardly cheerful. Then she realized what she’d said. “No doubt you are amused by the Lord of the Trident sounding like a Northman, but it does get a lot colder in the Riverlands than in the Reach or Dorne and you know it!”

“I do,” Ned admitted. “It’s still funny. You know well enough your brother won’t be coming to Winterfell before summer!”

“All right,” she conceded. “It’s a little bit funny, and I know perfectly well how I was when I first came here . . .but Ned, if plague spreads through the Riverlands . . .”

“Then we close Moat Cailin,” he said. “In some ways, it’s easier to close than White Harbor, for a small vessel might evade Wyman’s patrol boats, but no man’s getting through the swamps around the Moat without assistance from Greywater Watch and Howland won’t . . .”

She watched the color drain from his face as he remembered once more that his friend was dead. It wasn’t that he’d actually forgotten. She knew that. But sometimes it seemed in a given moment that what had always been true must still be true, as if the mind couldn’t conceive of anything else. And realization of the painful new truth struck like a blade every time. In the space of a heartbeat, she left the chair and sat on the bed to take him in her arms, no longer the least bit concerned about keeping him at arm’s length.

“Gods, Cat,” he whispered hoarsely as he held on to her. “How could I . . .”

“Hush, my love,” she said. “I do it all the time. We have lost too many people to accept they are gone every moment of every day.” They held each other silently for a moment, and when she pulled away enough to look at him, his face was composed once more.

“Aye,” he said simply. “And as to the Moat, Lady Meera will do as her father would. She’s a good girl. Brave and smart and loyal. She’s a Reed.”

Catelyn smiled at him and pressed a brief kiss to his lips.

“Did your brother have no good news at all?” he asked her.

“Jaime Lannister is dead,” she said flatly.

“Ah,” Ned said, looking down at his lap for a moment before looking back up to meet her eyes. “Daenerys wasted no time claiming vengeance for her father then, I see.”

“No. I didn’t think she would.”

“Did she burn him?” Ned asked. “Give him to her dragon?” He asked the question through clenched teeth, and Catelyn knew he would find such a thing abhorrent, even for Jaime Lannister.

“No,” she said. “It was discussed apparently. Edmure opposed the idea, naturally. He told her that she already had the loyalty of himself and his people, and that gruesome displays to inspire fear were unnecessary. Whether his words swayed her or not, he writes that he couldn’t say. He complains he can’t honestly say he knows any of the girl’s thoughts. But for whatever reason, she decided to have Lannister beheaded and ordered that everyone attend. She did make some speech about this being the fate of any who dared betray a Targaryen and spill their blood.”

“I would have killed Aerys Targaryen myself, had I been given the chance,” Ned said softly.

“Yes, I know. But you were not sworn to protect him. And you would have met him in battle, not with deceit.”

He nodded and said nothing for a long moment. “She didn’t even wait to allow his brother to bid him farewell?”

Catelyn sighed. “Tyrion isn’t even to go to Riverrun, Ned. You know that. And I am certain he knew well enough what would befall the Kingslayer upon the Queen’s arrival there. She hardly kept her intentions secret.”

Silence met her once more. While Catelyn knew Ned didn’t mourn the Kingslayer any more than she did, it seemed that talk of death, especially on the heels of his inadvertently reminding himself painfully of Howland Reed’s death, made him somber.

“At the end of his letter he wrote of Hoster’s nameday feast,” she said, glad she had saved her brother’s most joyous news for last.

“Edmure’s boy is one already?” he asked, startled.

Now it was Catelyn’s turn to laugh. “Well more than one, my love. Edmure is simply horrid about writing letters. No doubt, Roslin insisted he include some small bit of happy information in this one. He says the child is growing every day, and that he’s a bright little boy with an easy smile, and eyes and hair that mark him as a Tully.”

Ned smiled then, but there was a deep sadness in his eyes, and she knew that, like her, he thought of another boy who met that description perfectly. “Well, good for Edmure, then,” he said softly. “I only wish this winter would pass more quickly than anyone predicts. I fear the lad will be practicing swords before we lay eyes on him.”

Catelyn nodded sadly, having had that same thought already as well, but then she smiled. “On them,” she said. “For there shall be at least two new Tullys for us to meet come spring, and probably more at the rate Edmure and Roslin seem to be going.”

Ned grinned without any melancholy then. “Roslin’s with child again?” At her nod, the grin widened. “It would seem that the Lord and Lady of Riverrun are finding their way to each other.”

They still sat close together although they had let go of each other as they’d been conversing. Now she took his hands again. “Well, we know that’s possible, don’t we, my love?”

He leaned to kiss her this time, and he allowed his lips to linger and the kiss to deepen more than any previously. Even as thoughts of the morning crept back into her mind, she recalled the one remaining letter, the one she had not read, and she pulled away, standing to walk back to the table.

“Cat,” Ned protested, sounding for all the world like Rickon when he pouted.

“You have another letter, my lord,” she said, picking up the still sealed parchment. “I brought this one for you to read.”

“Why?” he asked as he took it from her.

“It’s from the Queen.”

“I can see that,” he said, looking down at the seal. “But why did you not read it? You read all the others.”

She shrugged slightly. “It only just arrived, and I thought you might like to read this one for yourself and form your own impressions of it rather than hearing mine first.”

He laughed briefly. “Your impressions are generally quite correct, my lady. Why do you think I like to have you read the letters in the first place?” He smiled at her and then opened the letter and began to read silently. It didn’t appear to be a long letter, but he took his time with it as if studying it carefully before handing it back to her without a word.

Taking it, she sat back down on the bed beside him and read it herself.

_Lord Stark,_

_I find that all in Riverrun is as you said it would be. Lord Tully has pledged fealty to me for himself, his house and the Trident. He seems an honest man which is no more than I would expect from a relation of your lady wife’s, but I find myself doubting that he has quite as shrewd a mind. He does seem capable enough, and his concern for the people who inhabit his land is refreshing if not entirely practical. I once thought I could care for everyone, and learned to my dismay that it cannot be done. I would think recent years in the Seven Kingdoms would have taught Lord Edmure the same._

_Know that the Kingslayer is dead. No doubt Lord Tully has written of this also. He is dead by my order, but not by my hand. I commanded the Captain of the Guard here to take his head. I considered giving him to my dragon for he deserved no better, but I recall well enough that my father was called mad when he gave your own father to the flames. To my mind, it is not the same thing. Lannister’s death would have been a just execution by any means while I concede that what was done to your father by my own was not._

_So your father was killed by Aerys Targaryen, and perhaps you were entitled to vengeance for that. The Kingslayer robbed you of that chance when he murdered my father in cold blood. Now we are come full circle, Lord Stark, for I have put to death the man who killed my own father and who took from you the chance to see him executed as you would have wished. Both of our fathers are dead. Both of our brothers are dead. The Kingslayer is dead. Let all the past sins that lie between our Houses be dead as well. I shall speak of them no more and would have you speak of them no more, either. You have acknowledged me as your Queen and I have acknowledged you as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North._

_Soon I shall depart Riverrun for Castle Darry, there to plan the next move in my ascension to my rightful place. Should I have further need of service from you, I know you will answer your Queen’s call. Should your lands need the fire of my dragon for protection from enemies, know that you shall have it._

_Daenerys Targaryen_  
 _First of Her Name_  
 _Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Meereen_

Catelyn looked up at Ned when she’d finished. “Other than telling us what Edmure already did about Lannister, she said very little she hadn’t already said to you.”

Ned nodded. “True, but I think she felt it needed to be set down in writing. And I believe she does feel that with Tywin Lannister already dead, the Kingslayer’s death puts vengeance for her father to rest. She wanted me to know that. She faulted me for my part in the Rebellion, but knowing what Aerys did, she does not fault me for wishing him dead.” He paused. “As for Jaime Lannister, gods forgive me, but the girl is right about that, too.”

“Right about what, Ned?” Catelyn asked him.

“He was a deceitful, despicable man who killed a king he was sworn to guard without warning in an act of straight betrayal. Yet I hated him as much for the fact that he deprived me of the chance to seek justice and vengeance upon the man myself as for the dishonor of his actions. Mad Aerys murdered Father and Brandon, Cat. It was my place to see him dead.” He shook his head. “I’ve never said that aloud to anyone.”

“Ned,” she said softly. “Did you think I didn’t know that? Truly?” She lifted a hand to touch his face. “My love, did you not want to kill every man who hurt me at the Twins? Not simply see them dead, but to see them dead by your own hand?”

He said nothing, for they both knew the truth of that. “You are not a vengeful man, my love,” she continued. “But you do not easily suffer hurts to those you love. I do not fault you for that and never will. Aerys deserved death and got it. For me, that is enough. And even though you would have had it otherwise, I am glad it was not your hand that slew him. For I do not know if our young Queen could look past that however just your cause might have been. And I would have you alive, my love. I would have that above anything else.”

Ned leaned forward and laid his forehead against hers. “I am glad to be alive, my lady, simply to be with you and our children. But, I cannot view Jaime Lannister’s act as any favor to me.”

“No,” she said softly. “You can’t. And I am more than glad the man is dead.” She raised her head to look at her husband directly. “For Bran.”

He nodded slowly. “For Bran,” he repeated.

Catelyn was unsure how long they sat there simply looking at each other before a knock on the door announced the arrival of both Sam and Letty. Sam had apparently dismissed the children from lessons for the day and come to see about Ned‘s leg, and Letty had brought Brien for Catelyn to feed. Catelyn sat in a chair by the window and nursed her son as Sam tended to Ned, and then together they filled Sam in on the news in the letters. Finally, she and Sam returned to Ned’s solar to write out the responses they’d decided upon, leaving the baby with Ned at his request.

Other than simply informing Sam that Daenerys Targaryen had indeed executed the Kingslayer at Riverrun, neither of them spoke of Aerys Targaryen or Jaime Lannister again.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Did you see me? Before I came here, I mean?”

Bran Stark sighed. He liked Shireen Baratheon well enough. She never stared at his skinny, useless legs and seemed remarkably untroubled by the notion of wargs and greenseers. Of course, with what she’d told him of the Lady Melisandre who’d been with her mother since before the wars, he supposed she was used to things that couldn’t be easily explained. Her tales of the red priestess were enough to scare Bran at times, and he’d thought himself well beyond being frightened by spooky tales. He liked Shireen. He just wished at times that she wouldn’t ask so many questions. His family seemed to recognize when he didn’t want to speak, and they would leave him alone. Shireen kept pushing.

“Yes,” he said warily. “I think so. But I’m not certain . . .”

“Not certain it was me?”

“No. I know it was you. You don’t look that different. I’m just not certain _when_ I saw you,” Bran said, wondering how much she would demand to know.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “Did you see me a long time ago? I didn’t think you learned to use your sight until you went north of the Wall to meet Bloodraven.”

Bran sighed again, almost wishing she would go away. Most of the time, he was grateful for her company. When he’d first been introduced to her, she’d always been with Lord Seaworth’s son, Devan. The older boy seemed to think that she needed guarded or something and that it was his job to do it. Once he was invited to train at swords with Dak, Arya, and Rickon, though, he left her alone quickly enough. As Lady Shireen was not permitted to put any weight on her leg at all still, Bran had asked that his other chair—the one normally kept in the Great Hall for him to use there—be brought to the Great Keep. Now, as long as they didn’t need to go up or down the stairs, the two of them could roll along the corridors together quite easily. Soon, she would be allowed to attempt the stairs with a crutch, and Bran tried not to dread that day. He’d found himself enjoying being around Shireen almost as much as he had enjoyed being around Meera before Jojen’s death. He didn’t always enjoy talking about greensight, though.

“That’s not what I mean. I was here when I saw you,” he told her. “It wasn’t long before you came. But I don’t know when you were.” A puzzled furrow appeared between her deep blue eyes, and he realized he’d have to explain or she wouldn’t leave him alone. “I don’t always know when the things I see happened. I’ve seen my father as a boy, for instance. And his brothers and sister as children, too. I didn’t even know who they were at first. And I’ve seen other things that . . .I think haven’t happened yet at all. And things that I think happened a long time before my father was even born. It’s hard to tell the whens. Trees don’t see time the way we do.”

“Well, obviously if you saw me, it wasn’t a hundred years ago,” she said with a smile. “Was I at the Wall? Or back at Dragonstone? Or . . .”

“I don’t know where you were,” he said in exasperation. “I didn’t even know who you were then. I see lots of things, Shireen, and they don’t always make sense, and I can’t always see the things I want most to see.”

Shireen snorted. “That sounds like Lady Melisandre and her fires. She was always seeing things in her fires, but not everything turned out as she said it would.”

“I hope a lot of things I see don’t ever happen,” Bran said softly, his thoughts drifting north of the Wall.

“Is that possible? Can you see something and it not happen?”

“Jojen didn’t think so,” Bran said frowning. “He had greendreams, and he said they always came true, but that they were hard to understand and sometimes the way they came true wasn’t what you thought. I don’t know, though. I don’t see the point of greensight, if I can’t use it to change things. I hope I can change things.”

“What did you see, Bran?” she asked in hushed tones, blue eyes wide.

Bran shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it. I will be glad when this winter is over, that’s all.” She looked like she was about to answer another question so he decided to direct her toward the lesser of two evils. “Do you want to know what you were doing when I saw you? Maybe you’ll remember it if it already happened.” He almost never spoke to anyone about visions he’d had of them, but he’d only glimpsed her for a moment, and he’d rather talk about that than the horrors beyond the Wall.

“Oh, yes, if you remember it.”

“It isn’t much. You were in a big room. Some sort of large hall, maybe, but not one I’ve seen before. And there weren’t many people there. Lord Seaworth was there with you, though.”

“And Devan?” she asked eagerly.

Bran shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“My mother?”

“No. The others were all men. And I don’t think I know any of them except Lord Seaworth. You were in charge, though. That was plain enough.” She looked stunned, and it made him smile. “You were sitting in a sort of a big chair, and they were trying to get you to do something, but you didn’t want to do it and you told them so.”

She looked fascinated. “You could hear us?” she asked him.

“Only you,” he said. “And only the one thing. I heard you say, ‘I will not go, and you will not send them away. I have no reason to be afraid.’ I don’t know what you were talking about, though. Do you remember that?”

Shireen looked thoughtful and shook her head. “That’s never happened,” she said after a moment. “Do you think it’s going to?”

Bran shrugged. “I don’t know. I just saw it.”

Summer, who’d been lying on the floor beside his chair stood up suddenly and looked toward the door, and Bran entered the wolf’s consciousness without effort. After the briefest moment, he looked up at Shireen. “Sword practice is over,” he said with a smile. “They’re all coming here now.”

“How do you know?”

“I heard them. And smelled them.”

“You mean Summer did.”

Bran shrugged again. “Same thing. I hear and smell what Summer does.”

“Do you think he minds that?” she asked softly. “That you can just be there—in his mind—whenever you want?”

“No,” Bran said too quickly and too loudly. “No,” he repeated more softly. “Summer and I were meant to share things. It’s like that with my brothers and sister and their wolves, too. Would have been the same with Sansa if Lady hadn’t been killed. No. Summer would never want to keep me out.”

Shireen looked at him very closely. “Why does it sound like you’re trying to convince yourself?”

“I’m not!” Bran protested, and he wasn’t. Summer didn’t mind sharing everything with him. He knew that. It’s only that Shireen’s question had caused him to think about someone other than Summer.

“Bran! I knocked Dak down!” The door suddenly swung open to admit a nearly breathless Rickon with Shaggydog on his heels. They were followed closely by Dak, Arya, and Devan Seaworth. Nymeria was nowhere to be seen, but that wasn’t surprising. His sister’s wolf did not like to be in the Great Keep any more than necessary, and Arya understood that well enough. “Tell him, Dak!” Rickon implored. “Tell Bran how I knocked you down.”

“Well,” Dak said, grinning, “It was just the once, but you did get me to the ground, Rickon.”

Bran could tell plainly enough by Dak’s face that he’d let Rickon beat him which was something Arya would definitely never do however fond she was of their little brother. It simply wasn’t in her to lose intentionally, to anyone. Bran looked from Dak to his sister, and she rolled her eyes confirming his suspicions.

“Well done, Rickon,” Bran said enthusiastically.

“Good afternoon, Your . . .my lady,” Devan Seaworth said to Shireen.

Bran struggled not to laugh as he watched Arya roll her eyes again. It had been days since Lady Shireen Baratheon had declared she had no desire to be queen, but Devan still slipped and called her ‘Your Grace’ a lot. When he wasn’t calling her that, he always called her ‘my lady’ even though she’d asked all of them to call her by her name. Bran and the others had complied readily enough, treating her like they treated each other and only using her title when the adults were present, but Devan seemed to have a difficult time with that. He insisted on calling Sansa ‘my lady,’ too, as well as Jeyne Poole on the rare occasions she came around him. He’d only stopped addressing Arya that way after she’d knocked him down in the practice yard several times the first time he’d gone to spar with them.

Rickon had told that tale with glee. Seaworth hadn’t wanted to fight Arya at all, stating that he did not want to risk any harm to a lady and pointing out how much smaller Arya was than him. He’d only agreed to spar with her at Father’s insistence, and even Mother and Sansa, who’d gone out to watch, cheered her when she defeated him. Bran almost wished he’d gone, but watching the others do the one thing he still sometimes wished so desperately that he could do made him feel more apart from them than actually staying away did.

“Good afternoon, Devan,” Shireen said smiling. “Did you knock anyone down today?”

“We all did well, I think, my lady,” Devan answered her, and Arya shook her head.

“Just tell her you won more matches than anyone already,” she told Devan. “You know you want to.”

Devan looked uncomfortable, but Arya just grinned at Shireen. “He’s bigger and stronger than me or Dak, and he’s seen enough of my moves that he knows what to expect. I can’t surprise him so easily anymore so we’re pretty evenly matched. And he’s better than Dak.”

“Hey!” Dak protested.

“Hey what?” Arya asked, her grey eyes dancing with mischief. “Even Rickon can beat you!”

“Arya, you know very well that . . .” As irritated as he was at Arya, Dak bit his lip, refusing to admit in front of the little boy that he’d let him win. “Rickon’s getting a lot better,” he finished stubbornly. “Once he grows, he’ll probably beat all of us.”

Rickon absolutely glowed at the older boy’s praise, and even Arya flashed Dak a smile for the kindness to their brother. Grinning himself, Bran turned to look at Shireen and saw her face alight with the same odd wonder with which she so often regarded his siblings. She’d admitted to him that she found it strange to be among so many young people all talking at once. But she liked it. Bran liked it, too, even if he had felt a bit of an outsider since his return to Winterfell at times. He thought that perhaps, in helping Shireen get used to all of his siblings, he was getting used to them all over again himself—appreciating them though her eyes.

The two of them allowed the others to regale them with tales of the practice yard for a while longer, and then Sansa appeared at the door. “So this is where everyone is!” she exclaimed. “Mother sent me to find everyone. You’re all to clean up before going to the Great Hall to eat. The meal will be ready shortly.”

Bran scowled. The worst part of the deep snow was the fact that his chair would not go in it. And since the chair he used in the Hall was now here for Shireen, Tom would have to carry him all the way to the table. He hated that.

Sansa must have seen the look on his face because she smiled at him, looking alarmingly like Mother when she did so. “And I have a surprise for you and Lady Shireen, Bran,” she said mysteriously. The others laughed, and Bran realized they must know what she was talking about.

“It hasn’t snowed in several days, you know,” she said. “Sam has decreed that both Lord Seaworth and Father can now walk to the Great Hall if they are very careful, and Mother, of course, demanded that a path be well cleared for them. It was little more work to make the path accessible for your chairs.”

For the chairs? He and Shireen could be pushed along rather than carried like so much baggage? Bran cheered out loud at the news, and the others joined in enthusiastically. Looking around at his brother and sisters and Dak and Shireen, and even Devan who was a nice enough boy even if he did take himself too seriously, he felt more like Bran Stark of Winterfell than he had in a long time.

That feeling lasted through dinner and the impromptu celebration in the Hall afterward. The meal couldn’t truly be called a feast as food was rationed pretty strictly for everyone now, but there was more variety than usual as Mother had allowed some of the items the White Harbor men had brought to be used this night. His father’s men had found the supply party several days’ ride from Winterfell. Lord Manderly’s men had made shelter as best as they could when the storm hit, but several men had still suffered exposure and frostbite making their forward progress after the storm finally ended very slow and difficult. No one had died, though, and they had lost almost none of the goods loaded in their sleighs. It seemed the last of their ill and injured had now been pronounced well enough by Sam for the return journey so tonight’s meal was a farewell celebration of sorts.

Even Brien was in attendance, and Bran smiled at his littlest brother sitting upon various laps or even upon the tables at times with someone’s hand to steady him as he clapped his own little hands and babbled away at everyone. He only became distressed at times when he lost sight of Mother and was easily cheered if given back to her.

Mother herself looked beautiful, Bran thought. He’d often noted how Sansa looked so much more like Mother since his return to Winterfell, but tonight as she smiled and laughed and leaned close to Father to whisper something or listen as he whispered to her, he thought Mother looked nearly as young as Sansa without the grief and worry that nearly always lined her face. Thinking of lines on her face made him realize with a start that he didn’t even notice her scars tonight. Sansa had told him once that he wouldn’t notice them after awhile, but he always had, and they’d always made him sad. And angry. But tonight, he felt neither of those things. Sansa may have been right after all because he only saw Mother.

Father looked happy, too. He actually smiled at Mother and all the children and generally looked less grim than he normally looked at formal gatherings. Of course, this wasn’t actually formal even if Mother had gotten Arya to wear a dress. Everyone got to sit wherever they wanted and there were no speeches or anything. Watching his father rise from his seat and limp rather painfully down to the end of the table to say something to one of the White Harbor men, Bran momentarily worried at how much older Father seemed, with his slow gait and the deeper lines in his face. But then Arya, apparently tired of playing with Brien, thrust the baby up into Father’s arms, and as Father began tossing Brien into the air repeatedly to make him laugh, Bran watched the joy on his face and decided he didn’t seem so old after all.

By the time the evening had ended and Mother and Father had left them in their room, Bran found himself feeling quite happy indeed to think of nothing beyond Winterfell’s walls for a change. Dak and Rickon had fallen quickly asleep. Dak had his own room, but stayed with them as often as not. Mother had asked Bran more than once if he wanted his own room again, but he was content sharing with his brother still. He smiled into the darkness recalling the look on Dak’s face when Mother had bent to kiss his forehead just as she did Bran’s and Rickon’s.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t try to send his mind outward before he slept. He didn’t want to look for dangers and threats or see futures he couldn’t understand and didn’t know if he could prevent. Instead, he let his mind roam through his own memory, recalling happy childhood days with his family all safe here. _We’re all safe here tonight,_ he told himself. But then immediately he thought, _Not Robb. Robb will never be here again._

On the heels of that thought came, _Not Jon, either._ Jon was far to the north at the Wall, entirely too close to the things that haunted Bran’s dreams. _Don’t go north of the Wall, Jon,_ he admonished his absent brother silently. _Remember what I said._ Worry about Jon crept into his mind, threatening the contentment he’d felt all evening.

He needed to reach out and touch Jon in some way, and his mind landed upon Ghost. Summer could always find Ghost. All the wolves in Winterfell were out in the godswood that night, but it was a simple thing to slip into Summer’s skin. For a moment, Bran allowed himself to enjoy the freedom of running on four strong legs after Shaggydog while Nymeria howled at them, but then he turned his and Summer’s joint concentration northward, reaching out for Ghost.

He wasn’t there.

That couldn’t be. The wolf’s heart rate increased as he sought his brother without success. _He has to be all right,_ thought the boy within the wolf’s skin. _I didn’t feel anything happen to him. Not like Grey Wind._ No. Ghost wasn’t dead. He was just . . .gone. The boy in the wolf suddenly felt cold in spite of his thick fur as he recalled that Ghost had been beyond Summer’s reach before.

_Summer and Ghost can’t find each other when they are not on the same side of the Wall._

Heart pounding, Bran opened his own eyes in the darkness of his bedchamber and screamed. “Jon! No!”

Rickon and Dak were both at his side within a moment asking what was wrong. Rickon’s eyes were wide and frightened.

“I can’t find Ghost,” Bran said helplessly. “I can’t find Ghost. Summer can’t reach him.”

“Bran, calm down and talk to me,” Dak said, but Bran couldn’t find any other words.

“I can’t find Ghost.”

Looking stricken, Dak turned and ran from the room. Bran watched him go but his mind was already reaching northward. He needed to see. He needed to find Jon. In his panicked state, he couldn’t slip his skin. He reached out for weirwoods, for faraway ravens, for anything that might give him eyes far to the north, but he couldn’t do it. He was just a broken boy in a bed in the dark.

“Shaggy can’t find him either,” came Rickon’s voice.

Startled, Bran turned his head to see that his younger brother had actually climbed into his bed and sat beside him, holding his hand. “Shaggy can’t find Ghost, either,” Rickon repeated. “Why can’t he find him, Bran?”

“He’s gone north of the Wall,” Bran said. “They can’t feel each other when the Wall’s between them. And if Ghost is north of the Wall . . .then so is Jon.” He’d managed to calm himself slightly, but the thought of Jon north of the Wall brought all the images he didn’t want to recall flooding into his mind and he could not prevent a panicked sob from escaping him.

“Bran? What’s wrong, Bran? I’m scared,” Rickon said, but Bran couldn’t answer him, unable to stop crying which caused Rickon to start crying, too.

The door to the bedchamber flew open and Dak entered followed by Mother, her face ghostly pale in the darkness of the room. “Bran!” she cried, coming to pull him up into her arms. “What is it, sweetling? What’s frightened you?”

He clung to her and kept crying. “Jon,” he said through his tears. “Jon.”

Father came into the room then, moving more slowly than mother. Bran could see that he wasn’t wearing a shirt, the white skin of his chest standing out in the dark like Mother’s pale face. “What has frightened you, son?” he asked in that deep voice of his that almost demanded calm.

Bran raised his head from Mother’s chest, holding onto her to help him stay upright in the bed. Only then did he notice that she wore her robe. She never left her room in that robe. He looked from her obviously frightened face into his father’s concerned one. Taking a deep breath, he tried to find words that made sense.

“Summer and Shaggydog can’t feel Ghost,” he said. “That means Ghost isn’t on this side of the Wall. Jon has gone north of the Wall.” The last sentence came out almost as a wail in spite of his effort to keep his voice calm.

Father sat down on the bed beside Mother. “Jon is Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Bran. He may well lead a ranging to the north. He will return.”

“No,” Bran said miserably, shaking his head. “I told him not to go there. I told him he had to stay on this side of the Wall! Why didn’t he listen to me?”

Father and Mother looked at each other, and then Mother turned back to him and spoke in a very quiet voice. “Bran, did you see Jon? When you look to see what the trees can show you, did you see something about Jon that frightened you?”

Fresh tears came to his eyes. “I see lots of things that frighten me,” he whispered. “Terrible things. And not always the same. But one thing is always the same, and that’s why I told Jon not to cross the Wall.” He swallowed hard and looked from his mother to his father. “When Jon goes north of the Wall, the cold wins. And Jon dies.”


	75. To See With Another's Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this chapter takes place in two settings, some of the POVs overlap in time just a they have done in previous chapters.

Perwyn and the other men couldn’t be far away now. Rhaegal moved far more quickly through the sky than men on horses could travel through deep snows, bitter cold, and almost total darkness. He’d hated leaving his men, but had been unable to resist flying to Hardhome once more. Regardless of the boy’s grim message, Tormund must have been alive to send him. Mayhap it meant there were other survivors he had missed. Mayhap he had only failed to see them when he’d journeyed there before. He had to take the chance. Since the arrival of the wildling boy at Castle Black, Jon had known he must lead a ranging north of the Wall. He could not simply abandon the Free Folk to the Others if there were any chance still for rescue. Sadly, he knew now there was no chance of it at Hardhome, at least.

Hardhome had been as devoid of life this time as it had been on his first flight out to seek Tormund, Mance, and the others. He had found then only a barren, deserted shore and a frigid, forbidding, empty sea. He hadn’t been truly surprised. Bran’s visions had given him little reason to hope that his friends or any of the wildlings survived. But he had hoped. And while he may not have been surprised, he had been heartsick. 

The appearance of the boy had caused his hope to rise once more, in spite of the fact that not one report had come to him from any waycastle along the Wall of any life to the north of it. He’d begun sending patrols north of the Wall, but never too far from it, and those found no life save for animals, and not even many of those. The far north was held firmly in winter’s grip.

Odder still, and perhaps even more ominous, there had been no sign of those creatures of winter which had swept south over the Wall in such large numbers only moons ago. Rare patrols had found and destroyed the odd wight, but they reported that the animated dead men seemed more lost and purposeless than before. Not an Other had been sighted. Not even at Eastwatch where they’d crossed before. 

_Where have they gone? What are they doing?_

He flew roughly southwest now, seeking to intercept Perwyn and the others on their route to the cave entrance. _It has to be that cave,_ he thought. There was nothing else of note in the entire area. But why would Tormund have been there? It’s not on the route from Castle Black to Hardhome! He’d puzzled over this and asked himself that same question at least a thousand times since the boy had appeared, starving and more than half frozen, stumbling almost blindly toward the Wall at Castle Black.

He’d nearly been shot by an archer on sight when he appeared from the trees, taken for a wight. Had Pyp not ordered the men on the Wall to hold a bit, waiting to see if more wights or even Others might appear from the trees with him, the young wildling archer who’d only recently taken his vows might not have noticed the coughing. It was that which saved the boy, at least long enough to be brought through the tunnel and gate. The poor wretch had paused every few staggering steps and doubled over with wracking coughs. “Wights don’t cough,” the young man who’d grown up with knowledge of such creatures said firmly, and so the flaming arrows had never been loosed. 

He’d collapsed into the arms of the men who fetched him in and could not seem to cease his shivering even when wrapped in blankets and laid before Jon’s fire. He’d seemed unaware of where he was and would take no food or even liquid. His eyes had been open, though, and Jon would never forget the haunted, hunted look in them. The boy couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, but his eyes had looked a hundred years old.

Jon had tried questioning him at first, but faced with only silence and those terrified eyes, he’d given that up, instead pulling the furs tighter around the boy’s skeletal frame and whispering that he was safe now. He’d continued to sit with him, murmuring meaningless words of comfort for the next hour or so until the shivering stopped and the dark brown eyes closed. Only a few moments later, the boy’s breathing stopped as well.

They’d gone through his ragged clothing then, searching for any clue to his identity, and they’d found the scrap of animal hide stuffed inside his coat. A map had been crudely drawn upon one side of it in something that looked suspiciously like dried blood. The mapmaker had taken pains to put in landmarks Jon would recognize, however, and to mark distances in terms of days’ travel as best he could. A small area in the Haunted Forest well northeast of Craster’s Keep, nearly to the Antler River had been circled.

On the other side, in poorly formed letters, had been scrawled. _Worse than you think Jon Snow. Death is here._ Beneath these words, was written a single name. _Tormund._

Jon didn’t even know if Tormund Giantsbane could write, but he did not doubt for a moment the map and message had come from him whether he had penned it himself or not. He only wish he understood what it meant. The circled area on the map had meant nothing to him. He’d flown out there on Rhaegal almost as soon as he’d seen the map, but found nothing but trees anywhere in what he thought was the likely place. No people. No Others. No wights. Then he’d landed in one area and Rhaegal had not liked it one bit. 

Jon rarely stayed on the ground long north of the Wall, and he never strayed far from Rhaegal. The land beyond the Wall was not a safe place for an army of men, much less for a man alone. And he knew well enough that scouting upon dragonback would do no good if he got himself killed needlessly before he brought information back. Whether he chose to acknowledge it or not, Bran’s warning stayed with him as well. _You must do what you can to see that the Wall stands. You cannot do anything for those beyond it. If you go there, you will die._

That wasn’t an encouraging thought. Some of the things Bran had said seemed beyond belief. The Wall could come down? And Jon had to prevent that? Jon couldn’t imagine any force on earth powerful enough to take down that Wall. He thought even Rhaegal would find it harder to melt that massive, magic-invested monstrous construct of ice than it would to melt the stones of castles. But meeting his own death beyond its borders—that was something Jon found all too easy to believe. Being on Rhaegal’s back gave him almost a sense of invincibility. The green dragon dispatched Others with relative ease, after all. And while it certainly did not like the touch of their blades, Rhaegal didn’t seem to feel any great fear of the Others. Its feelings toward them seemed more similar to distaste, almost reminiscent of Sansa’s attitude toward particularly large insects when they were children.

Like Ghost, the dragon seemed able to sense the Others’ presence far better than Jon could, but with Ghost, it almost felt the same as scenting any other creature—except that it was their cold that was somehow powerful enough for the wolf to scent rather than any actual odor. Jon couldn’t describe it any better than that. With Rhaegal, he couldn’t describe or explain the dragon’s ability to detect the Others at all. He simply felt the knowledge of their presence in Rhaegal’s mind whenever the creatures were near. 

So when Rhaegal had become restless at the opening to that cave, Jon had become restless as well—partly because he shared the dragon’s mind and partly because he’d learned that few things caused agitation in the dragon other than anticipation of prey or some foe. Yet he’d realized quickly that this restlessness was different. Generally, the dragon was eager to go toward prey or foe, itching to hunt or attack. Rhaegal wanted away from this place. Jon had barely been able to keep the dragon on the ground long enough to investigate the cave at all. Its opening had been difficult to see from the air even for Rhaegal’s sharp eyes, but upon landing, Jon had discovered it was much larger than he’d thought. Several men could easily pass through it at once although it would not accommodate Rhaegal. He’d dismounted and walked just far enough in to realize that the cave opened quickly into a midsized chamber. At the back of that chamber was a steep tunnel leading some unknown distance into the earth. He’d both wanted and feared to go into that tunnel and see what lay within, but Rhaegal had been shrieking to him from outside the cave entrance.

He’d drawn Longclaw and called out in a loud voice to alert anyone who might have hidden themselves deeper within to his presence. If there were people sheltered there, he’d wanted them to know they’d been found. If there were Others or wights, he’d felt he was close enough to Rhaegal still to make a safe retreat. Neither friend nor foe had answered his calls, however, and he’d reluctantly gone back to mount up once again upon Rhaegal who took off without any reluctance whatsoever. 

He’d flown directly back to Castle Black to arrange this expedition then, deciding that Hardhome must wait. He wanted this cave and tunnel explored more thoroughly, and that required a reasonable sized force of men. Only after he’d given Perwyn command of that force as well as Ghost as a guide and set them on their way had he made this second fruitless excursion to Hardhome. Now he longed to reunite with the men and find out if that tunnel held the answer to the mystery of Tormund’s message or better yet some hope for finding Tormund and the other Free Folk alive.

As man and dragon raced through the sky above the snow-covered trees, Rhaegal’s eyes saw the line of slowly moving men and horses before Jon ever could have, and Jon was thankful for the connection that let him see them as well. He estimated that the men were still a good two days from the cave, which frustrated him, knowing how quickly he could arrive there upon Rhaegal. But, he would not go back there alone. He would travel with his men now, and they would arrive to face whatever perils awaited them there together. As men of the Night’s Watch.

As Rhaegal slowly descended, Jon could see some of the men waving up at him. He could hear Ghost’s mournful howl, and he reached into his mind, sensing the wolf’s joy at his return mingled with his wariness of the dragon. He caused Rhaegal to set down a great enough distance away to keep the horses from panicking entirely and then gave it freedom to hunt once he dismounted. As Rhaegal lifted itself back into the sky, Perwyn approached him on foot, his face split wide in a welcoming grin.

A good number of the men were cheering his return, Jon saw, and while the sight of it warmed him, it also caused him to fear. He hoped numbers would prove some protection in this undertaking. He hoped he wasn’t leading Perwyn and these men to certain death. The words of Tormund’s message echoed again in his mind. _Worse than you think Jon Snow. Death is here._ But why would Tormund have sent the message if he didn’t mean them to come to this place? _We are the Night’s Watch. We defend the realm. Our duty is here,_ he told himself firmly as he strode forward to greet Perwyn and clasp his hand. It didn’t matter what Bran had seen or what Rhaegal had felt. He was the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He would do his duty. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

His friend’s face looked grim, and Perwyn was reminded forcefully of Eddard Stark on the day he’d stood in the courtyard of the Twins after taking the heads of so many Freys. He knew Jon was not Lord Stark’s son, for Jon himself had confirmed that to him, but he still had trouble believing it sometimes when he looked at the Lord Commander.

“I take it you found nothing good on your journey, my lord,” he said, his own smile disappearing in the face of Jon’s hard and bleak expression.

“No. There was no one there. Hardhome looked as if no living creature has approached it since Rhaegal and I flew there before.” Jon shook his head as if to clear it of unpleasant images. “I encountered no Others or wights, though. At least not any I could see from the air.”

“You mean none that Rhaegal could see, I hope,” Perwyn corrected him somewhat teasingly, allowing a bit of his grin to return. “I trust his eyes on the matter a great deal more than yours.”

Jon didn’t quite smile in return, but his expression did soften a bit and he made a small snorting sound that was almost a laugh. “Of course. I’ve used my own eyes for little since I left you and the men.” He clapped Perwyn on the back. “These eyes are awfully glad to look on you again, though, my friend. It seems you’ve been making as good a time as can be expected in such conditions.”

Perwyn began a brief summary of their relatively uneventful journey thus far as the two men walked back toward the group. He was interrupted by a flash of white that nearly knocked Jon over.

“Easy, Ghost,” Jon said, laughing in earnest now. “I haven’t abandoned you for the dragon.”

Jon buried his face in the enormous animal’s neck and ran his hands through the white fur. Perwyn watched this reunion in some fascination as he was unused to seeing the direwolf behave like an overgrown puppy. The animal was generally still and silent to the point it seemed almost unnatural—running only when he had actual need to move quickly and making no sounds at all except his rare mournful howls. Perwyn had learned to listen to those howls for Ghost never made noise without purpose. He’d howled at the dragon’s approach, of course, and Perwyn had been very relieved to look skyward at the sound and see his friend rather than into the trees all around them and see Others.

“Have you done your job well, Ghost?” Jon asked the animal as he continued rub his fur. Perwyn knew Jon didn’t have to speak at all to communicate with the direwolf, but he found himself rather grateful that he often did. It made the relationship between the two seem more . . .normal—rather like that between any man and a beloved and useful animal. Perwyn did his best not to be frightened of the knowledge that his friend and commander was a warg. He even joked with Jon about it. But the very word recalled to him the horrible stories his father had spread about the Red Wedding. Those tales had been false, of course. But Perwyn often wondered if his father ever knew how close to the truth he’d come. And if King Robb would have been able to propel Grey Wind into the fray at that slaughter, had he only known as much about Starks and direwolves as Jon now did. _Would it have made a difference?_

Perwyn swallowed and pushed thoughts of the Red Wedding from his mind. He spent enough time at that accursed massacre in his dreams for all he wasn’t there when it actually happened. No use dwelling on it in his waking hours as well. He had enough worries here in the present. “He’s done precisely as you said he would,” he told Jon. “He’s an excellent guide.” Perwyn hesitated. “Although, I suspect you had to guide him, didn’t you? I mean, Ghost has never been to this cave of yours, has he?”

“It isn’t my cave,” Jon said. “And yes, I had to guide him.”

“But . . .you were with Rhaegal. How could you be with Ghost as well?”

Jon shrugged. “Rhaegal knows well enough how to fly without my help, Perwyn. I can spend time as just a passenger. And Ghost hardly needs me to lead him by the paw. Simple directions now and then suffice.” He shrugged again. “As for how it’s become so easy for me to go back and forth between the two, I honestly can’t explain that. They are both mine, somehow. And I’m theirs.” He looked at the direwolf with unmistakable affection. 

The wolf gazed back at him a moment, and then dashed off into the trees.

“He’s hungry,” Jon said simply. “He hasn’t hunted because he needed to stay by you.”

“I wouldn’t have denied the wolf a chance to eat,” Perwyn protested.

Jon laughed. “No. But if he’d taken off into the forest, you’d have likely tried to follow him, wouldn’t you have? I mean, you were meant to follow him, Perwyn, and he could hardly explain to you that he was only going off to find food, and you should stay put.”

Perwyn snorted. “I supposed he hunted while we slept.”

“He did. But he never went far from camp, and game is scarce. Now that I am here, you haven’t the need of his eyes. He’ll return should I call him.”

Perwyn shook his head. “Are we close to this cave that isn’t yours?”

Jon laughed again and it gladdened Perwyn’s heart that he was able to lift some of his friend’s melancholy even for a moment. “Aye. No more than two days, I’d say.”

“Good. Will Rhaegal be back with us?”

Jon’s frown returned, and Perwyn wondered what he’d said wrong. “Rhaegal doesn’t like that place,” he said darkly, “But like Ghost, Rhaegal will come if I call it.”

Before Perwyn could question him further, other men hailed them, and Jon was surrounded by men of the Watch whose spirits were visibly lightened by his presence.

He had little time to converse with Jon about much after that as the Lord Commander was interested in pressing forward with all the haste possible in such a hostile climate. They traveled mostly by dark as true light lasted no more than an hour now and time was difficult to measure. They lit numerous torches, and Jon seemed certain of the way, but Perwyn still missed Ghost’s presence for he knew the wolf’s eyes saw more in the dark than any of theirs. They would march and rest in brief alternating intervals, for it was too difficult to press forward for the length of a normal day’s march, and lying still anywhere close to the length of a true night was an invitation to frostbite.

After several of these repetitions, by some incredible stroke of luck they did finally stumble upon the cave opening just as the sky was beginning to lighten for one of its light hours, meaning that it must be near midday. Perwyn surveyed the big hole in the rock ahead of him. It certainly didn’t look forbidding. On the contrary, it looked like better shelter than they’d had in some time.

“It opens into a tunnel,” Jon said. Perwyn hadn’t even heard him come up beside him. “I’ve called for Rhaegal to come near. But as you can see, it won’t be much help for us within.”

Perwyn studied the entrance which was obviously too small for the dragon. “Ghost?” he asked.

Jon smiled, and the direwolf appeared from between two trees at the left of the rock formation with the cave entrance.

Perwyn shook his head. “I think you like doing that to people.”

Jon’s smile widened briefly as he reached a hand out to lay upon the approaching wolf, but his expression quickly became grim once more. “The daylight will not help us within, I’m afraid, but I would prefer to have a look around in there while there is some light for the men left to guard us above.”

Perwyn nodded his agreement. Jon initially pushed to have him remain above ground in charge of the guard, but he steadfastly insisted upon accompanying Jon into the cave. Jon relented in the end, and Ty was left to command the men who were setting up a perimeter around the cave’s entrance. 

Jon and Perwyn took only ten men with them for fear that more than a dozen would be hindrance rather than help in close quarters. All were armed with at least one dragonglass dagger. Most had two. Jon, of course, carried the Valyrian steel Longclaw. With a last admonition from Jon to the men left behind to keep their bows trained upon the entrance with both dragonglass and fire arrows at the ready, the dozen men and the direwolf passed into the cave.

Ghost howled miserably as soon he entered, and the sound of it gave Perwyn chills. “I take it he likes this place no better than your dragon did?” he asked Jon.

“If possible, he likes it less,” Jon replied curtly. “He smells the cold.”

“Others?”

Jon hesitated and then shook his head. “I don’t know. It isn’t quite the same.”

All twelve men could stand in the chamber within the entrance although it was crowded, but the tunnel Jon showed them would allow only two to go abreast. Jon went first with Ghost at his side. As much as Perwyn wished to stay close to his friend, his part was to cover the rear of their company and so he walked alone into the tunnel behind the last pair of men.

The tunnel went downward at a steep angle, and he could hear several of the men stumble somewhere in the darkness ahead of him. The torchlight flickered off the stone walls, and Perwyn could see they were covered with frost which seemed wrong to him somehow this far from the outdoors. Aside from the shuffling footsteps and the men’s breathing, there were no sounds.

It got colder as they descended, and that bothered Perwyn, too. He had little experience of large caves, but he thought that once away from the surface, the temperature tended to stay the same. At least the tunnel became no narrower. If anything, it widened a bit. Perwyn examined the frost covered walls as closely as he could by torchlight and was struck by the regularity and smoothness of them. He knew well enough that powerful forces like rivers could carve out gorges and tunnels with fairly smooth walls, but something about the perfect smoothness and regularity of this tunnel bothered him. It looked too much like a corridor in a castle—something built with purpose rather than forged by nature.

He wasn’t certain how long they’d been walking when he heard the shout. “Gods be good! What in seven hells is that?” _Mully,_ he thought. He’d been in the pair just behind Jon and the wolf.

“Hush, man! You want to get us killed?”

Perwyn didn’t recognize that voice right away, but he did notice the men ahead of him had all begun to move more quickly, and within moments he found himself standing in a perfectly round chamber with a high ceiling from which icicles hung. The perfectly smooth walls were covered not with frost like in the tunnel, but with solid ice of unknowable thickness. And it was cold. Colder than the tunnel, by far. It felt like the cold Others caused, but he could see none of those fell creatures. 

The men seemed gathered around something in the center of the room which he couldn’t see. “Jon!” he called out, forgetting in his unease about this place to use Jon’s title.

“Perwyn, come here,” Jon said, his voice sounding rather strained.

The men ahead of him parted, and Perwyn walked forward to find Jon standing over a shallow depression in the ground, as round and regular as the rest of the chamber. It was filled with ice which appeared solid enough except in one place. Beneath the solid ice he saw two odd stones, each too large to be held in one hand, but certainly small enough for even a fairly young person to hold with two. The ice was so clear that he could see the stones perfectly. They were oval in shape rather than round, but smooth and strangely beautiful. One was so perfectly white, it almost hurt to look at it, even in torchlight, and the other was more silver with white flecks. 

“What are they?” Perwyn whispered. “What is this place?”

In response, Jon simply pointed to the far edge of the round depression where something had broken the ice. It was darker there, and Perwyn walked around the depression holding his torch out over that place. He nearly gasped as he saw what looked like pieces of another stone, this one broken, lying mixed in with the shards of ice. This stone had been blue—the pale blue of ice upon water. As Perwyn carefully studied some of the larger pieces, he realized that while the material certainly appeared to be stone, the broken object must have been hollow. The pieces resembled the shell of a broken . . . “Egg?” he gasped. He looked up at Jon. “Are these things some sort of eggs?”

“I fear they are,” Jon said softly.

“But what could be in them?” Perwyn asked incredulously.

Jon hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said. But something in his eyes made Perwyn think that he had a guess.

“Lord Commander,” one of the men said, shuffling his feet. “Are we going to try to get those things out? Or are we going to look in those other tunnels?”

Perwyn looked at the far wall. There were other tunnels, he realized. Three of them in a row on the wall opposite the tunnel which had led them here, not as large as that, but still easily large enough for a man to walk through.

“I think we should remove these eggs,” Jon said slowly, “But not until we know what’s in those tunnels. Four men can take each one. Walk no longer than a quarter hour even if you haven’t come to the end of it, and then return here to report. We can . . .”

Jon suddenly quit speaking and Perwyn watched an alarming transformation come over his face. He rarely saw Jon look even frightened, but the expression on his face now was abject terror. He seemed to fear for his very life. Without another word, Jon ran, nearly shoving a man aside, bolting into the rightmost tunnel on the far wall. Ghost, who’d remained very still and well away from the eggs in the ice, followed him immediately.

After only the briefest hesitation, Perwyn shouted. “Follow the Lord Commander! Everyone!” Then holding his torch aloft, he led the men into the tunnel, listening for the sounds of Jon’s footsteps ahead of him.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Ned Stark ran his fingers through his hair as he tried to attend to the ledgers in front of him. In truth, his mind was far too full of worry for Jon far to the north and for Bran right here in Winterfell to concentrate on the many mundane necessities involved in governing the north during this winter. He’d slept little last night, and Catelyn had slept even less. Bran had finally calmed enough to tell them a bit of what he had seen—visions of Others and dragons and all manner of fearsome creatures, all of snow and ice. But he had to admit he did not know when these creatures had roamed the far north. He could be seeing things from hundreds of years ago, and he hadn’t seen Jon specifically with any of them.

Yet, the boy insisted he had seen Jon dying north of the Wall, and that frightened Ned. Since Jon had been alive at Winterfell when Bran saw those visions, they had to be something of the future. _Only one possible future,_ Ned told himself firmly. He refused to believe such visions were unchangeable. Bran had also spoken of the Wall itself falling, something that seemed far beyond the realm of possibility. Somehow Bran linked Jon’s death and the end of Wall together in his visions although he couldn’t or wouldn’t explain to Ned precisely why that was.

Catelyn had finally put an end to all questioning of Bran, insisting that whatever may or may not be occurring north of the Wall, no one in Winterfell could change it by talking all night. She’d sent Ned out of the boys’ room and remained behind, her arms around Bran. He’d heard her humming that old lullaby as he’d closed the door behind him.

He’d gone to her room, of course, but had slept only fretfully without her there, his mind filled with the terrifying images that Bran had described. If simply hearing such things was so terrible, he couldn’t imagine what it was like for his son who had actually seen them. Catelyn had finally come to her room when it was nearly morning. She’d said nothing, simply sliding into the bed and pressing herself tightly against him. He’d put his arms around her, and they’d remained that way until Letty brought Brien in for his morning feed. 

Only as she fed Brien, did she whisper to him, “I am afraid for Bran, my love. He doesn’t know what to do with the things he sees and yet he feels it is his responsibility to do something.”

“He did do something,” Ned had said quietly. “He told Jon what he saw and warned him against going north of the Wall. Whether or not Jon heeded that warning . . .”

“He did not,” Catelyn had said sadly. “Bran seems quite certain that Jon is north of the Wall now, and Rickon agrees with him.

“It is possible that only the direwolf is across the Wall,” Ned had countered. “Jon could send the animal in his stead as he can see through its eyes. Or Jon could fly over the Wall on his dragon. He needn’t be on the ground there himself to explain Ghost’s presence there.”

He’d felt her eyes on him from where she sat in her robe feeding their youngest child even though he couldn’t actually see them in the darkness. “I hope you are right, my love. I truly do.” He could hear in her voice that she feared he was not, however. “Surely, if he did find reason to go, Bran’s warning will cause him to take extra care at least.”

“Why would he go there, dammit? He shouldn’t be so foolish!” Ned had exclaimed, rising from the bed himself to light a candle and wash and dress for the day.

Catelyn had actually chuckled softly at that, although he’d still heard the sadness and worry in her voice. “Jon Snow is Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, my lord. And whoever fathered him, you raised him. If he feels he is needed beyond the Wall, he will go there, regardless of the risk. He meant the vows he took, Ned. And he will keep them.”

At the time, Ned had only nodded reluctant agreement with that sentiment, but thinking back upon that conversation now, he realized that such a sentiment would never have been expressed from her lips all a very short time ago. He prayed fervently that the animosity his actions had sown between them had not finally been healed only for Jon to meet a violent end in the dark and frozen far north.

“Lord Stark?”

Ned’s musings were interrupted by the sound of his name, and he looked up to see Samwell Tarly peering hestitantly around the door he had just barely pushed open. 

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Sam said hurriedly. “I did knock, but you didn’t seem to hear me, and . . .I thought you’d want to read this letter.”

“Of course, Sam. Come in. I am sorry I was too distracted to hear you knock. Where are the children?”

“The raven came, and I excused them from lessons, my lord. It’s nearly time for the midday meal, and . . .this letter is from the Wall.

From Jon. Ned nodded and motioned for Sam to take a seat by his desk. The young man knew at least a bit about Bran’s visions as Ned and Catelyn had decided not to send the child to lessons after a night of almost no sleep. They’d given Dak and Rickon permission to explain to Sam why Bran was absent.

“What does my son have to say?”

“I haven’t read it,” Sam said. “But it is from Jon. He addressed it to you, and I know his hand.”

Without further comment, Ned took the letter, breaking the black seal and reading Jon’s words. His sense of foreboding grew with nearly every word he read. When he put the letter down on his desk, he looked up to see Sam staring at him anxiously.

“It appears my sons’ wolves are correct,” he said. “Jon is north of the Wall, and by the date on this letter has been there for some days, although likely he’s spent a good amount of time in the air upon the dragon.”

“Why?” Sam asked simply, forgetting his usual insistence upon proper courtesy in his worry for Jon. Ned knew how much Samwell Tarly cared for Jon, and he loved him for that.

“A wilding boy showed up at Castle Black after the Night’s Watch had seen no evidence of life beyond the Wall for some time. He was too weakened by starvation and exposure to survive, but he carried a map and a rather dire message. Jon first flew out to see where this map led on his own, but found something he felt he should lead men out to investigate. He sent this letter just prior to leaving on that excursion. Here.”

He handed the letter to Sam and watched as the young man read it. “He’s going back to Hardhome first,” Sam said. “That’s a long way from Castle Black, my lord.”

“Aye. But not necessarily such a long time, by dragon flight. He could easily be back with his men by now.”

Sam nodded grimly. “So what Bran saw . . .”

“Bran sees lots of things,” Ned interrupted more sharply than he intended. “And last night he didn’t see Jon at all. His wolf could not find Ghost. That happens when Ghost is north of the Wall apparently. That alarmed Bran given some of the things he has seen in the past. But all we know for certain is that Jon is leading a ranging to this cave place. He won’t go unarmed or unwary. You can be certain of that.”

Sam nodded once more, and Ned realized he was speaking as much to reassure himself as Sam. 

“My lord! Oh, Sam! I didn’t realize you were here, too.” Catelyn’s cheeks were red as if she’d recently come in from the cold as she swept into the room. “I came to drag you to the midday meal, Ned. You must eat.”

Ned nodded. “And I shall. But first you should read this.” He motioned for Sam to hand her the letter, and Catelyn came around to sit in the chair beside his where she so often sat when they worked here together.

“Oh, Ned,” she said, when she had finished. “I had hoped Bran was wrong.”

“I still hope he is wrong. At least about some of it.” He sighed deeply. “Have you seen Bran this morning?”

She took his hand and said, “It isn’t morning any longer, my love. It’s midday. But, yes, I’ve just come from his room.”

Sam cleared his throat, and Ned looked from his wife to see his maester (for the boy certainly served the role whether he’d been granted the title or not) looking at the two of them rather awkwardly. “Will there be anything else, Lord Stark?” he asked.

“No, Sam, you may go.” As the young man hurried from the solar, Ned turned back to Catelyn. “How is he?”

She knew he spoke of Bran. “Quiet,” she said. “Arya and Shireen Baratheon are with him. To be honest, they were rather quiet as well, and I had the distinct impression I was interrupting a rather intense discussion.”

“Hmm. Where are the other children?”

“The other boys are in the Great Hall. I saw them there before I went to Bran’s room. Sansa had gone to get Jeyne. She won’t cross the courtyard without her.”

With great encouragement from all the children, Jeyne Poole had finally begun taking her midday meals in the Great Hall with them. She would not venture out for any other meal because she wouldn’t leave her room in the darkness, but this had been a significant step forward.

“Shireen isn’t planning to sit in the Great Hall with Jeyne?” The young Lady Baratheon had shown a great deal of patience and understanding in dealing with Vayon’s daughter, and Sansa credited her with contributing significantly to some of Jeyne’s newfound courage.

“No,” Catelyn said with a hint of a frown. “She intends to take her meal with Bran. As does Arya.” The frown deepened. “And Arya knows that Rickon, Dak, and Devan Seaworth are all going to the practice yard after they eat in order to take advantage of the light.”

“Arya is voluntarily missing a chance to spar with someone?” Ned asked in some surprise.

“Yes,” Catelyn said, “And that surprises me as well. I can’t help feeling that those three are up to something, Ned.”

“Well, they cannot get into too much trouble in the Great Keep, surely. Shireen seems to be a very reasonable young woman, and while Arya can be . . .less reasonable at times, she would never allow any harm to come to Bran. Mayhap the two girls can tear his mind from his worries for a bit.”

“Mayhap,” Catelyn said doubtfully. Then she leaned forward to kiss him and smooth the worry lines from his brow. “Would that I could ease your worries, my love. I will pray for Jon.”

“Thank you for that, my lady,” he said sincerely. Then he sighed heavily and allowed her to pull him from his chair and lead him out of the solar to get their cloaks and gloves. His mind still wandered northward to Jon, but Ned had no choice but to accept that whatever occurred there now was beyond his ability to influence.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“I don’t see how this can help anybody,” Shireen repeated once Mother left the room. “Whatever is happening to Jon, he’s too far away, Arya. Making Bran try to watch it isn’t going to help.”

“We have to know, Shireen!” Arya insisted. “Bran found Jon before. When he was coming here on his dragon. Bran found him and was able to tell Mother about it. He can find him again, I know it!”

“And do what, Arya? Tell your mother? What can she do for Jon north of the Wall. You are asking your brother to possibly watch your other brother die! And that isn’t fair. I saw my mother die, you know. And I still see it when I dream. Don’t do this to Bran.”

Arya bit her lip the way she and Mother tended to do when they were troubled or just thinking hard, and Bran used the pause in the girls’ argument to finally say something. “Arya can’t stop me from seeing terrible things, Shireen,” he said softly. “I’ve seen many, and I know I’ll see more. And I watched Theon kill people right here in Winterfell—not in any dream.”

Shireen shook her head sadly. “It isn’t the same, Bran. When it’s someone you love . . .”

“You think I didn’t love Mikken?” Bran asked, forgetting in his anger that Shireen didn’t even know who Mikken was. “Or Maester Luwin?” He shook his head. “I am sorry about what happened to your mother. You know I am. And I wish you’d never had to see it. Just thinking my mother was dead for so long was horrible. But I have the greensight, Shireen, and Arya is right. I should use it.”

Shireen opened her mouth as if to speak, but then closed it again, and Arya still chewed at her lower lip. After a moment, Arya spoke. “Maybe Shireen is right, Bran,” she said in a desolate voice. “I want to know where Jon is, what is happening to him. I want that so badly I can hardly stand it. But . . .I don’t want you to watch him die.” Her voice broke on the word ‘die’ and Bran wished his legs worked. His sister was sitting too far away from his bed for him to reach her. Arya shook her head once quickly as if she were once of the direwolves shaking off an irritating bug. “I wouldn’t want to see anyone in our family die, Bran, not when I had no way to reach them or help them. It isn’t fair of me to ask you to do that.”

Bran thought very carefully about his next words. “What if I could do something?” he asked softly.

“What could you do, Bran? You can’t speak to him, can you?” Shireen asked. “Besides, you don’t know yourself exactly where he is or what danger he faces. We’re all going on about your watching him die when we don’t truly know if that will happen or even if you could find him now.”

“It will happen!” Bran insisted. “I’ve seen it.” He looked down. “But mayhap if I can find him, I can change that. I could warn him somehow if I could see the danger coming.”

“How, Bran?” Both girls spoke the same words at the same time, but while Shireen sounded exasperated, Arya sounded genuinely curious so Bran looked at his sister.

“I’m not certain. It’s hard to see beyond the Wall. I can’t reach for animals there any more than Summer can find Ghost. But I can see through the weirwoods beyond the Wall. And I think, possibly, if I can find Jon and I’m already in the trees beyond the Wall, I might be able to warg something else there—a raven, mayhap. Some of them can talk.”

“Bran, even if something like that is possible, how can you even know where to look for your brother? And how likely are you to find a raven with any speech simply wandering about where you need it?”

Shireen was starting to irritate him in the way that only she did. “I found Jon before,” he insisted. “I didn’t know where he was when Winterfell was being attacked by the Others, but I reached out and I . . .felt him. It’s as if all the trees everywhere knew that I sought Jon, and they showed him to me.”

“But you told me yourself that you can’t always see what you want,” Shireen reminded him.

“I can’t!” he said, his irritation at her growing. “But I have done it. So why not try now?”

“Can you do it here, Bran?” Arya asked him.

“It would be easier in the godswood,” he told her. He’d seen Jon before while dreaming in Mother’s chambers, but it was still easier to see when he was actually beside the heart tree. “You could get Tom, Arya. Tell him Mother said we could . . .”

“This is madness!” Shireen objected. “Do you think Tom will believe you? He knows you were kept from lessons today, Bran. Likely he thinks you’re ill or something. He’ll want to speak with Lady Stark.”

“He’ll believe you,” Arya said confidently to Shireen. “You’re worse than Sansa. You never do anything you shouldn’t.”

“Arya, I can’t . . .”

“Please, Shireen,” Arya and Bran said together.

Shireen looked back and forth between the two of them, and Bran could see her resolve weakening.

“What if you find Jon, and see what’s going to happen to him, and you can’t find an animal that will let you take over its mind?” she asked him then, still arguing in her calm and infuriatingly reasonable voice.

“I can warg anything,” Bran said. “Whether it wants me to or not. I know I can, Shireen.”

“Anything?” she asked him, raising a brow.

“Well, maybe not a dragon,” he said thoughtfully, “If I could do that, I could just make Rhaegal fly away with Jon and . . .”

“Bran!” Shireen said sharply. “You shouldn’t do that even if you could! Warning your brother is one thing. Making decisions for him is something else entirely.”

“Not if it saves his stupid life,” Arya said firmly. “I’d warg the dragon if I could.”

Shireen looked back and forth between them again, and Bran sensed that there was more she wanted to say, but she only frowned a bit and remained silent.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bran said, “Because I don’t think I can warg a dragon. But I can certainly warg any bird, and if it can’t talk, I can make it fly around Jon and peck at his head or something. He’ll know it’s not just a bird.” Arya was nodding her agreement, so Bran turned to Shireen, letting all his desperation show on his face. “Please, Shireen. If you could have warned your father about the dragon that killed him, wouldn’t you have taken any chance to do it?”

It wasn’t a fair thing to say to her, he knew, but when she nodded her head after a moment, he was glad he had. “All right,” she said softly. “But Arya and I stay right with you, and if anything seems to be wrong . . .”

“Shake me really hard. And shout at me,” Bran told her. “Only you’re not supposed to walk all the way into the godswood on your crutch yet, are you?”

“And you’re not supposed to be going there at all,” she countered. “So don’t tell me what to do, Bran Stark.”

“I’ll run find Tom,” Arya said. “With any luck, Mother and Father are in the Great Hall and Tom isn’t.”

Luck was with them for Arya had returned with Tom almost before Shireen had finished helping Bran into extra layers of clothing. Bran felt funny about letting her help him dress, but as he was already fully clothed in his shirt and breeches, he decided it was all right. The time saved was worth any embarrassment he suffered by appearing helpless to her. And it helped that he was ready to go when Tom, somewhat suspicious about this request, came to the room with Arya.

Tom was somewhat slow of speech, but he wasn’t stupid. He certainly knew that Bran often tried to get the godswood when his lady mother wanted him kept indoors, and he also knew that Arya had a well-deserved reputation for disregarding rules and instructions. He wasn’t prepared for Shireen, though. Lady Shireen Baratheon spoke in her most commanding voice, conveying Lady Stark’s request that Bran be carried to the godswood only for a brief time in order to pray. He’d been feeling ill, yes, but was most remarkably recovered and wished to thank the old gods for that.

Arya nearly messed things up by laughing in spite of her worry over Jon, but Tom didn’t see her. As Tom wrapped the big fur around him and lifted him into his arms, Bran almost laughed himself, and he didn’t think any of this was funny. Perhaps he and Arya both were hysterical with fear for Jon. Rickon had told him a long time ago that Robb and the others had found his lady mother laughing as if she couldn’t stop after Summer killed the assassin who’d come for him.

Once they reached the cold quiet of the godswood, Bran had no desire to laugh anymore. He simply prayed that he could actually do what he intended. Tom set him down on furs on the ground where he could lean against the heart tree, and he could feel the life within it as he touched it. Tom walked off just a little ways to give him privacy for his prayers, but the girls remained.

“Now what do we do?” Shireen asked. She was a little out of breath from having come all that way with her crutch.

“Nothing,” Bran said. “Just stay here with me.” He turned away from them and pulled off one of his gloves to put his hand against the gnarled weirwood trunk. 

“Bran, your fingers will freeze.”

“Be quiet, Shireen,” Arya hissed. “I’ll cover his hand up with mine if I have to. I won’t let him freeze.”

Bran closed his eyes, and if Shireen made any response to that, he didn’t hear it because he was slipping from his own skin and going deep within the roots of the old heart tree. Then he could hear the whispering of a thousand thousand trees in his mind, and he cast out Jon’s name like a prayer. He thought of his brother’s face and silently sang his image to all the eyes he now could share. He thought he heard Lord Brynden calling to him, but it was muffled and almost too quiet to hear, and Bran ignored it. He didn’t want to listen to Lord Brynden now. He would likely talk about things that couldn’t be changed, and Bran didn’t want to hear that.

After a moment or an hour, he couldn’t be sure which, Bran found himself looking into a small, densely wooded glade. He didn’t see Jon there, but the whisperings of all the trees ceased and he heard only the sounds of this place. It was darker than it was in the godswood, as if sunset were already imminent here instead of a couple hours away, and he wondered if that was because he’d been with the trees much longer than he thought or only because he was now so much further north. He saw no one, but when he listened carefully, he realized he heard the sounds of men and horses somewhere not far away.

Frustrated, he tried to see them, but his vision was blocked by enormous sentinel pines growing close together. Then a small raven flew down from one of those pines to peck at something upon the ground. It was young, Bran could tell. Likely no one had shared its skin before. No matter.

Concentrating hard on the little bird in front of him, Bran reached for it, striving to make the leap into its mind as if he truly were here in the glade with it. For a moment, he thought he would fail, but then he was winging into the air, feeling momentarily the panic of the raven as it sensed his presence in its mind. It tried to resist him, of course, but it was little more than a fledgling, and he easily overcame its will, causing the bird to fly toward the sound of men and horses. 

The men were of the Night’s Watch. He could see that easily enough, even with his thoughts muddled by the limitations of the raven’s mind. He could think perfectly clearly when he was with Summer now, but maintaining his own thoughts, separate from the bird, was more challenging. This bird had never shared its mind with a person before. 

Jon wasn’t anywhere to be seen, though, and that troubled him. He landed in the snow by some trees near a big rock formation and observed the men who remained unaware of his presence. He realized their attention seemed to dwell upon the rocks, and carefully he hopped forward until he could see that a cave opened there. Filled with foreboding, he knew that was where Jon had gone. Swiftly, before anyone who noticed his movement could remark upon it, he flew into the entrance of the cave. The chamber inside was empty, but he could see the tunnel leading downward at the back of it. The tunnel was so dark that even his raven’s eyes failed to see, and he flew blindly until he reached the light of multiple torches ahead. It was cold, far too cold, in this place, and he could feel his bird’s heart beating ever more rapidly from both panic and an effort to keep the small body warm.

Jon was here. He saw him in the midst of the other men, looking at something Bran couldn’t see. _Where is the danger?_ He felt it. He knew it was near, but he couldn’t . . . Suddenly his mind was spinning and he wasn’t with the little raven anymore. Or maybe he was. But he was also seeing many things at once in the way that he had only done a very few times in his life. The tunnels beyond Jon held the danger. The one to the left held Others. He could see them. They massed together in surprisingly large numbers, most of them still, but a few seeming to slowly move toward the chamber where the men stood. In the center tunnel . . . _No! That can’t be here! Not now! Run, Jon!_ Bran wanted to scream. _Run!_ But, of course, he couldn’t. He pulled his mind from the terrifying creature of pale blue and saw his brother once more in the big, round chamber with the men. The blue creature was moving toward them, faster than Bran would have thought possible as it was nearly the size of the tunnel that contained it. Frost filled the entire breadth of the tunnel for several feet in front of it every time it exhaled. 

Jon would never make it back to the surface before the monster reached him. Bran was fully panicked now. He imagined he heard someone shouting at him from far away, but all his mind was with Jon. Jon had to hide. He had to make Jon hide from the creature which was now far too close to the big round chamber. He’d not seen anything in the right tunnel. As he cast about desperately for some way to save his brother, that tunnel was the only thing he could think of. Jon had to run for the rightmost tunnel. Mayhap the icy-breathed creature only wished to go out. Mayhap it wouldn’t find Jon there. But how could he make Jon see?

Bran’s chest suddenly exploded with pain, and dully he realized the little bird’s heart had been pushed almost beyond its limit. It was the bird’s pain he felt. But he couldn’t think about the bird. He had to get Jon into that tunnel. He couldn’t think of anything else. There wasn’t anything else. In panic and desperation, Bran Stark slipped from himself and the weirwood and the raven and reached wildly for his brother.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jon had never been more terrified in his life. The panic struck him forcefully and he had run well into the tunnel at the back of the round chamber before his mind began to push back at the strange, powerful fear—recognizing it as something not his own. _Rhaegal,_ he thought dimly. He had felt this way when Rhaegal had pushed into his mind, filling him with its anger and fear for Daenerys. But this was not Rhaegal. Fighting against the panic and the intruder in his mind, Jon forced his steps to slow and concentrated on expelling the unknown consciousness from his mind. It was very strong and desperate to keep hold of him, but Jon could feel no malice—only fear and desperation and something else. Something inexplicably like love. Oh gods! With a start, Jon realized who it must be and desperately tried to order his brother out of his head. He felt Bran’s shock at being recognized, but then immediately felt the need to silence the men he’d just realized had followed him here and to draw his weapon. He thought those thoughts were Bran’s just as much as the panic had been, but it was hard to tell where Bran’s mind ended and his began.

Whatever his brother was trying to do, Jon needed his mind to himself, and he pushed back against Bran even more forcefully than he had against Rhaegal until he felt him unwillingly slip completely away from his mind.

“Are you all right? Jon, what happened?”

“Shhh,” Jon hissed. “I am fine, Perwyn. Be silent and still. Make everyone be silent and still.”

The order was passed down the line, and the men all became as statues although he caught several of them looking at him as if he were mad. He couldn’t blame them. He had no idea what he had looked like in the grip of Bran’s panic. Still, he thought Bran had brought him here intentionally, and angry as he was about Bran’s invasion of his mind, he saw no point in dashing back out of this tunnel until he knew what might await them.

Suddenly a chilling cry pierced the silence. It sounded as if it came from the chamber where the eggs were. Only seconds later, it sounded again, but from further away.

“What was that?” whispered one of the men.

 

“Whatever it was, I think it’s headed outside.”  
Jon had a sick feeling he knew what it was. The sound wasn’t quite the same. It was colder, somehow. But he knew a dragon’s cry well enough. “I have to see what’s happening outside, Perwyn,” he said. “That means going into Rhaegal. Keep everyone here until I can send Ghost to see if the way out is clear. Do you understand me?”

“I think so,” Perwyn said grimly. “What was that thing?”

“I fear we’ve found an ice dragon, Perwyn,” Jon said, hating to even speak it out loud. “I don’t know what else is down here, but I do know I feared all of the tunnels except this one. If the creature we just heard came from one of the other tunnels, other dangers may still lurk within them.” Jon swallowed. “I will probably seem to faint,” he said. “I need to go completely into Rhaegal now.”

Perwyn nodded, and Jon handed him Longclaw. He wouldn’t be able to use it if he were unconscious. Then he reached out for Rhaegal.

The dragon resisted his intrusion briefly just as it always did, but made room in its mind for him easily enough after a few seconds. Having just had his own mind assaulted, Jon thought that resistance was likely instinctive. Looking out through the dragon’s eyes, Jon saw that they were flying high above the trees no more than a mile from the camp. He could barely see the men outside the cave through the thick tree growth, but he could hear them screaming. Then he heard that awful cry again, and he returned it, screaming through Rhaegal’s throat. 

From the trees near the cave, he saw a flash of pale blue streak upward into the darkening sky in response to his cry. It was a dragon, ice-blue with frost on its wings and eyes of pure white. It was beautiful, Jon realized, in the same terrifying way the Others were beautiful—only even more beautiful and terrifying. 

He’d barely had time to consider that when the other dragon closed the distance between them and exhaled forcefully, sending a blast of ice into the side of Jon’s/Rhaegal’s neck and the front part of his right wing that caused the wing to fold up in response to the sudden shock of pain. Rhaegal had never known pain like this. Not even from the Other’s blade. It began to spiral downward, but Jon extended the injured wing in spite of the pain to level out into a gentle glide.

The smaller dragon—the blue dragon was larger than a man, but not nearly the size of Rhaegal—dove after him and Jon landed in the snow turning his face toward the icy attacker. Before the ice dragon could exhale again, he drew in all the air his dragon’s lungs could hold and shot fire into the sky directly at the icy blue face.

The smaller dragon’s cries of pain were pitiful, and Jon realized it must be fairly young still. It hadn’t realized the danger it faced in challenging the bigger and stronger Rhaegal. Ignoring his own/his dragon’s pain, Jon took flight again in pursuit of the blue dragon which now seemed to be flying erratically. It turned toward Jon suddenly, and he could see that its face appeared almost melted, the white eyes now absent from their sockets. The creature was blind and had found him only by sound. 

He actually felt sorry for it, and that moment’s pity was costly, as it exhaled ice once more, not as forcefully as before, but still with enough power to cause a searing pain where the frigid blast stuck his chest. Once more, Jon filled the dragon’s hot lungs with air. Once more he exhaled fire at the blinded ice dragon, and this time it tumbled from the sky into the snow. With no further hesitation, he flew down beside it, bathing it in dragonfire until nothing of it remained and the deep snow where it had fallen had been melted to expose the now scorched ground beneath it. 

He felt exhausted, but he pulled himself from Rhaegal and went to Ghost, still waiting with the men in the tunnel. He wanted to see what had become of the men outside, but first he had to see to those here. He padded along past the men on silent wolf feet and cautiously sniffed at the chamber. There were no Others there. Quickly, he ran to the openings of the other two tunnels. Both of them had the cold scent. Whether it was left over from the now dead ice dragon or there were Others lurking as well, Jon couldn’t tell. If there were Others, they were some distance down, and he thought the men should leave the tunnel as quickly as possible. 

He opened his eyes and found himself sitting against the cold wall of the tunnel, Perwyn’s arm around his shoulders. “We need to go now,” he said.

Perwyn looked startled. “What happened?”

“We need to go, Perwyn. And then I’ll tell it.”

“You look like death. Can you walk?”

“I’ll have to,” Jon said grimly, rising somewhat unsteadily to his feet. “Give me my sword.”

Perwyn handed him Longclaw, and it felt unbelievably heavy in his hand. “To the surface, men,” Jon said in the strongest voice he could muster. “As quickly as you can go.”

Jon barely remembered the trek back to the surface. He was vaguely aware of Perwyn half dragging him and Ghost pressing tightly against his other side. When they emerged from the cave entrance, a grim sight met them in the twilight. Great mounds of ice, several feet thick stood on the ground in several places. Within each mound, the frozen corpse of a man was encased.

“My lord!” Ty’s voice shouted at him. “Thank the gods! We feared the blue beast had killed you all!”

“How many men have we lost, Ty?” Jon asked grimly.

“At least twenty, my lord,” Ty said. “And at least half a dozen more with frosted limbs and bodies so bad I don’t know if they’ll make it. We’d have lost more had that dragon of yours not shown up.” 

Ty’s own left arm was wrapped in cloths and secured to his chest, and Jon simply nodded at him. “You did well, Ty. You are the first men to face an ice dragon in more than a thousand years, and you fought bravely.”

“An ice dragon?” Perwyn said, coming beside him once more after stepping away briefly to speak to some other men. “I thought dragons were creatures of fire.”

“The dragons of Valyria are,” Jon said. “But there have long been tales in the North of dragons of ice as well. It would seem those tales are as true the tales of Others.” Jon looked out over his frozen men. “I fear I would have done better to pay closer attention to all of Old Nan’s bedtime stories than to most of Maester Luwin’s history lessons.”

Sighing, he turned back to Ty. “I shall have Rhaegal come and melt the ice and burn our fallen men. They will not walk again as wights. I fear there is more danger in that cavern, but we must remain here long enough to complete one more task. Order all the able men to pitch camp and give the wounded the rest they need. That includes you, Ty.”

Ty nodded. “Yes, Lord Commander.” He then went to do as he was ordered.

“Mully!” Jon called out, and the man appeared beside him. “Set a schedule to keep watch on that cave entrance. You needn’t spare many men to guard the woods as I shall have Ghost keep watch, but I fear there are dangers still in that cave.”

“More of those monsters, my lord?”

Jon shook his head. “Not yet, I don’t think. But I fear there are Others somewhere deep within. Ghost felt . . .something.”

“Yes, my lord. Will your dragon be watching for us as well?” Mully asked hopefully.

Jon shook his head again. “Rhaegal was wounded by the ice dragon, Mully. Not seriously, but more wounded than it’s ever been. It needs rest, and I need to see if I can do anything for its pain. Then as soon as it is able, I shall have it burn our dead.”

Mully looked stunned at the prospect of anything being able to wound the dragon. Jon knew the men believed Rhaegal invincible. 

“Walk with me, Perwyn,” Jon said, as Mully went to comply with his orders.

“You should be following the order to rest that you gave Ty,” Perwin admonished him.

“I will. Once I’ve seen to Rhaegal.”

“That’s where we’re going?”

“Yes. It isn’t far from here. Only far enough not to aggravate Ghost or panic the horses. I’d speak to you as I walk.”

“About?”

“We must deal with those eggs.”

Perwyn sighed. “Do you think the ice dragon Rhaegal killed was their mother?”

“No,” Jon said. “It was only a juvenile. I think it hatched from that blue egg. The one we found broken.”

Perwyn looked stunned. “But . . .the men said it stood higher than a man, and that its wingspan was longer than two men when it took flight.

Jon nodded. “My aunt told me how quickly her dragons grew. But when they first hatched she could hold them in her arms or allow them to perch on her shoulders. That blue dragon was likely only a few moons old, certainly no more than a year. I think this cave is some sort of nest where the young dragons can be kept safe until they are large enough to fend for themselves.”

“I’d say the baby did pretty damn well for itself,” Perwyn said grimly.

“Aye,” Jon said, “But not against Rhaegal.” He stopped walking and turned toward Perwyn. “Had that dragon been full grown, I don’t know if Rhaegal could have defeated it.”

Perwyn didn’t respond to that, and Jon remained silent a moment to let the importance of that sink in. Everyone had come to view the Others as far less dangerous once they’d found seemingly invincible weapons in the dragons. If the Others had dragons just as powerful, that changed everything.

“We cannot let those other two eggs hatch, Perwin,” Jon said finally. “Or if they do hatch, we must have them in a place where the newborn ice dragons can be killed immediately, while they are still the size of the eggs.”

“You mean to move them then?”

“We have to. Which means we have to melt that ice enough to get to them, however long that takes, and we have to do it knowing there may be Others down any of those tunnels.”

Perwyn nodded. “I’ll start sending men down with torches. We can have archers stand in front of each of the tunnels with dragonglass arrows strung. If we make the torches right, the men needn’t stay in the chamber all the while. The can place them on the ice and come back at intervals to replace them. Ghost can come along to alert us if Others are coming.”

“It’s a sound plan, Perwyn,” Jon told him tiredly. “But make sure any men you send now are truly whole and well rested—if we have any of those.”

Perwyn smiled at him. “I’ll find some. You see to your dragon and then get some rest yourself. You need the rest, Jon. Because we need you.” 

Jon tried to return the smile, but he doubted he was very successful. He turned to walk on toward Rhaegal, but Perwyn’s voice stopped him.

“Jon,” he called. “How did you know to lead us into the tunnel when you did?”

Jon shivered involuntarily as he recalled the terrifying experience of feeling panic that wasn’t his, of taking actions not of his own volition. Without turning back around, he said simply, “I didn’t.” Then he walked briskly toward his dragon before Perwyn could ask him anything more.


	76. Old Wounds

Catelyn Stark walked from the Great Hall on the arm of her husband into a blast of cold air. The sun was already low in the west in spite of it being early in the afternoon and the temperature had fallen since she and Ned had entered the Hall for their meal. She moved closer to him for warmth, careful not to upset his balance. Where she had gripped his arm tightly in order to steady him as he walked only days before, he now leaned only upon his cane for assistance, asking that she lay her hand upon his arm lightly as she had done for years when they walked together. She knew it was a matter of pride to him, ambulating about his castle without need of his wife or anyone else, and so she followed his lead. Still, she worried for him. He had cooperated with Sam and herself in limiting his mobility only grudgingly and not nearly as completely as she would have wished. He was getting a lot better, but nearly as quickly as he’d like. She knew he wanted to be done with the cane altogether and feared he would cast it aside prematurely. Accordingly, she put up little resistance to his increasing demands to walk about the castle grounds in exchange for his promise to continue using it.

She deliberately made her own steps slow to keep him from rushing, and they’d barely gone twenty paces from the entrance to the Great Hall when their younger daughter barreled into them, nearly causing all three of them to fall to the ground.

“Mother! Father!” Arya was shouting as she grabbed at them.

“Arya, what the devil . . .” Ned started angrily as he clawed at Catelyn’s arm and nearly bent over his cane trying not to lose his balance.

But Catelyn had seen their daughter’s face. It was pale and tearstained, and her eyes looked terrified.  
“What is it, Arya?” she said urgently, cutting off Ned’s rebuke.

“Bran . . .” she panted. “Something’s wrong with . . .”

But Catelyn didn’t wait to hear any more. Pulling her arm from Ned’s grasp, she had taken at least ten steps toward the Great Keep at a run before she realized Arya was still pulling at her.

“No, Mother, no!” the girl was crying. “The godswood! Bran’s in the godswood! He . . .”

Catelyn’s blood became icewater and a deep dread she couldn’t completely explain filled her at those words. She didn’t wait to hear what else Arya was saying. She simply changed direction with barely a break in her stride. Once she was headed toward the godswood, she felt Arya’s hands release her cloak and she moved even faster. Behind her, she could hear Arya’s muffled sobs. Ned’s voice was saying something, but she didn’t make out the words. She knew Ned would follow, but he could not run, and she couldn’t stop. _Bran,_ she thought. _What have you done, my sweetling?_ Her feet carried her swiftly enough, for no significant new snow had fallen in several days, and numerous paths had been cleared. Once she was within the godswood, she knew without being told which way to go. Bran would be at the heart tree.

When she saw him, she could not prevent the cry which escaped her lips. His legs and hips lay upon a fur which had been placed before the weirwood. His upper body lay across the lap of Shireen Baratheon who cradled his head in her hands. He was not moving.

“Bran!” Catelyn gasped, falling to her knees beside the two of them and putting her own gloved hands on his too pale face. “Bran! Are you all right? What has happened?”

Her son’s eyes were closed and he made no answer or movement. Terrified, she gripped his shoulders and pulled him from the Baratheon girl’s lap into her arms, clutching him against her chest.

“He lives, my lady,” Shireen said, her voice sounding as tearful, if not quite as panicked, as Arya’s had. “He lives, but he will not wake. I don’t know what . . .”

“Why is he here?” Catelyn hissed at her. “What foolish thing have you done, girl? Tell me!”

“He . . .he wanted to see . . .”

“He didn’t walk here by himself!” Catelyn snapped at her before turning her attention back to Bran. She could feel his breath on her neck so she knew the girl had been right about his living. “Bran,” she whispered. “Bran, Mother’s here. You are safe, my babe. Wake up now. You are home. You can wake. You must wake.” The words coming from her sounded increasingly desperate to her own ears, and she became vaguely aware that tears spilled down her cheeks, but she paid no attention to anything but her son’s soft breath and the cool weight of him in her arms. For he was cool. Too cool. 

Reluctantly, she laid him back down upon the fur, nearly shoving the Baratheon girl out of her way. Pulling the gloves from her hands, she laid her fingers against his forehead and cheeks. He was definitely colder to the touch than he should have been, particularly sheltered from the wind as they were here. “We need to get him inside where it’s warm,” she said. “Where is Tom?”

“I . . .he went with Lady Arya.”

Catelyn frowned. She had not seen Tom when Arya had found her and Ned.

“Cat!”

She turned at the sound of her husband’s voice and saw him hobbling into the clearing leaning heavily upon both the cane and their daughter. The sight of his face, with his jaw set in a hard line against his own physical pain and his skin nearly bloodless with fear for Bran caused her to lose most of whatever control she’d held over herself. “Ned!” she said, his name coming out almost a choked sob.

“Oh gods, Cat!” He let go of both Arya and the cane, staggering the last few paces to nearly fall at her side as he asked, “Is he . . .Is he . . .”

“No,” she said hurriedly. “He lives. But he’s cold, and he won’t wake up.” The memory of too many days spent beside an unconscious Bran, fearing he would never wake overwhelmed her. She threw her arms around her husband’s neck, when she knew he couldn’t really hold her, when she knew she had to get her son into the Keep. “He won’t wake up, Ned! He won’t wake up. I can’t stand it! Make him wake up!”

Ned’s arms went around her and held her tightly as she sobbed, and she knew she should stop it. She was keeping him from their son. She should be getting both of them out of this cold. She should be taking care of them. Still the tears flowed.

“Arya,” she heard him say sharply. “Have Tom carry your brother to his room, and you fetch Sam to him. Now.”

“I’m sorry,” Catelyn heard Arya say in her tearful voice. “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean for anything to happen to Bran. I’m sorry!”

Anger and fear coursed through Catelyn in nearly equal measure, and she raised her head from her husband’s neck to glare at her younger daughter. “You should be,” she said coldly, and she saw Arya flinch at her words. “Where is Tom?”

Arya had to swallow twice before speaking, but finally managed to say “I told him to wait for me there.” She pointed vaguely.

“Then get him. Now.”

With a last desperate look at her brother, the girl turned and ran. Catelyn pushed herself out of Ned’s arms and began removing her cloak. Ned turned immediately toward Bran, reaching out to touch him and speak his name, but he turned back to Catelyn with a start when he realized what she was doing.

“Cat! What are you doing? It is much too cold for you to be without a cloak, my love.”

“Feel him, Ned. He’s freezing. I want to put it on him.”

He laid his hand upon hers to stop her movements. “Take mine. It is larger than yours and I will not miss it. You know that’s true.”

Some irrational, primal part of her didn’t want to hear that. She wanted to give her son her own warmth. She would take off everything she wore and sit naked in the snow if it would allow him to be warm and to wake. But irrationality did little to help Bran and so she began undoing Ned’s cloak instead. She and Shireen Baratheon had just got it around her still unmoving son when Tom came running toward them. Arya was nowhere to be seen, and Catelyn hoped she was finding Sam.

Without any direction from anyone, the big youth bent and picked Bran up as if he were no bigger than Brien. As he was being lifted up, Bran’s eyes fluttered open, and Catelyn’s heart jumped.

“Bran!” she said breathlessly. The boy’s eyes seemed to move aimlessly for an instant, and then they settled on hers.

“Mother,” he said weakly, and then his eyes closed once more.

“Bran! Bran!” She was shaking him, nearly pulling him from Tom’s arms when she felt a strong hand on her arm.

“Let Tom take him in, my love.”

She turned to see Ned standing there beside her and wondered how he had managed to stand up. “Go,” he said to Tom who stood there looking guilty. 

_As well he should,_ Catelyn thought angrily.

“Go quickly, Tom,” Ned said, and the boy muttered an almost inaudible, “Yes, milord,” before turning to nearly sprint out of the godswood with Bran.

“Lady Shireen,” Ned said then. “If you would be so kind as to retrieve my cane. I believe I dropped it just there.”

Shireen nearly jumped to do as she was bid, hobbling on her own crutch, and Catelyn was ashamed that Ned had felt it necessary to ask the injured girl to assist him rather than herself.

“I can help you back to the Great Keep, my lord,” she told him.

“I know you can, my lady. And I fear I must ask you to do so. Elsewise I would have let you run ahead with Bran. I know you wish to.” 

She saw the guilt in his eyes, the anger at his own infirmity. He very much wanted to carry Bran to the Great Keep himself, she realized, and he felt the pain of being unable to do so far more sharply than any pain in his leg.

She touched his face briefly. “We shall both be with Bran presently, my lord. And as we go, Lady Baratheon will tell us what happened here, won’t you Shireen?”

Shireen Baratheon stood before them, leaning on her own crutch and holding out Ned’s cane to him. 

“Yes, my lady,” Shireen said simply. She was remarkably composed considering the tears which still moistened her cheeks, both the side with the soft pale flesh and the other with the dead grey appearance of stone. As the three of them began their halting progress forward, and Catelyn willed herself not to scream at the slowness of the pace, Shireen continued speaking, “Bran and Arya were worried about their brother. Their cousin, I mean. Jon.”

“We know who you mean, child,” Catelyn said. “Go on.”

“Bran thought he could see him. But he said he could do it better from the godswood. So Arya and I got Tom and helped him.”

“And this was Bran’s idea?” Catelyn asked.

“Coming to the godswood? Yes, my lady.”

Over the years, Catelyn had heard enough careful words from children who wished neither to lie nor to tell all the truth to know that Shireen kept something from them, but she decided this was not the time to push it.

“And you and Arya thought this was a good plan?” she asked, arching a brow.

“We shouldn’t have helped him, my lady. I know that. But he said he would be fine, and he truly wanted to help his . . .”

“Help?” Ned nearly bellowed, entering the conversation for the first time. “And how, by all the gods, did he expect to help Jon from Winterfell?”

Catelyn saw a look she did not quite understand pass briefly over Shireen’s face. “I am not quite certain, Lord Stark,” she said. “He thought mayhap he could warn him somehow. I don’t truly understand it.”

“No one bloody understands it,” Ned muttered darkly.

“What happened, Shireen?” Catelyn pressed. They were nearly out of the godswood now, and Catelyn was torn between her desire to get to the Great Keep with all possible haste and the need to stop and stare Shireen Baratheon directly in the eyes until she told them everything that had occurred with Bran that day.

“Nothing . . .at first.” She looked straight ahead as she hobbled along on her crutch, but her face was wrinkled into a frown as she tried to put her memory into words. “Bran reached out to touch the tree. The big white one. I was worried about his hand because he took his glove off. He just sat there very still, and his eyes were opened, but when Arya said his name, he didn’t answer, and when she waved her hand in front of him, his eyes didn’t move. So she did sit down and put her hand over his. To keep it warm.”

“Go on, Shireen,” Ned encouraged her. Catelyn could tell he was as eager to hear this story as she was.

“Nothing happened. He just sat there for what seemed like a very long time. Not moving or talking. But he couldn’t have been asleep because he was sitting up. And he kept his hand up against the tree even when Arya would move hers. I asked Arya if we should shake him and yell at him. That’s what he told us to do if something seemed wrong. But she said it didn’t seem like he needed anything so we should just wait. I was worried because he was so still for so long but she said it was all right. And she knows about the warging part, even if she doesn’t understand greensight. So we waited.”

The girl swallowed hard several times, but then continued speaking without further prompt. “Then Arya noticed he started breathing faster, and she felt his heart and said she thought maybe it was going too fast. So she said his name, but he didn’t answer. We both started yelling his name, but he didn’t answer. Arya pulled his hand away from the tree, but that didn’t make him come out of it, either. So then we were both shouting at him and shaking him and suddenly he screamed. It was an awful sound, like someone was killing him. He put his hands up to his head and squeezed it while he screamed, and we didn’t know if we had hurt him or if something else had, but then he just closed his eyes and slumped over. And . . .and nothing would wake him up. So Arya went to find you.”

They had stopped walking. Both she and Ned simply stared at Shireen Baratheon, listening in terror as she described what had occurred in the godswood. Catelyn hadn’t even realized they were all standing still until the girl stopped speaking. Slowly she looked up at Ned. She could see the pulse in his throat easily as he was uncloaked and bareheaded in the cold. It beat as rapidly as hers did. Their eyes met and he only nodded slightly before stepping firmly ahead, more quickly than he should have been able. She supported as much of his weight as she could, and the two of them moved toward the Great Keep at a much brisker pace, leaving Shireen to come along as she would.

Much later, Catelyn sat beside Bran’s bedside. He’d awakened briefly twice which gave her hope that he was not badly harmed by whatever had happened to him. Yet simply sitting beside her still, sleeping boy made her feel she had fallen back through time for all that he was so obviously bigger and older now, and she found it an effort to keep herself from sinking into the despair she had felt then.

_It is not the same. This is not that time,_ she told herself repeatedly as she held Bran’s hand. It was still too cool for her liking, but much warmer than it had been earlier. Dak and Rickon had been moved to another room, and the sight of their empty beds made her feel sad. Yet, she had no intention of leaving Bran tonight, and Sam would be in and out. Probably Ned as well. She wanted the other boys to get what sleep they could.

They had both been to see Bran just after the evening meal, although he did not wake at all for them. He had wakened just briefly about an hour after being brought to his room. Sansa had been there. He had called her ‘Mother’ before turning slightly to see Catelyn as well. He hadn’t spoken to her, but turned back to his sister. “You look like Mother, Sansa,” he’d sleepily before closing his eyes again, and Sansa had laughed and cried all at once, going away much reassured about her little brother.

Arya had not come at all. Catelyn did not know whether her daughter sought to avoid Bran or herself, but she couldn’t leave Bran to track her down. He might cry out again, and she didn’t want him to be alone and afraid.

He’d started screaming, “No, no, no!” about an hour after Sansa left, and she had held him tightly while he flailed and screamed without ever opening his eyes. Ned had gone into the corridor shouting for a servant to send Sam, but when Sam arrived Bran already lay still and silent again. When Sam had said it was likely just a dream, Ned had looked at him darkly and said, “Aye. But what kind?”

Ned had left not long after that. She wanted all the children in the Great Hall for the evening meal, and she wanted him with them. She should have sent him to lie down in her chambers or his and rest his leg, but he wouldn’t have gone. And he needed the children as much as they needed him. He’d had a plate sent here for her. It lay on the table untouched. She wasn’t hungry. 

Sam had come directly after the evening meal and admonished her for not eating. She informed him she truly couldn’t eat a bite, but assured him she’d eaten well at midday and promised to break her fast in the morning. He told her that Bran looked comfortable and well, and that Ned would come soon. It seemed several men had approached him with questions or problems while he was in the Great Hall and he was dealing with those.

Sam had only been gone a short time when Ned came back. He bent to kiss the top of her head where she sat and slowly pulled a chair up beside hers.

“You didn’t eat, Cat.”

She gave a short, humorless laugh. “Did you think I would when you sent it?”

“No. But I had to try.”

“I am well, my love. Truly, I am not hungry. Bran woke again, or at least he seemed awake.”

“Did he speak to you?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t call me Mother this time. He opened his eyes and looked around the room. He did look at me, but only briefly. Then he looked around the room some more and mumbled something about ice being gone. Then he closed his eyes again.”

“Ice? Do you think he meant my greatsword?” 

Catelyn shrugged. “Mayhap. Although I thought it more likely had to do with frozen water. It is winter all around us now. Or he could have said ‘eyes.’ I honestly don’t know, Ned.”

“He will be fine, Cat.” He reached out to rub her shoulders, and she leaned into his touch. It was good to have him here beside her. It had been so hard before. It hurt so much when he left her.

“It is hard to look at him, I know,” he said then. “It brings it back. All the horror of it. Gods, those were terrible days.”

“How would you know? You left!” She spat the words at him filled with venom that came from some deep place within her. They came from her completely unbidden, and the stricken look on his face made her wish to take them back. “Oh, Ned! Forgive me, my love. I don’t know why I said that. I’m simply . . .”

“It is true,” he said quietly. “I did leave. You sat just as you are now with tears in your eyes and begged me to stay. And I left. I don’t blame you for being angry with me, Cat. I am still angry with myself.”

“Don’t be,” she begged him, grabbing on to both of his hands. “We’ve had too much of anger. We need to put it all away for good. I promise that’s what I want.”

He sighed. “We are both worried for Bran. When he is better, we shall be as well.”

She nodded. “He will be better this time,” she said in a small voice.

“He will,” Ned said firmly, taking his hands from hers in order to move his chair even closer. He put his arm around her, pulling her head to rest on his shoulder as she took Bran’s hand once more.

_Better,_ she thought. _But not truly well. He will never be whole again thanks to Jaime Lannister._ His fall had been the first of the tragedies to befall her family, and for a moment, her hatred of the Kingslayer burned as fiercely as it ever had for all that the man was dead now. Mayhap, if Bran had never lost the use of his legs, everything would have been somehow different. Robb would be alive and none of her children would have suffered so horribly. She and Ned wouldn’t bear the scars they did now. It was foolish, to allow her mind to wander there, she knew. No one could say what might have been had any one thing gone differently. But staring at Bran who looked so much like he did then carried her mind down dark paths against her will.

“Mother?” The word was spoken as a question, and Catelyn opened eyes she hadn’t realized she’d shut and Ned startled beside her.

“Bran?” she responded. The room was quite dark now, and it was difficult to see him.

“Are you and Father truly here?” She heard disbelief in his voice, and it broke her heart.

“Yes, sweetling, we are here.” She nudged Ned. Bran needed to hear his voice as well.

“We are both with you, son.”

“Am I truly here?” This question was asked hesitantly as if it made no more sense to Bran than it did to her.

She bent to kiss him so that he might feel her there. “Of course, you are truly here. You are in your bed at Winterfell. Where you belong.”

He was silent then, but Catelyn didn’t think he’d fallen back to sleep.

“Bran?” Ned’s voice asked after a moment. “Where did you think you were?”

Catelyn gritted her teeth at the question. Bran did not need to be interrogated now.

“I don’t know,” Bran said in little more than a whisper. “I didn’t know where I’d go when . . .I thought I might not go anywhere. It hurt.”

The thought of her child being hurt caused Catelyn to forget about her resolution not to question him. “What hurt, Bran? Are you hurting now?”

“No,” he said, but it sounded like he was crying. “When Jon . . .when he . . .Oh, Mother, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t know what to do and I had to do something and I just . . .Father I am so sorry!” 

By the end of that outburst he was sobbing, and Catelyn grabbed him into her arms.

“What about Jon, Bran?” Ned asked sharply, and Catelyn could hear the fear in his words.

“I know it was wrong,” Bran cried. “I’m sorry, Father. I’m sorry.”

“Bran!” Ned nearly shouted. “What happened with Jon? What did you see?”

“I can’t . . .I can’t . . .I don’t want to . . .” 

Bran was shaking in her arms and crying as if he were younger than Rickon.

“You must try, Bran. Tell me what . . .”

“Stop it, Ned!” she shouted. “You are frightening him. Whatever has happened cannot be changed. It does not matter now!” She held onto Bran, rocking him.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter to you,” Ned said rather coldly, and if she hadn’t had Bran in her arms, she would have slapped him.

Instead, she steeled herself against the sting of his words and focused only on her son, “It’s all right, my sweetling. You are safe in Winterfell, and no one can harm you now.”

Ned spoke no further, sitting silently in the dark where she could not see his expression. She began humming the Silver Ribbons lullaby, and slowly Bran began to relax in her arms. “Sleep, my sweetling. I shall not leave you. I’ll be here whenever you wake.”

Slowly, she lowered him back to the bed. Her arms and back ached from holding him up. “I love you, Mother,” he said, and she could just make out that his eyes were open. “I love you, Father,” he said after that.

“We both love you very much, Bran, and we are glad you are safe and here with us,” Ned said before she could reply. “You needn’t tell us anything of what you saw. We will never force you to speak of it. But, please, Bran . . .” His voice almost broke. “Is . . .Jon dead? Do you know?”

Catelyn bristled at the question, but the pain in her husband’s voice stabbed at her heart just as Bran’s own pain had, and she remained silent.

After a moment, Bran said, “No. Not when he . . .not when I left him.”

Catelyn could almost feel the tension leave her husband’s body. He stood up, bending to kiss Bran’s forehead before he reached for his cane. “Thank you, son,” he said softly. “Sleep well.” He then began to walk toward the door, pausing only long enough to say very formally, “Good night, my lady.”

“Good night, my lord,” Catelyn replied dully.  
“I think the poor bird is, though,” Bran murmured sleepily as Ned closed the door behind him.

“What?” Catelyn asked, wondering if the boy’s statement would have made more sense to her had she not been lost down the dark abyss of a very old wound.

“Dead,” Bran clarified. “It felt like dying anyway.”

He didn’t say anything else, and she realized he was asleep. It felt like dying anyway. She wasn’t certain what Bran meant by that statement, but the feeling behind those words rang painfully clear to her just then.

She slept little, but when Sam brought her breakfast tray himself, not trusting her to eat for one of the chamber maids, she dutifully choked down a few bites for him. Bran remained soundly asleep and did not rouse for Sam.

“It is of no concern, Lady Catelyn,” he assured her. “Lord Stark tells me he woke and was lucid enough to have some brief conversation last night?”

“Yes,” Catelyn said somewhat bitterly, wondering if Ned honestly considered Bran’s distraught screaming and sobbing “conversation.”

“He also told me that Bran was extremely upset, hysterical even until you calmed him. He seemed quite shaken by it, my lady.”

Catelyn, bit her lip, silently admonishing herself for her bitter thoughts toward her husband. She couldn’t resent his being worried for Jon. And she didn’t. She simply hadn’t wanted him to upset Bran over something none of them could change. “It was difficult to watch, Sam,” she said softly. “Whatever he saw scared him badly.” She watched as Sam’s face took on the same concerned expression Ned’s had. “He assured him that Jon Snow lives,” she said quickly. “Although whether he can be sure of that or not, I do not know. I honestly don’t know how lucid he was. My lord husband was not here for the last words Bran spoke last night. They were not about Jon at all, and they made little sense.”

Sam frowned. “Physically, he seems to be suffering from nothing more than extreme exhaustion, my lady. As if whatever he did in his mind tired his body beyond what he could readily handle. I’m not certain how that could be, but it is the only thing that makes any sense of his condition. Sleep will remedy that, although he may do little besides sleep for days.”

She nodded wearily, recalling Maester Luwin’s warning that Bran might sleep for days or weeks or never wake at all. _This is not that time._

“And his mind, Sam? His . . .soul?”

Sam gave her a sad sort of smile. “We will have to let Bran help us understand that, my lady. I have little understanding of what he does. Greensight is not taught at the Citadel. Nor do we learn anything of wargs. I do know that love is better remedy for a hurt to the soul than any other I have found. As Bran has you and Lord Stark, I am quite optimistic, Lady Catelyn.”

In spite of her exhaustion and worry, she smiled at him. She often wondered what they would do without Samwell Tarly, and she knew well that they had Jon Snow to thank for him. I did thank him, she thought, but she honestly didn’t know whether she had ever specifically done so in words. She did hope Bran was right, and that Jon survived. She prayed for his safety often, both for the sake of her husband and children, and because the young man deserved her prayers. She knew he did, and she offered them freely, not grudgingly. Yet Ned believed Jon Snow’s life or death did not matter to her. She supposed she couldn’t fault him for that. She’d made every effort be certain he knew the boy was nothing to her for all those years. Yet, she did fault him. She was angry, and she wasn’t certain what to do about it.

“Are you all right, Lady Catelyn?”

“What? Yes, Sam. I am fine. I slept very little. I’m afraid I’ll likely be somewhat foggy all day.”

Sam smiled at her. “I won’t tell you to go to your room, my lady, for I know you won’t. But you’ve empty beds right here? Why not lie down?”

“I’ll think about it, Sam,” she told him as she sat once more beside Bran.

The knock which came later upon the door was so tentative Catelyn wasn’t certain she’d heard it at first. When it came again, she called out, “Come in,” and the door opened to reveal her younger daughter, chewing on her lip and looking as if she wasn’t sure she if wanted to come in or not. While Catelyn was disappointed that Ned had still not appeared, she was glad to see Arya. She needed to speak with her.

“Bran’s not awake?” Arya asked.

“No. Sam says he’ll likely sleep most of today.”

Arya looked disappointed. “Father said he woke up last night. I mean, really woke up. He thought he might be awake now.”

Catelyn suppressed the flash of irritation with Ned for not coming to see himself whether or not their son was awake. Even if he was angry with her, Bran was his son, too. “He did wake and speak to us a little last night, but Sam says not to expect him to do that very often for a while.”

Arya looked at her sleeping brother, and she smiled. “But he’s going to be all right. Father said so. And he said that Bran told him Jon is all right, too.” She looked back at Catelyn with a smile of pure joy on her face, and Catelyn could stand it no more.

“Did your father also tell you that your brother sobbed and shook in my arms, terrified by something so dreadful he couldn’t bear to speak of it with us?” she hissed at her daughter. “He should recover his strength, yes, but there are some sights and experiences you can never truly recover from. You know that far better than I would wish you to know it.”

Arya’s lip trembled at those words, but she stuck her chin up defiantly. “Bran wanted to do it. It was his choice, and we just . . .”

“Was it his idea? Did he mention it first?”

Arya hesitated before saying, “No. It was my idea,” confirming Catelyn’s suspicions.

“How could you, Arya? How could you put your brother at risk like that?”

“My brother _was_ at risk!” Arya said, raising her voice to the point that both she and Catelyn froze and looked toward the sleeping boy. He didn’t move, though. “My brother was at risk,” Arya repeated more quietly, “and if I could have gotten to him in any way, I would have. But I can’t do what Bran can do.”

“Bran is your brother,” Catelyn said in exasperation. “Not Jon Snow!”

“Jon will always be my brother in every way that matters!” Arya shot back at her. “But now we all know he’s not really Father’s bastard so why do you still hate him so much? It’s not fair!”

Catelyn took a deep breath and tried to bury her anger deep within her. Anger at her husband for making her feel the need to justify herself to her daughter in the matter of Jon Snow, at her daughter for using Bran like some sort of magical spyglass, and at herself for letting old hurts cause her to lose her temper. _She is only three and ten. And barely that._ “Arya, whatever you may believe, I do not hate Jon Snow. But Bran is your brother. He is not a tool to be used by you. And however worried you were about your cousin, it does not justify encouraging Bran to invite harm upon himself to ease your mind.”

“Brother! Not cousin. I already told you Jon will always be my brother! He always loved me more than you do!”

Her daughter’s words took the air from her lungs. She stared at Arya, unable to speak. Arya stared back, seemingly stunned by her own words as well. After what seemed like a very long time, Catelyn said, “I am sorry that you feel that way, for I love you more than you will ever know. That doesn’t change the fact that what you did with Bran was wrong. And that’s not about Jon Snow. It’s about Bran.”

“I never meant to hurt Bran!” Arya cried, tears now falling from her grey eyes. Ned’s eyes. Jon Snow’s eyes. “He said it was all right! He said he could help! And I had to help Jon. I had to try! I don’t care if you hate him! I don’t care what you think! You would have done the same had it been for Robb!”

With that, the girl spun around and ran out of the room, leaving Catelyn staring after her. She wanted to go after her, but she didn’t know what to say. And she couldn’t leave Bran. She’d promised him she’d be here when he woke. She’d promised. So she didn’t move. She sat beside his bed and held his hand. _This is not the same as the last time,_ she told herself as silent tears fell down her cheeks. She knew that was true, and yet the old hurts and angers had come to haunt them again all the same.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

There was something wrong with the way Mother and Father talked to each other. He hadn’t paid much attention to it at first because he’d barely been able to stay awake to pay attention to anything. And his mind was too full of other things—terrible things—to even pay much attention to his parents. But there was something wrong with them, and that frightened him. Bran needed his parents to be here—to be strong and good all the things they always were—because when they were gone before, everything had gone wrong.

When he first noticed the tension in them, the way they barely spoke to each other when Father came to his room, the pain in Mother’s eyes when he left, he’d thought it was because they knew. Somehow, they knew what he had done, and they hated him for it. They knew he was a monster. Yet, Mother still kissed him every time he opened his eyes and looked at him as if he were more precious to her than anything, and Father looked worried, not angry, when he talked to him. So, he decided they must not know after all. They still loved him.

Careful observation as he began to spend more time awake made him believe the problem was between the two of them, although he couldn’t decide if they were angry or sad or something he couldn’t quite figure out. He still worried that he was the cause of whatever it was because it certainly hadn’t been there before he’d gone to the godswood to . . . _No. I won’t think about that._ He was determined to get better quickly and stop sleeping so much so that Mother would have to go back to her own room. Secretly, he liked having her here so much although he would never admit it. He needed to sleep in order to heal, Sam said, and he couldn’t keep from falling asleep anyway, but whenever he slept, he’d dream, and in his dreams he was back in that cave. Mother’s face there by his bed helped him feel safe when his eyes flew open. When he saw her, he knew he was safe at Winterfell. But he was one and ten, and he shouldn’t need his mother to hold his hand.

Being one and ten, he also knew that husbands and wives shared bedchambers for pleasure as well as for the getting of children. Bran preferred not to think about that very much, but as he couldn’t recall his father sleeping in his own room since his return to Winterfell, he thought his parents must like sharing a bed a lot. For the past three nights, though, Mother had been here. Mayhap, if she would go back to sleeping in her own room, Father would go back there, too. Rickon had reported yesterday that he’d looked for Father when he woke at night and found him sleeping in the ‘wrong place.’ Mayhap if they started sleeping in their right place again, they would talk to each other, and whatever this was would be fixed.

“You’re very pensive, sweetling. Anything you want to talk about?” Mother looked up from the mending she was doing to ask him.

“No,” he lied. He did want to talk about it, but not with her. He wondered if the others saw what he did. No one had been allowed to visit him yet other than his brother and sisters (and Dak because he was pretty much a brother.) They weren’t allowed to stay long, though, and Mother was always there. Rickon was too young to ask anyway, and he wouldn’t ask Dak even if he was almost a brother because talking about Mother and Father like that to Dak would just seem wrong.

Mother had returned her attention to the mending, and Bran watched her carefully, wondering how he could make her believe he was well and how he could find out more about what was wrong with her and Father. He couldn’t ask Arya because she was obviously angry at Mother right now herself. That didn’t worry him. He could recall Arya being angry at Mother a lot before everything bad happened. She always got over it eventually. In a way, Arya being angry with Mother was sort of reassuring. It was something of his sister that hadn’t been changed. Mother had probably punished her for helping him out to the godswood. It wasn’t fair because Mother hadn’t punished him, but he could understand why his mother would have been furious with his sister over her part it.

No, Sansa was the one he needed to ask. She wasn’t angry at anyone, she paid attention to things, and she was old enough to know more about why husbands and wives might be angry or whatever this was than Bran did.

“Mother, you know you don’t have to stay here all the time,” he suddenly blurted out, realizing how discourteous that was as he said it.

She didn’t get angry, though. She smiled. “Tired of your old mother, sweetling? That’s a sign you’re getting better, I think,” she said brightly.

“That’s not it,” he said quickly. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and he truly wasn’t tired of her being here. “I only know that you have other things to do. And I am much better.”

She smiled at him. “You are much better. And I probably should see about your brothers and sisters, as well as tend to some other things. I confess I dislike leaving you, though.”

The sadness tinged with fear crossed her face then, and Bran frowned. She was worried for him, he knew. Not that he wouldn’t keep getting stronger now, but that one day he would disappear into the weirwood forever and not come back. She wouldn’t say that, of course, and he wouldn’t speak of it, either because it frightened him as well. He didn’t understand where he had gone exactly when Jon had forced him . . . _No. I am not thinking about that._

But he did think about it. He couldn’t stop himself, really. He tried to think of anything else. Even dwelling upon his parents’ odd distance from each other was preferable to thinking about what he’d done to Jon. He only wanted to save him. He couldn’t even be truly sorry for what he’d done because if he hadn’t, Jon would be dead now. And all manner of terrible things would come to pass. He knew that. But he also knew what Jon had felt when he’d slipped into his skin. He knew because he’d felt it along with him. And it was terrible. He knew that Jon had recognized him, too. And that Jon must now hate him. It was evil to do what he had done. Meera had hated him when she realized what he’d done to Hodor. She’d forgiven him, he thought. But he knew she would be bitterly disappointed in him now. And how much more terrible to be the person so violated. Hodor had been frightened at first, but then he hadn’t minded so much. Not really. But Jon had fought him. And Jon had won. And Jon now knew what Bran was. A monster.

“Bran?” Mother’s voice penetrated his dark thoughts, and he looked up at her. She looked worried, so he made himself smile at her. 

“I think I’m just still more tired than I thought, Mother,” he said. “Mayhap, I’ll sleep a bit.” He was tired. Thinking seemed to exhaust him.

“Why don’t you do that?” she said, laying aside her mending to lay a hand on his face and then straighten his pillow. 

He knew he should tell her to go while he slept, but he wanted her there when he awoke. It felt good to have her look at him as if he were still only her son Bran instead of whatever he had now become. He would encourage her to go once he was awake again. And he would ask if Sansa could come.

It was not Sansa’s voice that woke him though. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep when he heard his younger brother say plaintively, “I want you to come to the Great Hall with me.”

“I cannot, Rickon. I must be here when your brother wakes.”

“But Bran is better!” came Rickon’s wailed reply. “He’s been awake already. It’s not like before!”

Bran heard movement, and while he kept himself perfectly still, he cautiously opened one of his eyes the tiniest amount possible to allow him to see. His mother had left her chair and knelt on the floor before Rickon. She’d taken his hands in hers. Rickon’s face was set in an angry pout, but Bran could see his brother was frightened, even with only part of that angry face visible to him.

“No,” Mother said quietly. “It is not like before. Your brother will be well soon, and I shall not remain in his room like this for much longer.”

“Our room,” Rickon protested. “It was our room. Mine and Bran’s. And Dak’s sometimes, too. But now it’s just Bran’s.” He made an angry sort of huff. “And you’re just Bran’s too. You don’t care about the rest of us.”

Rickon hadn’t shouted. He’d actually spoken the last part more quietly than anything he’d said, but Bran saw his mother sag as if the boy had dealt her a physical blow. “Rickon,” she whispered. “I do care for you. I love you more than my life. I love all of you. But Bran needs me now. I can’t explain it to you, but I know he does.”

“I need you, too. You promised you wouldn’t go away again. You promised.”

“Oh, Rickon!” Mother’s voice sounded like she was crying, but Bran couldn’t quite see her face as she grabbed his little brother and held her tightly. “I need you, too, sweetling. I need all of you so much.” She stopped speaking and leaned back a bit. Bran imagined she was biting her lip the way she did sometimes before she spoke again. “Bran actually told me I should get out of his room more, and I intend to. But not before he wakes again. He will expect me to be here.”

_How did Mother know that? How does she know how much I like her being here when I wake up?_

“Why don’t you go find Letty, sweetling. Tell her to bring Brien here now instead of waiting until he’s hungry. Then ask her to send food from the Hall up for you as well as for Bran and myself.”

“I can eat here? With you?”

“Of course! I should have thought of it sooner. Bran might like a family picnic here tomorrow. But for this evening, I think mayhap just one for the boys.”

“You’re a girl,” Rickon pointed out logically, and Bran had to stifle a laugh.

“Yes, but I’m your mother so I get special treatment.”

She started to stand up then, and Bran quickly closed his eyes lest she see him spying. One Rickon had gone out to find Letty, Mother said calmly, “He’s gone now, Bran. You can open your eyes.”

Startled, Bran opened his eyes to find her smiling at him. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he said. “I didn’t mean to spy. I only . . .”

“You didn’t want to embarrass Rickon. I am not angry with you, sweetling.”

“Is it truly time for the evening meal?”

“Nearly. You slept a long while. Your father was in, but he didn’t want to wake you. He said he will return after the evening meal. You don’t mind your brother eating here, do you?”

“No. I miss him. Will he bring Dak? You did say the boys.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Is it all right if he does?”

Bran nodded. He missed Dak, too, although he would be fine with just Rickon and the baby.

As it turned out, it was just Rickon and the baby. It seemed that Rickon was mostly interested in monopolizing as much of Mother’s time as he possibly could, and if he could have found a way to keep Bran and Brien away, he would have done it. Bran didn’t mind really. Robb had told him how Mother had sat with him for days on end after he fell from the tower. Rickon had accused him angrily of driving Mother away by refusing to wake up for so long. Of course, Rickon had been a baby then. He hadn’t understood anything. Bran hadn’t understood a lot of it himself. He’d only known that the world had somehow changed, and that nothing would ever again be the same as it had been. He felt a little like that now. When Father came in after everyone was finished eating, Mother left to see Rickon and Brien to bed. Bran was glad to see her willing to go, but he hated watching Father’s grey eyes follow her out the door. He couldn’t tell what Father was thinking.

He left soon after Mother returned, and Bran told Mother she should go sleep in her own room.

“Mayhap tomorrow night, sweetling. We’ll see how you rest tonight.”

Bran didn’t argue with her. He hated that he’d slept most of the day and was still exhausted after doing nothing more than eat a meal, but he soon fell asleep once more.

The following day, Mother left him on several occasions. The first time she went, Sansa came to see him, and she promised him everything was fine between Mother and Father—that they were both simply worried about him and Jon as no new letter had as of yet come from the Wall. She smiled and chatted about any number of things, but Bran wasn’t stupid. She was attempting to reassure him, just as Mother always did. She wouldn’t tell him even if she was worried about their parents. That made him angry, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. She did at least say that she would join him in encouraging Mother to sleep in her own chambers again.

Mother returned soon after Sansa left, bringing someone Bran hadn’t seen since the godswood. The moment Shireen Baratheon’s blue eyes met his, he knew she had questions for him. Questions he wasn’t going to like.

“It’s good to see you, Bran,” she said by way of greeting. “I was worried about you. It was terrifying when Arya and I couldn’t get you to wake.”

Bran wasn’t startled by her straightforward statement. He was used to her. But Mother quickly said, “He is much better now, Lady Shireen. But I don’t know that he wishes to discuss that day.”

“I’ll talk to Shireen,” Bran said with a shrug. “She was there, after all.”

“Bran, you needn’t . . .”

“It’s all right, Mother. I thought you were going to bring Brien.”

“He was still napping, but I expect he’ll awake any time. I found Lady Shireen. She asked about you, and I thought she might make good company for you if I stay in the nursery with Brien for a bit.” She bit her lip, and Bran knew she was reconsidering that thought now.

“She will be,” Bran said quickly. “Shireen and I always find lots to talk about.”

Mother looked back and forth between them, but nodded. “All right. Try not to tire him, Shireen. He is not as strong as he would like to be yet, and he pretends he is not tired when he is.”

“Yes, my lady,” Shireen replied courteously before Bran could protest. “I will be careful of him.”

All pretense of courtesy disappeared once the door shut behind Mother, however.

“What happened, Bran?” she asked, anger visible on her face. “What did you do?”

“I did what I said I was going to do!” he snapped angrily. “I looked for Jon. And I looked for a way to warn him.”

“But what happened to you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Shireen frowned. “I don’t care,” she said bluntly. “You nearly died, Bran. I was there. I saw it happen. I had to tell you parents what happened! You said you would be fine. Arya said you would be fine. But something bad obviously happened to you. And it could happen again.”

“It won’t,” Bran said firmly.

“How can you know that? Are you going to stop trying to see things? Are you going to stay away from the trees?”

Yes! Bran wanted to shout. He was tired of looking at things that frightened him and never knowing if he should speak of them or not. Or if he should speak, whom should he tell? He never again wanted the bitter knowledge that someone he loved was going to die right in front of him unless he . . .unless he . . . Gods, how he wanted to say he would never go into the trees again.

“No,” he said dully. “I can’t do that. I’m a greenseer, and I have to be that.”

“You are also the heir to Winterfell, and you have to be that, too, you know.”

“No I don’t! There’s Rickon and Brien. Or the girls even.”

“Do you think you are replaceable, Bran? Because your parents don’t feel that way. I saw them in that godswood, too, you know. You weren’t there.”

“What do you mean I wasn’t there?”

“Oh, your body was there—cold and nearly dead. But you weren’t. Whatever you were seeing, it wasn’t your parents’ faces. You left me there to see that.”

“I didn’t mean to . . .” He closed his mouth tightly. “I didn’t mean it.”

She looked at him a moment. “You didn’t mean to do what, Bran?” she asked quietly.

Bran looked at her. The grey side of her face didn’t move at all. It looked dead. She’d told him she’d been called a monster more than once. But she wasn’t a monster. She’d only gotten sick. The other side of her face was soft, and he saw the muscle in her jaw move as if she were steeling herself against his answer.

_She’s not a monster, but I am._

“Jon was in sort of a cave. But not a normal cave. It was . . .wrong. And there were no weirwoods there.” He didn’t know why he told her this, but he did.

“How could you see then?” she asked, and her question, her typical, annoying, perfectly Shireen kind of a question gave him the courage to keep talking.

“Sometimes I can see things everywhere, and I don’t really know how that works or what makes it happen. But it didn’t happen. Not first. There was a bird.”

She cocked a brow at him. “You truly did find a random talking raven?”

“No.” Bran said, shaking his head. “It was a raven, but it didn’t talk. It was young. It was frightened of me.”

“It wouldn’t let you in? Wouldn’t let you warg it I mean? Not the way Summer does?”

Bran felt his heart speed up just as the bird’s had. She still didn’t understand. “It didn’t want me to. I did it anyway. I had to.”

“Oh, Bran,” she said softly.

He waved his arm to quiet her. If he stopped talking, he wouldn’t be able to start again, and some part of him wanted to tell someone. He couldn’t quite look at her as he spoke, though. “I could fly then. And I flew to where Jon and his men were. There was the cave and it was too cold. It was colder inside than out. And the bird was too cold. And it was too frightened. And I think . . .I think . . .it died.” He looked up at her. “I think I killed it.”

“You didn’t mean to, Bran. I know you didn’t mean to.” There was a kind of sadness on her face. Maybe even shock, but he saw no hatred or revulsion.

“No. I didn’t mean to. Then that thing happened. The thing where I’m everywhere and nowhere, and I can see too many things at once. I saw how Jon would die. I saw . . .” He pressed his lips together and shook his head. He couldn’t tell her about the dragon. He couldn’t. If anyone learned of the dragon, it should be Father. He wondered where it was now. He knew it had left the cave. He thought Jon could get out safely. But he hadn’t tried to look again. He was too frightened. The feeling of coming apart, of dissolving away into nothing but terrible pain when Jon had forced him away . . .he couldn’t go back. He didn’t want to go back. Jon hated him.

“What did you see, Bran?” she asked softly.

He shook his head. “I couldn’t warn him. There was no time. No way to do it. I didn’t know what to do! Can you understand that?”

“But you told your father Jon was alive.”

Bran looked down again. “He was. He didn’t die from the . . .he got away in time. He was safe before he . . .before I left.”

“But how? If you couldn’t warn him, how did he know to run or hide or defend himself?”

Now Bran wished she would stop with her questions. “He didn’t!” he finally said, nearly shouting at her as he raised his eyes again. “He didn’t. Can’t you see, Shireen? I had no choice! He was going to die and I . . .I didn’t mean to do it. But he was going to die. Do you see?” 

She didn’t say anything, but the horrified look on her face told him clearly enough that she did see. 

In the silence between them, footsteps sounded in the corridor.

“No,” Bran whispered. “I can’t tell anyone else. I can’t.” He wasn’t certain if he spoke to Shireen or himself, but she answered him.

“Lie back,” she said quickly, her voice trembling only slightly. “Pull up the cover and pretend your asleep.”

He’d only just done so when he heard a knock on the door accompanied by Mother’s voice calling out his name.

“Shh, Lady Stark,” he heard Shireen say in a remarkably calm voice. She sounded further away. She must have risen and gone to the door. “You were right about Bran’s being tired. I’m afraid he’s fallen asleep. I sat with him, waiting for your return.”

“That was kind of you, Shireen.” Mother hesitated. “Has he slept long?”

“Not too long,” Shireen replied.

“Has he . . .been restless? Cried out?”

“No, my lady. He sleeps very comfortably.”

“Thank the gods,” Mother said. “He only cried out once in his sleep all last night. Mayhap he truly is better.”

“Cried out, my lady?” Shireen asked, and Bran was glad she did because he wanted to hear his mother’s response.

“Oh,” Mother said, sounding vaguely alarmed. “I didn’t mean to speak of that. Please say nothing to Bran. It’s only that his sleep has been troubled since . . .the godswood. It’s why I am hesitant to leave him. But do now worry for him, Shireen. He is getting better.”

“Yes, my lady,” Shireen said softly. “May I go now?”

“Of course, child. And you may come visit with Bran any time you wish.”

“I . . .thank you, my lady.”

Shireen didn’t speak again, and Bran supposed she had gone. Mother came and laid a hand lightly on him before going to her chair, and he somehow managed to keep very still. He couldn’t stop seeing the look on Shireen’s face. She may have been called monster in her life, but now she knew she had truly seen one. And he found the thought of her hating him nearly as painful as Jon hating him. Miserably, he lay awake beneath the covers, knowing he couldn’t truly sleep, but knowing that Mother would surely know something was wrong with him if he spoke to her. So he kept silent and still, seeing the terrifying white eyes of the ice dragon, the shocked blue eyes of Shireen Baratheon. Both sets of eyes caused a deep fear which set his heart beating out a rapid rhythm all too similar to the panicked raven’s.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Ned Stark ran his hands through his hair. It had grown quite cold and nearly completely dark, but stood alone atop the north wall of his castle staring out into that darkness. _Be safe, Jon. Please be safe._ He wished desperately another raven would come from Castle Black informing them of Jon’s safe return there, but he knew that was a forlorn hope after so few days. He took heart from Bran’s insistence that Jon had been alive through whatever had taken place, but that had been four days ago. Bran did not seem to believe that all danger had passed, however, and whatever he had seen had shaken him up terribly. Ned longed to know precisely what the boy had seen and had attempted a few gentle questions in spite of his wife’s clear opposition. The look in Bran’s eyes when he’d done that had been enough to convince him that Catelyn’s refusal to question him was justified. Their son’s terror was palpable. So was his guilt. 

The gods knew Ned could recognize guilt well enough, but he couldn’t decipher where Bran’s was coming from. The boy felt terrible for having frightened them so. That was obvious. But there was more to it. He could feel that there was. He wondered if Catelyn had any insight into it and wished that he could ask her, but he feared that she would welcome no questions regarding Bran and his vision of Jon from him at the moment.

He sighed deeply at the thought of his wife. If thoughts of Jon brought fear and thoughts of Bran brought worry, any thought of Cat brought a heaviness to his heart that made it hard to breathe. There had not been such a distance between them for this long since he’d found her at the Twins. They’d argued, yes, and they’d hurt each other more than once. But they’d always found their way through it. They’d come together to shout or plead or speak quietly until the distance was bridged because holding onto each other was so much more important than holding onto their hurts.

In truth, he had to credit Catelyn for that. She’d been the one, time after time, who’d pushed forward honestly whatever hurt she felt and forced him to do the same. He’d nearly destroyed her when he’d told her his great secret, revealed his great lie. He’d seen the devastation in her face. And then he’d felt nearly flayed to the bone by her anger at him. He’d thought her lost to him once more. Yet, that next morning, she’d said, _I love you, Ned,_ and she’d promised to forgive him in spite of the anger and hurt that still burned within her.

Neither of them had let hurt or anger fester since then. There had been more honesty between them than there had ever been, and Ned had grown accustomed to sharing all in his mind with her and truly knowing her mind as well. Yet, now they barely spoke. She wouldn’t leave Bran’s room, and while he understood it, _I do understand. I have seen how he shakes and cries out in his sleep,_ he could not keep from resenting it. It felt too much like years ago, when she’d remained at Bran’s bedside for weeks, only a pale ghost of herself. He’d resented her then, gods forgive him. He’d resented the ease at which she accepted the idea of Jon’s joining the Night’s Watch. She’d actively tried to discourage Benjen once upon a time, but she’d been eager to be rid of Jon. He’d resented her refusal to even bid him farewell without anger at his departure. He’d been leaving for what they both knew would be a very long time, and she only had recriminations for him. She’d spoken from grief and desperation then. He knew that. Yet, when he’d ridden out from Winterfell’s gates filled with guilt and sorrow, he’d resented her for not supporting him even as he was wracked by guilt for not supporting her.

He realized he was standing rigidly still, every muscle tense as he allowed himself to dwell on his dark thoughts. Stillness was deadly in the bitter cold of a Northern winter, and he forced his stiff legs to walk back toward the staircase down. He’d tried to keep thoughts of Catelyn, of the trouble between them, out of his head. He’d told himself that all would be fine once Bran recovered, and he merely had to wait. He had enough troubles to occupy his mind without adding this one. He’d succeeded for the most part, except for when he was in Bran’s room with her, and when he was in his cold, lonely bedchamber at night. It had been so long since he’d slept there, he realized it no longer even felt like his place. Still, he’d been able to convince himself that simply remaining silent and waiting was all that was necessary. Until Sansa had confronted him today.

As he slowly descended the stairs, careful to place his cane firmly on each step lest he fall, and then as he shuffled slowly through the courtyard back toward the Great Keep, he recalled the conversation he’d had with his elder daughter when she came to his solar earlier, apparently having just come from speaking with Bran.

“Father, I need to speak to you,” she had begun without preamble, meeting his eyes with hers and looking so like her mother in both appearance and forthright manner that he’d caught his breath. “Bran is concerned about something . . .and so am I.” She’d paused then, gathering her thoughts, but where Catelyn would have undoubtedly caught her lower lip with her teeth, Sansa had merely closed her mouth and tightened the muscles of her jaw. He’d been rather startled to recognize the mannerism as one of his own.

“Speak, Sansa. What concerns you and your brother? Is this something other than what happened to him or what may be happening with Jon?”

He’d been sitting at his desk looking up at her in the doorway, but at his words she’d walked across the room to sit across the desk from him. “We’re concerned about you and Mother,” she said without further hesitation.

He’d not expected her to say that and found himself without a response. After a moment of silence, she’d continued, “Bran asked me if I thought the two of you were angry with each other because he’s noticed you barely speak. I told him you both were only concerned for him and anxious for another letter from the Wall.”

Ned had forced himself to reply then. “That was very good of you, Sansa. I hope your words reassured Bran.”

“I don’t know if they did or not,” she’d said. “I do know that I lied.” She’d regarded him with her mother’s eyes, and Ned had the sudden uncomfortable feeling that she could read him as easily as Catelyn could.

“What do you mean?” he’d asked her, forcing the words through a throat that suddenly felt too tight.

“You are angry at each other, and I don’t know why. I would guess that it has to do with Jon—only he isn’t your son. Mother knows that now. We all do. And I know she’s worried about him. She reminds me to remember him when we pray.”

There were many things in this utterance that had struck Ned rather deeply, but he chose to focus only on the first two. “Why do you believe your mother and I are angry with each other or that it would have anything to do with Jon?”

“Because Bran is right. You barely speak to each other and you do not touch.” She’d actually blushed then. “I never paid attention to it before . . . before everything happened. But since I got you back, I notice everything about you, and you and Mother always touch—even if it’s only a hand brushing an arm. And you’ve stopped doing it.”

Ned had swallowed, tightening his own jaw muscles. He did not wish to speak of this with Sansa. It was not her concern. Yet he couldn’t fault her observation of Cat and himself, and wondered why her observations had led her to think of Jon. “You needn’t worry about your mother and myself, Sansa,” he’d said brusquely, “But why would you mention Jon?”

She’d looked down then. “Because of how you both look. Mother looks angry, but more hurt. You just look . . .cold, I guess. I haven’t seen either of you like this since . . .before.”

“Before?” Ned had pressed, curiosity about what his daughter thought she had seen or understood about her parents outweighing his desire to end this conversation immediately.

When she’d looked back up, he’d been taken aback to see actual tears in her eyes. “Jon is my brother,” she’d said. “I don’t care who his father is any more than Arya does. He’s always been my brother, even though I tried not to be his sister.”

Thoroughly confused as to how this answered his question or even what Sansa meant by it, Ned had simply stared at her until she spoke again.

“I was such a little girl. I told you I didn’t pay that close attention to how you and mother were with each other, and I didn’t. Not most of the time. I didn’t need to because everything was just . . .right . . .the way things should be, I suppose. But sometimes Mother would look the way she does now and so would you. It never lasted long, but I always hated it. And when I got old enough to understand, I realized it always had to do with Jon. You hurt her with Jon. And that made me angry at you. I’m sorry, Father, but it did. And I saw how Mother was with Jon, and I thought that maybe I shouldn’t be his sister. That something that made her look like that couldn’t be good. And so I . . .” She’d shaken her head and wiped quickly at her eyes with her hands.

“You needn’t say more, Sansa. I understand.”

She’d looked up at him then. “Do you? Please don’t be angry with me, Father. I didn’t understand it then because I loved you so much, and I knew you were a good man. But Mother is good, too, and I loved her, and I . . .”

“I am not angry with you, Sansa,” he’d interrupted, unable to listen to further explanation of what his actions had done to his daughter as well as his wife, not wishing to contemplate precisely how Jon’s presence in Winterfell as their father’s motherless bastard had likely affected all of his children. He’d closed his eyes to it, he’d realized, just as he’d closed his eyes to its effect upon Jon and Cat. Jon’s safety, he’d told himself repeatedly, was all that mattered. Anything that might have made him question his choice, he’d willfully ignored. “I am not angry with you, Sansa, truly,” he’d told her, softening his voice.

“I just don’t want you and Mother to be angry now,” she’d told him. “I’m not a child anymore. I know that you disagree sometimes and even argue. But you do not stay angry with each other like this. And I don’t know anything except Jon that has ever made Mother like this, and since it can’t be Jon now, I’m frightened about what it might be.”

_It can’t be Jon. Oh, Sansa, how I wish simple knowledge of the truth made it that simple._ For all her fifteen years and protestations that she was not a child, she’d sounded very young then. He’d reached across the desk to take her hand.

“Do not be frightened, sweetling,” he’d said, using Catelyn’s frequent term of endearment. “What lies between your mother and myself is for the two of us alone to discuss, but we will discuss it and all will be well. You must know that.” He swallowed again. “You are correct in your belief that there is some tension between us, but your assertions to Bran were truthful, Sansa, even if you did not believe them to be so. Your mother and I both have much to be worried about and it sometimes makes us less careful of each other than we should be. We need only time to speak privately in order to put everything right.” He hoped he’d spoken truly. “Once Bran is recovered enough that your mother can . . .”

“Bran wants her out of his room,” Sansa piped up. “I mean . . .not entirely. I think he likes having her there. But he wants her to sleep in her own room. You should go back to sleeping there as well.” She’d spoken in a bit of a rush, and she’d blushed furiously when she realized what she’d said. “I should go. Jeyne is waiting for me.” 

“All right. Go on, then.”

When she’d nearly reached the door, he’d remembered something else she’d said. “Sansa!” he’d called after her, and she’d turned. “What did you mean when you said your mother reminded you to pray for Jon?”

“Oh,” she’d said. “Mother and I pray every day in her room. Well . . .not now. But before Bran was sick. She and I are the only ones who pray to the Seven any more. I pray in the godswood, too. Even Mother goes there sometimes, but I know she misses her sept. And I like the prayers to the Seven, too. You know the little wooden figures Lady Brienne gave her?”

Ned didn’t, but he’d nodded anyway, not wishing to admit that to his daughter.

“Well, we get those out. They aren’t very good, considering they were carved by a Northman with no idea what they’re supposed to look like, but they’re special because they’re from Lady Brienne. And we pray. Mostly to the Warrior for victory over all our enemies and to the Mother and Father for protection of our family. And Mother reminds me not to forget Jon, even though he’s far away. I wouldn’t forget him though, even without the reminder.”

_Mother reminds me not to forget Jon, even though he’s far away._

“No,” Ned had said. “I know you wouldn’t. But I am still glad she reminds you.”

His remembrance of that conversation came to an end as he opened the door to the Great Keep nearly to be knocked down by Nymeria. The direwolf moved very well these days despite her obvious limp and Ned envied her. She would never again run as quickly as her brothers, but she did not hobble about like a cripple the way he did.

“Nymeria! To me!” Arya’s voice called from somewhere behind the enormous animal. “Sorry, Father. She’s anxious to get outside.”

Ned looked at his daughter and noted her cloak and gloves. “And where are you going?” he asked her. “It isn’t yet time for the evening meal, and it is too dark to be wandering the grounds aimlessly.”

She scowled. “I’m not going to wander aimlessly. I’m going to the godswood with Nymeria.”

“I don’t think so,” he told her. “It’s bitterly cold, Arya. Nymeria’s made for it, but I fear you aren’t.”

“I’m a Stark! I’m born for the winter,” she insisted.

He laughed at her. “Well, I find it too cold to remain outdoors, and I don’t even have any warm southron Tully blood flowing through my veins.” He’d meant to tease her, but she gave him a black look.

“I’m not a Tully,” she said angrily. “I’m like you and Jon and my Aunt Lyanna. Everyone says so.”

Ned frowned. “Arya,” he said sharply. “You should be proud of all your lineage. Your mother’s House . . .”

“I don’t want to hear about Mother’s House,” she interrupted. “Family, Duty, Honor. But only if you’re the right sort of family!”

“Arya,” Ned growled rather menacingly. “You will lower your voice. You will explain yourself at once. And you will forgo any further discourteous remarks about your mother’s family.”

Grey eyes blazed up at him, and while her face was certainly reminiscent of Lyanna’s when she’d been riled, the fire within those eyes was that of the woman whose face looked nothing like hers. “It isn’t fair,” she hissed, lowering her voice with obvious effort.

“What isn’t fair?” he asked her. Vaguely, he recalled thinking that she’d been rather out of sorts since the day after Bran collapsed in the godswood, but he’d not had time for any lengthy conversations with her and had assumed her dark mood had to do with her part in her brother’s attempt at greensight. Gods knew she’d been terrified for him. 

“The way Mother hates Jon,” she said flatly.

_Mother reminds me not to forget Jon, even though he’s far away._ Sansa’s words whispered in his mind.

“Your mother doesn’t hate Jon,” he said.

“She does!” Arya said, forgetting to keep her voice down. “She’s always hated him, and it doesn’t even matter now that he’s not your bastard! She still does!”

Ned dropped his cane to the floor and reached to grab his daughter’s arms with his hands. “You will not speak of your lady mother so. Do you hear me?” he demanded in a tone of voice that generally commanded instant compliance in his children.

Arya, however, still looked at him with anger burning in her eyes. “All she cares about now is Bran. I shouldn’t have made Bran go. I should have cared about Bran. Not Jon. Never Jon! Just Bran. I bet if Robb had been on the other side of the Wall, she’d have carried Bran to the godswood herself!”

“You’re wrong, Arya,” Ned told her, shaking his head.

“I am not wrong. You never saw it! You never saw how mean she was to him! I saw it, and I was only a little girl. And I’m not even good enough for her because I look like Jon!” Arya started crying then, and he removed his hands from her arms and pulled her to him. 

“Arya,” he said, holding her as she sobbed. “Arya, your mother loves you. By the gods, she loves you more than you could possibly know. She was desperate to find you. Her only thought was to find you and your sister. And when you rode toward our gates, she knew you. Don’t you recall it? She knew you, child, before anyone else even realized you were a girl.” 

She had stilled in his arms, and Ned knew she was listening to him although her face remained against the front of his cloak. The direwolf had come to stand close beside them, pressing her warm bulk against both of them. Slowly, Arya removed one of her arms from around Ned’s waist and rubbed her hand through the animal’s fur.

“Your mother loves you even more fiercely than your wolf does,” Ned said quietly, “And you know it.”

Slowly, she turned her tearstained face up to look at him. “I know it,” she said softly. “And I love her. I do. I just . . .” She stopped and bit her lower lip precisely like Cat did—the gesture putting to lie her earlier denials of her Tully heritage almost as much as her fierce loyalty to Jon did. “It’s only . . .Why can’t she love Jon, Father? Why can’t she love him even a little bit?”

The longing in Arya’s voice broke his heart as it echoed his own from all those years ago. He’d watched Catelyn with their children and prayed for her to take him into her heart as one of them even as he’d done everything to make certain she never would. If he were honest with himself, he still hoped for that, as unfair as it was of him. He could hardly fault Arya for wanting the same. Yet, he could not allow her to fault her mother for a lack of feeling that he himself and caused by his actions.

“It isn’t that simple, Arya,” he sighed, wondering how to even begin to explain the complex feelings his wife had about his erstwhile bastard and then wondering if he even had the right to try. Surely, Catelyn should be allowed to speak for herself. “Your mother doesn’t hate Jon,” he said carefully. “She resented his presence here, to be sure. But she never truly hated him. And now . . .she cares more about him than you think, child, but . . .”

“Lord Stark!”

Ned was irritated and relieved by the sound of Samwell Tarly’s voice calling to him from the stairs in almost equal measure. He wanted to speak to his daughter, but he had no idea what to say to her precisely.

“Lord Stark,” Sam repeated as he approached them. He sounded out of breath. Arya pulled herself out of Ned’s arms and bent to retrieve his cane for him. “There are two letters, Lord Stark,” Sam said when he reached them.

“From the Wall?” Ned asked at the same time Arya asked, “From Jon?”

Sam shook his head. “No. But I think you’ll want to see them right away. I brought them to your solar, but you weren’t there so I’ve been searching for you.” He hesitated. “When I went to Bran’s room, I thought of showing them to Lady Stark, but . . .”

“No,” Ned said quickly. “You were right not to trouble her. I shall come and read them, Sam, and then tell Catelyn whatever is needful. She has more than enough to worry her for the moment.”

“I thought you would say so, my lord. Will you come with me then?”

“Aye,” he sighed heavily. Turning to Arya, he said, “Nymeria may go to the godswood. You may not. There cannot be much more than an hour before the evening meal now. Go to your room and ask your sister to tell you what she shared with me about her prayers.”

“What?” Arya asked him. “Why should I . . .”

“Just do it, Arya. For once, child, simply do as you’re told.”

She looked as if she might protest only for a brief moment before replying, “Yes, Father.”

Ned watched as she let the direwolf out into the courtyard and Sam shivered at the blast of cold air the open door let into the Keep, and then he followed Sam slowly up the stairs to his solar, parting with Arya as she turned in the direction of the girls’ room.

The letters bore grim tidings indeed although nothing that required action this evening. One, Sam had opened in error for it was not actually meant for them, but for Lord Seaworth. Knowing the contents would hardly give the man ease, Ned decided he would wait until the morning to give it to him.

Dinner in the Great Hall was a fairly quick affair as the Hall was not nearly so warm as the Great Keep, and everyone wished to be back there as quickly as possible. Sansa kept her cloak on to dine, and all of the children shivered a bit, including Arya “I am made for the cold” Stark. Arya spoke little to anyone other than Sansa, but she gave Ned a nod and a half smile at one point. Ned took that and the closeness with her sister as a sign that Arya had indeed asked Sansa about her prayers. Catelyn did not come down from Bran’s room, of course.

All of the children along with Lord Seaworth, Devan, and Shireen went back to the Great Keep before he did. He remained long enough to discuss a number of mundane but necessary topics with Derek and some of his other men before trudging through the bitter cold and darkness back to the Great Keep. Torches were mounted on the walls, of course, but they seemed very small against the blackness. Ned wondered if another snowfall would come soon for there were no stars visible, meaning the sky was overcast.

He was met on his way to his chambers by Sansa.

“Mother is sleeping in her own chambers tonight.”

She managed to say it without blushing and almost managed to meet his eyes. “She is there now?” Ned asked her.

Sansa shook her head. “She will be. She just left Bran’s room, but she’s giving instructions to the guards she has just outside his room about what to do if he cries out. I don’t know long she’ll be there. Then she intends to go to the room Dak and Rickon are in as well as our room to tell everyone good night. She may stop in the nursery as well, but she won’t do more than peek in. She just fed Brien in Bran’s room.”

Ned arched his brows at her. “You seem to be very well informed about your mother’s itinerary,” he said.

She did blush a bit then. “I asked her,” she said. With a determined look on her face, she continued, “You said you and she only needed a chance for a private discussion to put all right between you. Well, here it is. Arya and I talked, Father. We talked a long time. And we need both of you. All of us need both of you—together.”

He stood in the corridor regarding his daughter silently for a moment. He knew well enough that he’d been ‘managed’ by his wife on any number of occasions over the years. This marked the first time he was certain he was being managed by his daughter. 

“All right,” he said finally. “I will go and wait to speak to your mother.”

Sansa smiled and tip-toed to kiss his cheek. She was as tall as Catelyn now, perhaps even a bit taller, Ned realized with a start. She’d been nearly as tall as her mother when they’d found her at the Eyrie—which seemed simultaneously yesterday and a hundred years ago—and had obviously grown since then. He supposed all of them were growing although he’d only noticed it in Brien. It was difficult to miss the change from a newborn to a sturdy babe now desperate to pull himself up whenever he found something to grip. The simple joys of watching the older children grow and change had been mostly lost among the near constant dangers and crises.

“Thank you, Father,” Sansa said, and then she turned to go.

Ned made his way to his wife’s chambers, knocking when he reached the door. Catelyn’s voice did not call out so he knew she was still with their children somewhere. Having bid them all goodnight himself already in the Great Hall, he decided to go into her room and wait for her. He had not seen Bran or Brien in the Great Hall, of course, but he had seen both of them in Bran’s room before he went down to the evening meal. He frowned recalling the same stiffness between him and Catelyn then as had been present for days, even when she handed him Brien.

He walked over to the little dressing table with the looking glass that had arrived with the last supply caravan from White Harbor. She had been surprised, but very pleased by it, which had pleased him. He thought of what Sansa had said about Cat praying with little carved figures in her chambers and sighed. He knew why she hadn’t told him of it. He’d broached the subject of rebuilding her sept and she had been adamantly opposed. She’d told him there were far too many other pressing needs for both their labor and their resources, and the sept must wait. She’d told him how comfortable she’d become in the godswood and assured him she could find her gods as well as his there. She likely feared the knowledge that she prayed in her chambers much as she had when they first wed would spur him to rebuild the sept anyway. And it would, if he didn’t know she’d be furious with him over it.

_She’s furious with me now,_ he thought. _And Sansa was wrong. It is about Jon._

Only that wasn’t entirely true. She’d lashed out at him first at Bran’s bedside remembering the last time he’d lain so still. She’d been angry about how he’d left her then. That had nothing to do with Jon. Only him. And Bran. Then she’d shouted at him in anger when Bran was crying in her arms over his questions. What had she said? _It doesn’t matter._ He’d been so desperate to know whether Jon lived or died. So desperate for answers. What had he told her? _I suppose it doesn’t matter to you._

Sansa’s words came back to him once more. _And Mother reminds me not to forget Jon, even though he’s far away._ Gods! He would rip out his tongue to take back his own words now. He’d spoken truly enough to Sansa when he’d told her worry for Bran had made both Cat and himself quicker to anger. Worry for Jon loomed as large on his part, but while Bran consumed her thoughts as Jon never could, he had been wrong to accuse her of not caring about Jon’s fate at all.

_Her anger is not about Jon,_ he thought miserably. _It’s about me._

He hadn’t allowed himself to contemplate any of these truths or feelings too deeply, pushing them aside as he did too often, telling himself he had to remain focused on the many important problems facing them. His daughter had more wisdom than he did. _All of us need both of you—together._ The most important thing he could possibly do was to fix this, however ill-prepared he felt.

He looked at the bed and wondered if he would be allowed to sleep in it this night. He did know Catelyn would not appreciate his assuming that she had returned to her chambers to serve his needs for all her incessant talk about duty. It was bloody hot in this room, though, as the infernal maid had laid a fire, and he thought he’d at least remove his doublet before he melted. Mayhap his boots as well, as his leg was killing him and he wanted to put it up. 

He’d removed the doublet and hung it over a chair and had just sat down and removed one boot when he heard a soft sharp intake of breath. He looked up to see his wife standing in the doorway.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said in a formal, distant sort of voice. “I should have knocked.”

“You needn’t knock, Cat. It’s your room.” He sounded irritated, and he hated that.

“I had been told you were sleeping in your chambers.” Her eyes went to the fire in the hearth. “I suppose we should extinguish that if you intend to sleep here.”

“I’m not here to sleep, dammit.”   
A look of intense anger flashed across her face, but she suppressed it almost as soon as it had appeared. “Very well, my lord,” she said coldly, and she turned her back on him as she began undoing the laces at the front of her dress.

“Gods, Cat!” he exclaimed, rising from his chair and walking toward her without even pausing to get his cane. “That isn’t what I meant. Look at me, please.” His leg throbbed painfully, but he stood still waiting for her to turn around.

Slowly, she did so, letting her hands fall from the open laces which caused the front of her dress to gape open revealing her shift. It was of thicker material than she normally wore, and he realized she had been cold these past days although she hadn’t complained of it, at least not to him. He also realized belatedly that staring at her breasts through the material of that shift was not going to contradict her belief that he’d come here to claim some sort of conjugal rights. He brought his eyes up to hers to see all too clearly that she had been aware of the direction of his gaze. She looked angry once more, but the flush on her cheeks indicated that her body had begun to respond to his gaze just as his had responded to the sight of her disrobing, and he wondered if she were now as angry with herself as with him.

“I want to talk to you, Cat. Please. Listen to me.”

She looked at him a moment, chewing on her lip as Arya had done earlier, and then she walked past him, careful not to touch him, and sat down in one of the chairs. “Talk,” she said.

He sighed. She wasn’t making this easy. He limped back to his own seat and sat down across from her.

“Why aren’t you using your cane?”

“I am. I just forgot to pick it up now.” He waved vaguely toward the floor where it lay beside the one boot he’d removed.

“You cannot forget it, Ned. I know you wish to be finished with it, and you will be. I know it. But not yet.”

“I don’t care about the cane, Catelyn. I don’t care about the leg. I want this to be mended between us.”

“What do you wish mended?” she asked him. “My lack of concern about Jon Snow?”

Ned swore again under his breath. “Can you not make this easy? Not even once?”

“What do you wish me to make easy, Ned? Tell me what it is, and I shall try my best to do it for you, although it would seem my best is not good enough.”

“Not good enough? Dammit, Cat! Why didn’t you tell me that you pray to your gods every day in this room? That you pray for Jon and remind Sansa to do the same? Why did you let me believe anything else?”

She looked shocked a moment, and when she spoke, she did not answer his question. “It would seem Sansa has been busy today. I take it she is the one who told you I would be sleeping in my chambers tonight?”

“She believed we need to speak with each other. I believe she is right.”

“I suppose Bran is in on it as well,” Catelyn said, shaking her head. “He all but ordered me from his room.”

“And Arya,” Ned added. “She spoke to me and then to Sansa as well.”

Catelyn huffed at that. “Arya! She’s speaking to me less than you are! She is her father’s daughter, you know, full of righteous indignation over my hatred of Jon Snow.”

Ned knew she spoke from a place of pain, and he tried with difficulty to keep his temper. “She is her mother’s daughter,” he countered. “Too protective of her family to see that her protection is sometimes unnecessary.”

“Damn you, Eddard Stark,” she said between clenched teeth, rising from her chair and walking away from him before turning to fling at him, “Don’t you dare compare our thirteen year old daughter’s fit of temper to my concerns that a bastard of unknown maternity raised alongside the trueborn heir to Winterfell and taught to view himself as a brother and equal to that heir might be a threat someday. Don’t you dare compare those things because they are not the same!”

Ned nearly shouted that Jon had never been any threat to their children, but he remembered that he had made it nearly impossible for her to believe that with his own reticence about the boy’s origins. “They are not the same,” he conceded. “But the feelings giving rise to them are similar, even if Arya’s are still immature. You and she are far more alike than either of you acknowledges. I have told you that, my love.”

Her reaction to his calling her ‘my love’ was almost imperceptible, but he knew her well enough to see that it affected her. He only wished he could tell more clearly how. “Did you come here to discuss our children, my lord?” she asked him.

“No. At least not primarily. Cat, why did you not tell me how you prayed for Jon? Why do let me believe you care less than you do what happens to him?”

“What would you have me do, Ned? Reassure you at every chance that I do not actively wish for your bastard’s death? My gods! I have done nothing but support you in everything you have done concerning Jon since I learned the truth of his parentage! Even before that, I did nothing but abide by your wishes concerning his place here. Shall I make him a cloak with a direwolf upon it and send it to the Wall? Shall I ask him to call me Mother? The boy wouldn’t want either, I assure you!”

Ned put his face in his hands. He was doing this all wrong. “No, I don’t want that, and neither would Jon. You are correct.” He raised his eyes again to look up at her where she stood. He’d like to go to her, but he didn’t want the damn cane, and he feared he’d fall without it. “When I was questioning Bran and you stopped me, I accused you of not caring what happened to Jon,” he said softly. “Do you recall that?”

“Very well, my lord,” she said, pronouncing each word with great precision. Her blue eyes bored into him and her expression was hard as stone—the expression she wore when hiding some great pain or fear. _Gods forgive me, this is the heart of it,_ he thought.

“Why did you not tell me I was wrong?” he asked her.

She looked at him incredulously then. “Why did you believe you were right?”

“You said that what Bran had seen did not matter.”

“I said that our hearing about it did not matter,” she snapped. “Not then. Not when it had already happened and could not be changed. Whether Jon had lived or died, he would remain alive or dead whether you knew it or not. And as much as I love you, your peace of mind on that count did not matter as much as our son’s at that moment. He was terrified, Ned!”

“I know,” he said. “I was wrong to push him so. I concede that.”

“Yet, you continued to push.”

“I did. Gods forgive me, I did.” He shook his head. “But I had to know. I realize you can’t understand that, but I had to know, Cat!”

“Can’t understand it? Gods be good, Ned, do you think I don’t know what the boy is to you? Whoever fathered him? I have six children, my lord. I know what you felt. But I had to care for Bran. I had to care for the child that was with us—the one we could hold and keep safe.”

“Arya said if it had been Robb across the Wall, you’d have carried Bran to the godswood yourself.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them, but he had no time to reflect upon that before he felt the sting of her hand across his face. She’d crossed the room and slapped him in what seemed a single motion.

“How dare you?” she asked, her shaky voice a mere whisper. “Arya is a hurt, angry child. She doesn’t know what she says. But how dare you repeat such a thing to me?”

“Cat, I’m sorry,” he said. The words that came so difficult to his lips, the words he should have spoken when she first came into the room, now tumbled from his lips in desperation.

“For what?” she asked, and suddenly he was back in a clearing not far from Riverrun, having just shattered her world. She had asked the same thing there when he’d said ‘I’m sorry’ and begged her forgiveness.

“For all of it,” he said, repeating his words from that terrible day. She did not look so broken now as she had then, but she remained angry, and he knew his words were not enough. “For holding my pride above yours. For believing somehow that I have the right to stand by my decisions regardless of the cost and then punishing you for what follows from that. I am sorry, Cat.”

She looked at him a long while, and her expression softened just the smallest bit. “What Arya said,” she said softly. “It isn’t true. If Robb were in the far North in peril, I’d walk to your damned Wall myself, but I would not use any of my children for the benefit of any other. I swear that to you. My gods, Ned, do you have any idea how it tore me in pieces when I could not be with all of them? When I had to choose to leave Rickon and Robb and Bran in order to warn you and the girls about the assassin. When I had to choose to stay and help Robb rather than return to Rickon and Bran. Every day, I hated myself for the choice even when I knew I had to make it. I could never, never use one of them simply as a tool or device. You believe that, don’t you?”

There were tears running down her face now, and he realized that she honestly feared he might not believe her. He got to his feet, ignoring the protest of his bad leg. “Of course, my love. I believe you. I know that as surely as I know my own name. As surely as I know that you are everything our children deserve and more than I deserve. I love you, Cat, and I would rather tear out my own heart than cause you pain. I am sorry. For all of it.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she said then. “I was so frightened, Ned—watching him lie there. Frightened for Bran . . .and frightened that I would lose myself again—like I did before. I can’t lose myself, Ned. The children need me. They need both of us, and I let my fears make me cruel.”

“No, Cat. Not cruel. You spoke from fear and anger, but not cruelty. And after my own angry words, you kept silent from both pain and pride. I cannot begrudge you that when I have done so far too many times.”

“I love you, Ned. You must know that.”

He opened his arms, and she came into them. Simply the feel of her there somehow made it easier to stand on his leg. Easier to keep his balance. As if she were his anchor in the world. “I do know that,” he whispered into her hair. “And I love you as well, my lady.” 

Then his lips were on hers, a hard possessive sort of kiss that would likely leave her lips bruised, but she was kissing him back with equal force. All their hurts were not healed. Their anger had not completely burned out, but they had reached a point where their need of each other had become bigger than those things. 

He couldn’t think at all as his hands moved over her body. Everything they had been through these last few days seemed to be pouring itself out into her embrace, and while she seemed to feel some of that same desperation, she at least had the presence of mind to push him back on the bed, gently lifting his bad leg up to it before gripping the other leg to tug off the boot he still wore.

Then he pulled her down on top of him, kissing her once more, marveling in the feel of her weight on him. She was pushing up his shirt to get her hands on his skin beneath it and he felt her nails raking her chest and reaching beneath him to rake his back as well in an act probably fueled by both anger and passion.

He put his own hands to her shoulders, tugging at the loosened dress and her shift until they both fell down her arms, revealing her breasts to him. He immediately raised up and put his mouth to one of her dark nipples, sucking hard and tasting the sweetness of her mother’s milk hit his tongue. 

She moaned at what he was doing, but then pulled away from him. He started to protest until he realized that she was freeing her arms entirely from her sleeves so that she could undo the laces of his breeches. The dress, which must be one with no laces in the back fell to her waist, and he reached up to push the shift down that far as well. Then he grasped both her breasts with his hands as she straddled him and continued to work at freeing his cock which was painfully hard now.

She got the breeches undone and gripped him, sliding her hand up and down and making him cry out. Then she stood again, pushing her dress, shift, and smallclothes down with one movement. Ned sat up to push his breeches and smallclothes down to his ankles and kick them off as he watched her step from the dress. 

They both laughed as they realized simultaneously that she was still wearing her shoes, but when she bent to unlace them, he said, “No,” and reached out to pull her back to the bed. She fell down upon him, laughing once more, but then she straddled him again and neither cared that she still wore her shoes or that he still wore his shirt.

She took him inside her and began to move up and down upon him almost violently, as if riding a particularly wild horse. He gripped her hips so tightly, some small part of his brain warned that he was likely hurting her, that her fair skin would bruise. She didn’t seem to care, and neither did he. His hips bucked beneath her of their own accord, striving to get him even deeper within her as she rode him.

Neither of them lasted long, and when they both climaxed—her body tensing and shivering, his cock spilling his seed inside her—they were both crying the other’s name, and Ned had no thought whatever about Jon or Bran or Others or anything besides the sight and scent and taste and feel of his wife. 

Much later, after they had made love once again—after smothering the fire in the hearth and removing his shirt and her shoes—much more slowly and with a good bit more tenderness, they lay tangled together.

“Ned,” she said softly. “I meant what I said about our children. I would not have used Bran in such a manner.”

“I know it,” he told her, stroking her hair.

“But had it been Robb beyond that Wall, or any of our children, and Bran had done what he did . . .I would have questioned him, just as you did.”

He raised his head to kiss the top of her head where it lay on his chest. “I know that, too,” he said softly.

She raised up to look at him. “Does that make you angry?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “It makes you a mother. And I already know how fiercely you love all our children, Cat. I do not expect you to love anyone else the same way.”

She sighed, and lay back down. “It’s hard,” she said. “I don’t hate him, Ned. I truly don’t.” She paused. “I even like him, to be honest, now that I actually know the man. And he is a man, not a boy. But the past doesn’t go away. I cannot make it go, even if I try. And so it easier for me to open myself to Dak than to my nephew—the blood of my husband and children.”

“Cat . . .you do not have to explain yourself to me. The past is what I made it.”

“I want to let go of it, and simply move forward. But I can’t truly let go of any of it. Not entirely. Not Jon. Not the Lannisters. Not Littlefinger. Not . . .The Twins. Never Robb, I don’t want to let go of Robb. I suppose I shall have to simply learn to carry it all and move forward.”

“We all must do that, Cat. Even the children. None of us can escape the old wounds entirely. But I am glad I have you to help me carry my burdens. And I shall ever be here to help you carry yours.”

She sighed then and spoke no more before falling asleep. He couldn’t see her scars in the darkness, but he lightly traced the marks on her cheeks with his fingers. The scars didn’t disappear simply because he could not see them, and they never would. But scarred or not, the Starks of Winterfell would move forward.


	77. Finding the Way Forward

Sansa Stark balanced her baby brother on her hip as she walked through the corridor to her brothers’ room. Only Bran would be there now, of course. Even if Rickon and Dak hadn’t both been sleeping in Dak’s room (the one Dak only used infrequently prior to Bran’s illness because all three boys liked to stay together), they would both be in the Great Hall by now. Meals were tightly rationed, but as the morning meals were served to people as they arrived rather than formally served once the family was seated, early arrivals could often procure more food than latecomers. The boys had learned this trick quite well and were almost always among the first in Winterfell to break their fasts, sharing the Hall only with the men coming off late night guard duty.

Sansa laughed, thinking about it. Dak and Rickon were forever hungry. Bran, too, when he wasn’t sick—even though he couldn’t run about the way the other boys did. “It must be all boys,” Sansa said to Brien as she switched him to her other hip to save the arm that had been holding him. “You eat constantly, Ser Glutton! If it weren’t for Letty, poor Mother would never get a moment’s peace!”

Brien grinned up at her as she spoke, showing off all six of his teeth before squealing loudly and then babbling a string of nonsense that contained a lot of da and ba sounds. Sansa laughed at him. He was as full as a tick now, having suckled from Mother and eaten a good deal of bread Father had softened in broth and given him in bits.

Sansa smiled as she recalled the scene she’d discovered in her mother’s chambers this morning. She’d gone to her mother’s room ostensibly to see if Mother would like her to sit with Bran so she could go down to the Great Hall to break her fast for the first time in days, but she’d truly gone to see how things stood between her parents. As it had been plain enough that her father had slept there, things must be a good deal better than they had been.

“Bran!” she called, using her free hand to rap on the door she had just reached. Surely her brother was awake now. There was no guard outside his door, and she couldn’t imagine the men Mother had put there leaving unless they had been sent away. And Mother has obviously not left her room, Sansa thought with a smile, so Bran must have dismissed them himself.

“Come in, Sansa!” her brother called, and she pushed the door open. To her surprise, Bran was not alone. 

“Arya!” she cried. “I thought you’d still be asleep.” Her sister had tossed and turned well into the night, and Sansa thought she still looked very tired.

“Not if I want fed,” Arya said with a snort. “If you don’t get to the Hall by the time Dak and Rickon do, there’s nothing good left!”

“You’ve already eaten?” Sansa asked, surprised. Arya had been sound asleep when she’d left their room earlier.

Arya jerked her head toward the little table by the window, and Sansa saw there a tray laden with a good deal of food. She tilted her own head and raised her brow at Arya in silent question.

Arya rolled her eyes. “Gods, you look like Mother when you do that.” But then she grinned. “As soon as I told the cooks I wanted to take food to Bran, they loaded the tray like that. Apparently, they think his problem is starvation!”

“We were just getting ready to eat, Sansa,” Bran put in. “There’s plenty for you, if you’d like to join us. Have you been to the nursery?”

“What? Oh!” In her surprise at seeing Arya and then more food than she’d seen on a single tray in some time, she’d all but forgotten Brien in spite of the fact that she was unconsciously bouncing up and down where she stood to keep him content on her hip. “No, I . . .”

“Ba!” Brien cried out then, reaching in the direction of the tray which he appeared to have just noticed. “Ba!”

“I think he’s hungry,” Arya said.

“He can’t be,” Sansa said, rolling her own eyes. “He just ate. Give me that hard roll, though. He might like to chew on it.”

Arya complied, and Brien eagerly reached out to grab it in both hands, putting it quickly to his mouth as he did most things.

“Won’t he choke?” Bran asked, looking concerned. 

“No. Not if we watch him. Mother’s been giving him things like this to chew on a lot. She says he’s getting another tooth, and gnawing helps soothe his gums. She’d rather him chew on hard bread than on her!”

“Eww!” Arya said, and Bran’s cheeks colored slightly, but Sansa ignored both of them and sat Brien on the floor at her feet. He sat well now, and as long as he didn’t roll around with the bread in his mouth, she didn’t think he’d choke. She would be careful of him. He seemed content to remain there gnawing on the bit of bread so she looked up again at Bran to find him staring down at their youngest brother. 

“He looks so much like Father,” he said softly. “Like a true Stark of Winterfell.”

“We’re all Starks!” Arya insisted quickly, shooting Bran an irritated look that made Sansa wonder what sort of conversation she had interrupted between them. “Trueborn children of Lord Eddard Stark.” She made that last pronouncement in a voice obviously meant to mockingly mimic Mother, and Sansa frowned.

Before she could say anything, Bran said, “Where did you find Brien? If you didn’t go to the nursery, I mean.”

Sansa smiled at her brother then, knowing that whatever was bothering him or Arya this morning, she could make him smile with this news. “In Mother’s room,” she said. “With Mother and Father.”

Bran studied her face carefully, and then he smiled himself. “So they’re all right now? You found out what was bothering them?”

“They certainly seemed all right. Father obviously slept there last night. And they were smiling at each other again.”

“But did they tell you what upset them?” Bran asked insistently. He looked worried. Almost frightened. And Sansa couldn’t put her finger on why that might be.

“Bran,” she said. “It isn’t our concern why Mother and Father get angry with each other. They aren’t angry now. They love each other. And they love us. Nothing will change that, and that’s all we need to know.”

“That sounds like something Mother would say,” Arya said rather darkly. “But it isn’t an answer.”

“Arya . . .” Sansa started.

“I already told you what was wrong with them, Bran,” Arya said. “She was mad because we tried to help Jon. So she probably said something horrible to Father and caused him to be upset.”

“No . . .,” Bran said. “I told you what happened when Father asked me what I saw. I was so scared. Arya! I was shaking and I couldn’t stop. And I didn’t want to think about it, and he was asking me, and I couldn’t stand it and . . . Mother just wanted me to stop being scared. It was me, Arya. Mother was trying to protect me.”

“From Father? That’s ridiculous! Father would never hurt you!”

“Of course, he wouldn’t! But I was scared, and I couldn’t . . . I just couldn’t stand seeing it, Arya. It was my fault. All of it was my fault.” 

Sansa wasn’t certain she understood this conversation, but her brother looked both frightened and guilty now.

“Don’t be stupid, Bran! You didn’t do . . .” Arya started.

“You don’t know what I did!”

“Stop it, both of you,” Sansa finally broke in. She didn’t realize she’d shouted it until Brien suddenly emitted a loud wail, and she looked down to see him still sitting there at her feet, a rather chewed up piece of bread held tightly in his chubby baby fist as he stared up at her. He was silent for a brief moment after that solitary screech, but then scrunched up his face and began truly crying.

Frustrated with all her siblings, Sansa scooped him up and began bouncing him, humming the Silver Ribbons song under breath, and praying he would be easily calmed. At least his cries had silenced the other two who now stared at her as she stood there with the baby.

When he finally began to quiet, Arya asked, “Why’d you bring him here anyway?”

“To see Bran,” Sansa snapped, and Brien made a short, unhappy sound at the sharp tone of her voice. Struggling to keep her voice calm, she continued. “Mother and Father were going to meet Lord Seaworth in Father’s solar. Something about a letter. They’d had food brought to them as well. Not nearly so much as the two of you are letting to go to waste over there while you argue.”

Bran looked mildly abashed at that, and Arya bit her lip.

Sansa continued. “Mother was going to call Letty to take Brien back to the nursery, but I volunteered to take him. I’d already promised her I’d come and stay with you, Bran, and I thought you’d like to see him. I wanted to make you happy, not start an argument.”

“You didn’t really start it, Sansa,” Arya admitted. “We were sort of arguing before you came in. Bran thinks everything is his fault and . . . “

“And you think everything is Mother’s,” Sansa said, shaking her head.

“Well, it isn’t Jon’s fault!”

“Don’t shout, Arya. You’ll have Brien crying again. And no one said anything was Jon’s fault.”

“Mother . . .”

“Prays for Jon every day. I know that because I pray with her. And I told you that yesterday. Have you decided not to believe me?”

Arya looked uncertain. “No. I believe you,” she finally said. “But I don’t think you can just stop hating a person however much you pray.” She looked from Sansa to Bran and then to the food on the table. “I’m not hungry. You two eat it.” 

Sansa watched as her sister left the room without another word. “What is wrong with her?” she muttered under her breath.

“She’s worried about Jon,” Bran answered, and Sansa turned back to him.

“We’re all worried about Jon,” she said.

“I know,” Bran told her. “But Mother’s not as worried about him as Arya thinks she should be.”

Sansa sighed deeply, but before she could respond, Bran said, “You don’t need to defend Mother to me, Sansa. I’m not angry with her. And Arya’s not really as angry with her as she thinks she is. She’s just protective of Jon.”

Sansa gave a sad little laugh. “She always was.”

“I remember.”

“You were only seven when we left, Bran. How much do you really remember . . . from before?”

Bran shrugged. “I don’t know. I remember how things felt. I remember how Mother smelled when she kissed me goodnight, and how Father’s beard scratched my cheek when he did. I remember snowball fights and Mother teaching us swimming in the hot pools. I remember how it felt the first day I was allowed to train with Ser Rodrik with my wooden sword, and how it felt to climb.” He paused then and looked very far away. “I can feel my hands gripping onto the stones and my legs moving until my toes found the perfect spot for the next step up. I could always find that spot. Climbing always felt right even when Mother told me it was wrong. I remember how Theon kicked the man’s head the day Father took me to see the execution of the deserter from the Night’s Watch.”

“Theon kicked the man’s head? After Father had . . .”

Bran nodded. Sansa recalled how she’d felt when Joffrey had held up her father’s head. _It wasn’t Father. It was never Father. Father is in Winterfell. Alive. Safe._ “That’s a hideous thing to do,” she whispered.

“I know. He laughed.” Bran shook his head slightly as if to clear that particular memory away. “I was more frightened by the whole thing than I’d admit. I wanted Father to be proud.”

“I’ve no doubt he was,” Sansa assured him, still trying push some of her own memories from her mind. _Father and Mother are here. Together. They were never killed. I am looking at Bran now. He and Rickon were never killed._

“That’s the day Jon and Robb found our wolf pups,” Bran said, smiling suddenly.

“That’s right. I’d forgotten.” Bran had spoken of remembering how things felt, and Sansa’s skin remembered the soft warmth of Lady’s fur when Robb had put the wiggling pup into her arms and she’d pressed her face against her. Lady had been so small then.

“I’m sorry, Sansa. I shouldn’t . . .”

She hadn’t realized that tears had filled her eyes until Bran looked at her in alarm. Quickly, she wiped away the single tear that had escaped to slide down her cheek. “No,” she said quickly. “That was a happy day. I don’t mind remembering it.” _It’s the other day I don’t want to remember. When Father . . . when Father . . ._ She couldn’t form the words even in her mind. She had believed her father would protect her. She’d believed he could make everything right. But he hadn’t. Everything had been terrible then, and she’d been so angry with him and even angrier at Arya. She could feel the heat of that anger even now, mingled with grief and loss.

“It was Jon’s doing,” she heard Bran saying, and the words confused her. Jon had not even been there when Lady died.

“What?”

“Theon thought to kill them, since their mother was dead. Even Father thought that would be the kindest thing to do. But Jon said no. He told Father there were five pups. Five direwolves—our sigil—five wolves for the five trueborn children of Lord Stark.”

Sansa wrinkled her brow. “Six,” she corrected him. “There were six pups.”

Bran shook his head slowly. “Not at first. Ghost wasn’t by the dead wolf. He’d crawled away—apart from his brothers and sisters. Jon wanted to keep the pups, too. I could tell when he said it, but he counted himself out so that the numbers would work. We’d already started back when he heard Ghost and rode back to find him.”

“I never knew that,” Sansa said quietly. “Robb only said that he and Jon had found the pups and that you all convinced Father to allow us to have them.”

Bran smiled. “I loved Jon more than ever that day.”

“It’s hard to believe that was nearly four years ago,” Sansa said. “I remember that day like yesterday. And yet it seems four lifetimes ago in some ways.”

“I know. Brien’s asleep.”

“Oh!” She’d nearly forgotten her youngest brother was still in her arms, but Bran was right. His head lay warm against her shoulder, and her arms had started to ache from holding him so long. “I should take him to the nursery.”

“Will you come back and break your fast with me?”

Bran had sounded very grown up during all their conversation, but that question was asked by a boy still frightened enough by whatever had happened to him that he did not wish to be alone.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll come right back.”

As she was turning to go, however, something Arya had said came back to her. “Bran,” she asked. “What did Arya mean when she said you were trying to help Jon? She meant ‘see’ Jon, didn’t she? You don’t actually go anywhere when you see with the trees, right?”

Bran couldn’t meet her eyes. He looked down at his legs, thin and motionless beneath the cover on his bed. “I was stupid. I thought . . . maybe I could warn him somehow, but . . .”

“You couldn’t?” she asked gently.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly and didn’t look up. Some words of his own from earlier struck Sansa then. “Bran,” she said very gently. “You told Arya she didn’t know what you did. What did you mean by that?”

Her brother looked up at her then, and she almost staggered back from him for the pain and guilt in his eyes struck her with the force of a physical blow. “Don’t ask me, Sansa,” he said in a pleading whisper. “Please . . . don’t ask me that.”

Haunted. That was the only word for her brother’s expression as he spoke those words. He looked at once younger than Rickon and older than Father, and while it made her feel craven, Sansa realized she didn’t want to know whatever it was that put that expression on his face. She didn’t want to add to her collection of horrifying images and dreadful knowledge.

“I won’t, Bran,” she said softly. “I promise I’ll never ask you about it again.” 

He looked relieved, and she left with Brien after assuring him once more that she’d be right back. As she walked toward the nursery, she realized she wasn’t truly certain if she’d given that promise for Bran’s sake or her own.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Ned had watched his elder daughter walk from the room, enjoying the bounce in her step and the smile on her face as she cooed to Brien about going to see his big brother.

“It would seem she’s feeling rather pleased with herself,” Catelyn said, and he looked up from where he sat to see his wife smiling toward the door through which Sansa and the babe had just disappeared.

She had been seated before her new dressing table, braiding her hair as he and Sansa had fed Brien bits of bread, but she had stood up as Sansa left. Ned smiled at her.

“I confess I’m rather pleased with her myself,” he said, holding out his hand toward her. He’d stand up and go to her, but he had no wish to listen to her scold him over his leg. In truth, it felt remarkably better after a night’s sleep in her warm chambers with her beside him, but she had still insisted upon his remaining here rather than going to the Great Hall to break his fast. Not that he had minded as she remained with him.

She laughed and the sound of it warmed his heart, but she took his hand only a moment before dropping it to turn back toward the looking glass above her dressing table and patting her hair. He smiled at the way she frowned at the few stubborn strands already attempting to escape and curl around her face. He rather liked the way her hair did that.

“I suppose we should go to your solar, my love,” she said reluctantly. “Lord Seaworth has been summoned and may already have arrived.”

Ned scowled.. He’d spoken briefly to Catelyn of the letters before Sansa’s arrival had caused them to dwell once more upon pleasant things. “Likely the man has gone to the Great Hall to break his own fast. I wouldn’t expect him to cut his meal short. I’d like you to read Lord Tyrion’s letter for yourself, Cat.”

The last vestiges of the mornings sweet levity left her face then. “Is there more than you have told me, Ned?” she asked him.

“No,” he said thoughtfully. “I believe I told you everything substantial. But it was addressed to the both of us, and you know the damned man better than I do. I’d like to know if you see anything in his words I have missed.”

“Very well,” she answered, walking to to the table to pick up the larger of the two parchments there. 

When she started to sit down, Ned stopped her. “Come here,” he said, patting his lap. “Sit with me so I may read it again as well.”

She smirked and shook her head. “Ned, your leg is . . .”

“My leg is much better than yesterday, and you can sit on this side anyway.” She continued shaking her head. “Please, Cat.”

She made an exasperated sound between a laugh and a sigh, but came to sit on his lap, careful to put most of her weight on the thigh of his good leg.

“There,” he said, putting his arms around her waist. “This is rather pleasant, isn’t it?”

“Ned,” she cautioned him as he kissed the back of her neck. “If you want me to pay a bit of attention to this letter, you must refrain from distracting me.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said dutifully, pulling his head back from hers. As he looked at the long auburn braid before him, a bright glint caught his eye. Her hair always caught the light of the candles, but this was brighter. Fascinated, he realized he saw a single snow white strand woven among the myriad reds, visible only along two turns of the braid where it had been pulled to the surface. His finger reached out of its own accord to trace it.

“Ned,” she cautioned him as she continued reading.

He almost said something, but held his tongue. She was not a vain woman, his wife, but he knew the scars on her face sometimes troubled her more than she acknowledged, and she’d taken to speaking of herself as ‘old’ at times in spite of the fact that she still suckled their son and would likely do so for another year at least. He thought the sparkle of the white strand was beautiful. It resembled not at all the dull, stone grey that replaced more of his own dark brown with each passing moon’s turn it seemed. No, it was not grey at all, but white with perhaps a glint of silver. It looked as if she had a tiny bit of snow caught in her hair, and he’d always liked her with snow in her hair. He didn’t get to see that as often as he’d like as she always bundled herself in her thickest hooded cloak when the snow fell. 

Thinking about her hair and the way she looked in snow, while smelling the scent of her and feeling her warm against him even through all their clothes was almost too much for him after the days of painful distance they’d only so recently bridged. If he allowed his mind to continue along this path, he’d have them both out of their clothes again, and Lord Seaworth would be waiting a very long time. Sighing, he put his hands on her arms and shifted her slightly to the side so that he could read over her shoulder, hoping that the sobering words of Tyrion Lannister could distract him from the increasingly tempting images of his wife that his mind was supplying.

_Dear Lord and Lady Stark,_

_I hope this missive finds you and your entire brood well enough. Upon arriving to Castle Darry, I learned that Her Grace, Queen Daenerys had already left Riverrun for King’s Landing. Indeed, it seems she has taken King’s Landing for what it’s worth. Ser Barristan informs me that the Queen has already written you of events in Riverrun. No doubt Lord Edmure did likewise, so I shall not repeat those here._

_As to the events in King’s Landing, I report only what I have been told or have read as my last view of that godsforsaken place was from tunnels below the Black Cells. I believe you are familiar with that particular view, Lord Stark._

_Ser Barristan, the Queen’s pet Northman, and the bulk of the Queen’s men had arrived at Darry before me, and Her Grace had already come and gone again prior to my arrival. Our men had brought a letter to her which had come to Dragonstone not long before they departed there, from Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden and Hand to the Usurper Tommen._

_It seems that Lord Tyrell’s fealty to my young nephew to did not run as deeply as his fear of those Ironborn ships reaving their way up the Mander toward Highgarden. Goodson or no, he offered Tommen up to Queen Daenerys if she would turn her dragons upon Euron Greyjoy. As that was her plan in any event, she saw no reason not to at least meet with the man before continuing on to the Reach. She ordered Ser Jorah to lead part of our forces toward King’s Landing, left Ser Barristan and the remainder of our force here to wait for myself and the men I bring from you, and she flew directly to King’s Landing._

_As Lord Mace had requested in his letter to her, she merely circled her black dragon over the city too high to be hit by longbows and had the beast breathe fire into the air. As if that were some sort of signal, it seemed that fighting broke out among the troops already within King’s Landing. The Queen was too far above the city to see the events clearly, but essentially Tyrell-controlled forces were falling upon any forces that might prove loyal to Tommen or House Lannister, not that there were many of those._

_The Warrior’s Sons were a bigger problem. While the Faith has no great love of House Lannister, the High Septon and his soldiers have been proclaiming Tommen the true king in the name of the Seven. They would not disavow him lightly. I am not certain precisely what took place, for Her Grace’s letter was not detailed, but Mace Tyrell somehow made it known to the High Septon that Queen Daenerys had promised to have her dragon burn the Great Sept to the ground if the city did not surrender. This, in fact, was a lie, but it did result in the High Septon ordering his men to lay down their arms. Targaryen banners were raised in the city, and Queen Daenerys landed in front of the Great Sept upon Drogon’s back to find all before her bending the knee._

_Tyrell had his daughter beside him, but my sweet sister and her little boy king were notably absent, and Tyrell informed the Queen that they were dead. She demanded to know if they had been murdered as Queen Elia and her children had been, and Tyrell assured her that was not the case. They had been placed under arrest and had somehow obtained poison which they took of their own accord. I do not know the truth of it, although I do not believe Tommen would do such a thing. He may have, under the explicit direction of his mother, but I believe it far more likely that Cersei simply gave the boy his drink without a word as to what was in it, making certain he drank it down before she drank her own. If, indeed, this was Cersei’s doing. She is capable of it, I am certain of that._

_But Mace Tyrell has now sworn fealty to Aerys Targaryen, Robert Baratheon, Renly Baratheon, Joffrey, Tommen, and Daenerys Targaryen. A man willing to bend to so many kings is likely capable of murder as well. Daenerys believes it of him in any event, and when she discovered what he had told the High Septon about her, she became wroth indeed. Mace Tyrell is now absent his head, executed for the treasonous murder of his king, Tommen Baratheon, whether he is guilty of the boy’s death or not._

_Tommen has no heirs recognized by the Faith, so with his death the High Septon can in good conscience declare for Queen Daenerys. She left King’s Landing with the Warrior’s Sons controlling the city in her name until our men shall arrive there. Margaery Tyrell Baratheon Baratheon Baratheon is now a hostage in the Red Keep against her brother Lord Willas Tyrell’s good behavior, and Queen Daenerys has departed for the Reach in order to halt the progress of the Ironborn. She intends to stop at Highgarden and offer the new Lord Tyrell a chance to bend the knee, and I have sent a raven there at the behest of Lady Greyjoy asking the Queen to seek out Lord Rodrik Harlaw if possible before indiscriminately burning all the squids. I cannot know if the letter will reach her in time or if she will heed it if it does, but I have sent it._

_Lady Greyjoy herself now travels south with all possible haste with Ser Barristan and the vast majority of the men gathered here from all sources. They are to make for the Reach, and that is a long march._

_I am to go west with a much smaller force and assert my authority as the Lord of Casterly Rock, accepting fealty from the western Houses to myself and Queen Daenerys. With no dragon and few soldiers, I am not certain how the Queen expects me to accomplish this task. It would seem I have failed to impress upon her how little loved I am in the land of my birth._

_I intend to go by way of Riverrun. I have written Lord Edmure of my coming. If Lady Stark could find it in her heart to write as well, asking that I be received, if not with courtesy, at least not with crossbows either. I would like to take the Westerlings from Riverrun. Without my father to scheme for them, I do not believe them capable of causing great problems for anyone on their own, and if I restore a noble family of the West to their rightful home, it may aid my cause there._

_May the gods look favorably upon all of us, may they grant Queen Daenerys wisdom as she reclaims her realm, and may they ease the famine and pestilence all of wars have left behind._

_I would ask one more thing of you, Lady Stark, although I have no right to do so. If they have not been flung into the river, I would like to take my brother’s bones to Casterly Rock. If you could intercede with your brother in this on my behalf, I would consider myself in your debt. And a Lannister always pays his debts._

_Lord Tyrion Lannister_

Catelyn had started reading the letter before Ned did, and yet she remained silent even after he finished it once more. After a moment, he spoke her name softly. “Cat?”

“You did not tell me he wanted the Kingslayer’s bones.” She didn’t sound angry, only tired and even a bit sad.

“No,” he said, shifting her in his lap so that she could face him. “I thought the man should make his request to you in his own words, not mine.”

She looked at him, and he could see both pain and the deep seated hatred he knew she felt for Jaime Lannister in her eyes. “We did as much for the Freys,” she said flatly. “It is only right.”

Ned nodded. “This is Edmure’s decision, my love. You needn’t take it upon yourself if you do not wish it.”

Catelyn gave a tiny little snort. “Edmure will abide by my wishes in this matter, Ned, and you know it. He let the bloody man out of the dungeon when I asked it of him for Brienne’s sake.”

Ned simply nodded once more, waiting for her to say all in her heart, for he could see she was troubled.

“I hate him, Ned,” she said after a moment. “I hate him no less now that he’s dead. Every time I see Bran in that chair, every time I see how thin and twisted his legs have become, every time I think how those legs ran and jumped and climbed and . . .” She stopped speaking, choking off a sob before it could escape. “Every time I see what he did to my son, I hate him,” she said slowly in a tightly controlled voice.

“You needn’t write Edmure at all if you don’t want to, Cat,” Ned told her firmly. It was difficult to keep the hatred out of his own voice after listening to her speak of what the Kingslayer had done to their son.

“Yes,” she said. “I must write him, Ned. Because it is only right. And because it is not for Jaime Lannister. That man is dead wherever his bones lie, and dead he will remain as he deserves to be.” She touched a hand to his cheek. “It is only to the living that the bones of the dead matter. I once sat a whole night with bones I believed to be yours, distraught because I could not find you there. Yet, even so, I could not leave those bones all that night, and I wanted them in Winterfell because this is your place.”

“My love,” he started to say, seeking some words to comfort her. He hated the pain in her voice, hated that each of them could still recall so clearly how it felt to lose the other even as they sat here in each other’s arms.

“I am well, my love,” she told him. “But I would give Tyrion Lannister his brother’s bones. I wronged him once. I can do rightly by him in this.” She patted his cheek and then stood up, and he hated the loss of her in his lap even though he knew they did need to go soon to his solar.

“So what of the rest of the letter?” he asked her. “Do you agree with me?”

“That Lannister is less than happy with Daenerys’s actions? Yes.” She gave brief laugh. “As I read, I imagined the words spoken in his voice. Gods know I’ve had to listen to it enough. He’s not fool enough to criticize the queen openly in a letter, but I can hear his exasperation, Ned. They had a plan. She chose to disregard it. And she chose to do so without consulting him. That bothers him.”

“I can’t say I blame him,” Ned said grimly. “It doesn’t appear things have gone too badly for her thus far, but she has made some rather bold moves with no real plan. Taking Mace Tyrell’s head?” He shook his own head. “Willas Tyrell will bend the knee because he has little choice, but I fear he will bear little love for the woman who killed his father, whether the man deserved it or not.”

“You never did like him, did you?” Catelyn said. “Mace Tyrell, I mean.”

“No,” Ned said simply, thinking back on what he’d found at Storm’s End in the waning days of the Rebellion. “I did not like him.”

“Well, Tyrion Lannister doesn’t think he killed little Tommen. He lays that the feet of his sister.”

Ned raised his eyebrows. “Truly? He stated he doesn’t know the truth and allowed for both possibilities, I thought.”

She sighed. “He doesn’t know the truth, my lord. But I have heard him speak of his sister, and I’ve watched his face when he did so. I’ve no idea how well the man knew Mace Tyrell, but he knew Cersei Lannister very well, and he believes her fully capable of such an act. She would prefer death over surrender, and she would not have her son surrender either.”

“You agree with him,” Ned said.

Catelyn shrugged slightly. “I knew Cersei very little although it was more than I would have wished,” she said. “But to know her at all was to know her pride. You know she held it higher than anything else except possibly her ambition. I could not even imagine her suffering the punishment meted out to her by the Faith when we heard about it. And I certainly cannot conceive of her ever allowing herself be dragged naked through the streets or shamed publicly again if she could find any way to escape it. Even death.”

“So you think Daenerys executed Tyrell unjustly?”

She shrugged once more. “The man certainly committed treason against the king he had sworn himself to whether he killed him or not. Against his own son by marriage. And he certainly lied to the Faith concerning Daenerys’s intentions. Those facts are not in dispute. Whether or not his execution for those things was done justly or not, I cannot say. I will say it was done unwisely for the same reasons you gave, my lord. Tyrell had revealed both his own weakness and Tommen Baratheon’s when he sent that letter to Dragonstone. Daenerys could have let him be until after dealing with the Ironborn.” She shook her head. “She is so young. No doubt the chance to take back her father’s seat in King’s Landing appealed greatly to her.”

“Anything else you read in the letter?”

“He’s angry at being sent to Casterly Rock. Like King’s Landing, the Lannister lands could wait. He thinks, probably rightly, that she’s sending him out of the way because she knows she’s gone off the plan and doesn’t want to hear from him about it. And he knows she doesn’t have any idea what a potentially dangerous situation she’s sending him into without a dragon at his back. And, of course, he wants to be involved in the decisions that matter. It’s his nature. So, essentially being told to go home doesn’t sit well with him at all.”

“Will he turn on her?”

Catelyn laughed at that. “He’s angry and irritated, and his pride is wounded. He doesn’t have nearly as much pride as his accursed sister did, but he is a Lannister.” She smiled at Ned. “But he is not stupid. And he has a very keen desire for self-preservation. He will not turn against Daenerys Targaryen.”

Ned nodded and started to rise himself. Before he was halfway out of his chair, Catelyn was pushing his cane into his hand.

“We are only going to the solar,” he protested.

“Yes, and you are using the cane as we walk there, my lord.”

He frowned at her, but bowed his head. “Very well, my lady.”

He’d been sitting there in his shirt and breeches, and she went to retrieve his doublet. “Oh,” she said, as she helped him put it on. “All that gods business near the end. Tyrion Lannister is the least devout person I’ve ever met.”

“And?”

She sighed. “I believe he is worried that if Daenerys simply flies around the Seven Kingdoms on dragonback, terrifying everyone into bending the knee to her, but not remaining anywhere long enough to deal with the actual problems, she will find herself reigning over a very troubled land. Dragons may make conquering the Seven Kingdoms easy, but they will not help her rule.”

“Ruling is always more difficult than conquering, dragons or no,” Ned said. “Robert found that out to his dismay.” He shook his head. “Famine and pestilence. There are far too many mouths to feed in King’s Landing. I fear if the Queen’s men do not bring food when they arrive, the Warrior’s Sons may not be so quick to turn over control of the city to them with no dragon flying overhead.”

“Particularly if the Queen gave her word that she never intended to have that dragon burn King’s Landing in the first place.”

Ned sighed. As unsettling as the Imp’s letter was, there was nothing they could do about any of it from Winterfell, other than encourage Edmure to put aside his enmity for all Lannisters long enough to assist this one particular Lannister in his endeavors in the westerlands.

“Shall we move from famine to pestilence then, my lady?” he asked, picking up the other letter off the table. 

She took it from him and placed her hand on his arm as she had done thousands of times to walk with him. “I fear we must, my lord,” she said. “I fear we must.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

They found Lord Seaworth already in Ned’s solar, along with his son and Lady Shireen. All three of them rose when Ned and Catelyn entered, and Ned removed his arm from her grip to wave them all back down into their seats.

“I see you have brought company, Lord Seaworth,” Ned said as he walked around his desk to his seat. Catelyn followed and took her customary seat beside him.

“You said you had a letter for me,” the man said tersely. “I cannot imagine any letter concerning myself other than one from Daenerys Targaryen with some further orders regarding Her Gr . . .Lady Baratheon. And any such orders would certainly affect Devan as well.”

Catelyn bowed her head slightly to hide her smile. In spite of the grim news it contained, she thought Davos Seaworth might be pleasantly surprised in some respects by this letter.

“You mistake me, my lord,” Ned said. “It is not a letter concerning you, but one written expressly to you. I beg your forgiveness for young Samwell having opened and read it along with my correspondence, but there was no specific outer address upon it—only Winterfell.”

“It’s from Mother!” Devan Seaworth exclaimed with a boyish excitement and eagerness very much at odds with the dignified and grown-up manner he tried so hard to project at most times.

Davos Seaworth looked stunned, but he turned to his son and spoke almost sharply. “You know your mother cannot read or write, Devan.”

“But she can!” Devan insisted. “I wrote to her often from Dragonstone, Father. I knew she could find someone to read my letters. And when I told her that not only was I learning from the maester alongside Shireen, but that you were learning your letters as well, she sent word that she would find someone to teach her and the little boys.” A look of fierce pide came into his face. “She said a lord deserved a lady who could read and write and that she would not be a shame to you.”

Catelyn watched the boy’s father closely as his eyes seemed suddenly to gaze upon something far away. “Aye. She would say such a thing,” he whispered barely audibly.

“She wrote her own letters while I was at the Wall, Father. But she never wrote on the outside.” The boy looked down with mild embarrassment. “She feared her letters were not good enough to be seen by strangers so she always let whoever she paid to send it mark it for Castle Black.” He then looked up at Ned and Catelyn as if defying them to say anything at all about deficiencies in his mother’s writing.

Catelyn smiled at him. “Your mother writes very well, young Devan. I did not read her letter, but Lord Stark assures me that she conveyed her message very clearly.” Turning to Davos Seaworth, she held out the letter she still held, saying “Your wife and youngest sons were well when she wrote this, my lord, but I fear the news from Cape Wrath is grim.”

She could see the relief and gratitude on his face for her having allayed his immediate fears about his family. He reached across Ned’s desk to take the letter from her hand and began to read. Catelyn watched him silently mouth the words as young children so often did when they first learned to read, and it struck her as remarkable that both this man and his wife had spent most of their lives unable to make sense of words on parchment when Rickon was already becoming quite proficient in reading in spite of his dismaying lack of interest in his lessons.

The letter was brief, and Lord Seaworth quickly handed it to Shireen and Devan to read as well. As the two of them leaned close together to bend their heads over it, the elder Seaworth looked up at Catelyn.

“I did not know she could read, my lady,” he said softly. “It seems wrong not to know such a thing about my own wife.” 

“Her tidings are . . .” Ned started, but Catelyn laid a hand on his arm. Lady Seaworth’s news was important, indeed, and they must discuss it, but the man’s mind was occupied by other concerns, and he was looking to her.

“You have been long away from home, my lord,” she said gently. “Long absences create alarming gaps in knowledge even among the closest of people.” She felt Ned’s hand reach to squeeze hers then. “Likely, she wished to surprise you.”

Seaworth shook his head slowly. “I sent a letter to Cape Wrath, of course. But I said nothing of . . . I said nothing except that we were here and alive. I had no certainty my letter would reach Marya, and I knew that someone else must read it to her if it did.”

“We must go home, Father!” Devan Seaworth said then before Catelyn could reply. “We cannot leave Mother and Stannis and Steffon alone now!”

“We must move carefully here, Devan,” Davos started to say.

“We can’t just sit here safe and sound in Winterfell while they could be dying!” Devan insisted.

Shireen Baratheon still held the letter, and she was looking at it very thoughtfully with a severe expression on her face that put Catelyn in mind of the girl’s father.

“Might I see the letter, Shireen?” she asked softly. 

Shireen looked up at Lord Seaworth who nodded, and then she handed the letter back across the desk. Catelyn already knew what Marya Seaworth had written about, of course, but she wanted to read the woman’s words. She wanted to hear first hand from this carpenter’s daughter who’d risen to be a lady only to lose four sons to death, lose her husband and another son for years to a king’s service, and who still had the determination to make herself literate for the sake of her husband’s pride.

“If you should wish to depart for Cape Wrath, Lord Seaworth, know that we will offer all assistance that we can, and that Lady Baratheon will be cared for here as well as any one of my own children,” Ned was saying.

Catelyn turned her attention from the conversation and focused on the parchment before her. The letters were untidy, but legible enough, even with the spelling errors.

_My lord,_

_It does my heart good to here you and Devan are safe at that grate northern castle. I’ve hered tell that the fortress of Winterfell is more than a thousand yeres old and strong enoff to fend off all manner of enemys. I am sorry to lern of King Stannis dying but am glad his dauter is safe with you._

_I hav ill news I fere. Aegon has come from across the sea and taken all the Stormlands. Some say hes the son of Raegar. Some say not. But he came here with enoff men that no keep has been able to stand aginst him. Our lands are small and he did not come here yet. I am glad of that becus his men bring the sickness greyscale._

_I try to let no one in or out of our keep my lord. And I orderd our peple to stay to there lands but still I have word that some have sickend. Your sons are well and I hope to keep them so. Forgiv me but I hav sent a letter to Storms End pleging our hous to Aegon. I know no other way to keep him and his men from coming here with there sickness._

_Aegon mostly stays to Storms End now I here for too many of his men have the greyscale. Nik who gards our lands for me hered that even Aegons Hand is dying of it. A man called Jon Conington._

_I do not know if I shuld pray for the sickness to spred and kill all the invaders or to stop and leave the invaders strong enoff stil to take our lands. Both leve us in peril. So I pray only that our sons here stay well and that you and Devan stay safe._

_I will do whatever you ask of me._

_Marya_

Catelyn felt an undeniable kinship with this woman who so obviously would go to any lengths to protect her surviving children. She looked again at the salutation of the letter. _My lord._ It occurred to her that Marya Seaworth had never spoken those words to her husband for he had not laid eyes upon her since being made a lord by Stannis Baratheon. While Catelyn had started her marriage thinking of her husband only as ‘my lord’ and had to learn to think of him as Ned, this woman had wed a smuggler with no house—a man she only called Davos. Yet, in the first letter she ever wrote him, it mattered to her that she give him his title. _Pride and honor do not require nobility of blood,_ Catelyn thought.

“I must go, my lord. Surely you see that.”

Shireen’s voice broke into Catelyn’s thoughts, and she looked up to see the girl’s dark blue eyes fixed upon Ned.

“Lady Baratheon,” he said courteously. “You are under the protection of Winterfell and I cannot . . .”

“Lady Baratheon!” Shireen interrupted, standing up from her seat. “You give me that title repeatedly, Lord Stark, but then treat me as if I am simply a girl of your household. Am I not the the Lady of Storm’s End? Am I not the rightful ruler of the Stormlands? Why should I hide behind Winterfell’s walls while my own lands are swept by war and disease?”

“It isn’t safe,” Davos Seaworth said, and the girl whirled to face him.

“Of course, it isn’t safe!” she snapped at him. Then she took a deep breath and continued in her usual calm and reasonable tone of voice. “No more than it was safe for my father to fight the Battle of the Blackwater or to fight the wildlings or march against Bolton at Winterfell. No more than it was safe for Lord Stark to ride against the Others when they attacked the North.” She turned back to Ned. “Should you have remained behind your walls for safety’s sake, my lord?”

“No,” Ned acknowledged. “But that is entirely different.”

“It is not different,” Shireen insisted, and Catelyn could not help but admire the girl. She spoke with all of her father’s grim, stubborn, determination, but also with a passion Stannis Baratheon had never possessed. “You stand for the North because you are their Lord. I would stand for the Stormlands because I am their Lady.”

“You aren’t a soldier, Shireen,” Devan protested. “You can’t fight.”

“I can’t fight soldiers, that is true,” she said, looking at Devan. Then she looked at each of them in turn before reaching to pull down at the neckline of her dress and turning the scarred side of her face and neck so that they could all see it clearly. “I cannot fight soldiers, but I have already fought greyscale and I defeated it. It holds no dread for me because it can harm me no further than it has already done.”

Devan shook his head. “You cannot know that.”

“The maesters have all said as much to my parents and myself all my life,” Shireen said. “Go get Sam and ask him, if you like.”

“Lady Shireen,” Ned said softly. “It is true that you should be unable to contract greyscale again. But the Stormlands remain a dangerous place regardless. Once the Queen has removed the threat, you can return, but there is no purpose to your putting yourself at risk now.

“You are wrong,” the girl said flatly, and Catelyn nearly smiled at Ned’s shocked expression at her words in spite of the seriousness of the conversation. Her husband was Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. He was unused to hearing those words spoken so plainly to him by anyone other than herself.

“Lord Stark,” Shireen continued. “I am young, I know. But I have seen far too much to ever be a child again—something I share with your own children, I think. I do not pretend to believe that I can drive this Aegon back into the sea or that I can magically protect my people from greyscale simply because I cannot die of it. But I can offer them something.”

She paused then, but no one else spoke. She seemed to think for just a moment and then continued. “Since my Uncle Renly died, the people of Storm’s End have had no true lord. Ser Gilbert Farring held the castle loyally for my father against all attackers until the Imposter Aegon took it, but he was not their lord. And now they have no one. Neither the lords nor the smallfolk see anyone standing against Aegon on their behalf. The Queen and her dragon are busy elsewhere and cannot be bothered with their suffering. What hope do they have?”

“I fear the Queen will not be moved from her intent to deal with Ironborn first, my lady,” Ned said.

“I know that, my lord.” She sighed. “I am no threat to Queen Daenerys’s throne. I shall keep my word on that. I’d drop to my knees before her right now if she were here. But I was wrong when I agreed that I should simply wait for her to give me my lands back. I cannot take Storm’s End without her. I know that. But I can go to Cape Wrath with Lord Seaworth. If Aegon’s forces are truly as weakened by disease as Lady Seaworth says, we can defend ourselves against them. Let the people of the Stormlands see that the Baratheons have returned and will stand for them. Then perhaps they will once again find the resolve to stand for themselves. And when Daenerys Targaryen and her dragon do come, it will be to give succor to a people who have already been resisting her enemy and not to give mercy to a people who bowed before that enemy out of fear and hopelessness.”

“You wish to give them hope,” Catelyn said softly.

Shireen nodded. “Rather than accept my birthright as a gift from the Queen, I would have my people see me claim it as my own even when doing so brings me nothing but a share in their peril. Can you understand that, my lady?”

Before Catelyn could respond, Ned shook his head sadly. “I do not see what it would accomplish, Lady Shireen,” he said sadly.

Catelyn looked at her husband. “Do you not, my lord?” She shook her own head in wonderment at the man’s obliviousness. “Are you truly that blind to the effect you have on your Northmen? You arrived in White Harbor with nothing, Ned, and look what you have accomplished.”

“I was fortunate,” he said. “Wyman already had plans laid, and I found Maege and Galbart with Howland and . . .”

“And none of them had accomplished anything until you arrived to give them hope! Do you not see it, my lord? Who can say if there are men loyal to House Baratheon even now, hiding somewhere in the Stormlands—afraid of plague and believing the Baratheons lost forever? Lady Shireen is no warrior, it is true, but look at her, Ned. She is unquestionably her father’s daughter. No one will doubt that. And she will bring a warrior with her for I know Lord Seaworth will follow her anywhere and likely wishes to return home in any event.”

“I don’t know if I can keep her safe there, my lady,” Seaworth said. “First off, I am more smuggler than warrior, and we do not know how things stand precisely. And I could fall to the greyscale even if she cannot.”

“Do not speak of me as if I am not present,” Shireen insisted, sounding for a moment almost as prickly as her father. “Of course, you could fall to the plague. It recognizes no side in battle. But we can take what precautions as we may. And even if you remain well, you may not be able to keep me safe. I accept that risk because I accept my duty. As to your being a smuggler,” she said with a smile, “Who better to get me into the Stormlands and safely to your keep without detection until we do know more of how things stand?”

When Davos did not respond, and no one else spoke either, Shireen turned back to Ned. “I want to go home, my lord. To the home I have never known, but must now claim. I can walk among the people and show them I am not afraid to be their lady. Let me do that, Lord Stark.”

Ned looked back at Shireen for a long time and then at Catelyn. She could see that her husband had begun to understand precisely what the girl wanted to do and why, and that he sympathized with her. Still, he had received very clear instructions from Daenerys Targaryen regarding Shireen Baratheon.

“My lady,” he started, looking back to Shireen.

“I know you must write the Queen,” Shireen said simply. “I ask no more of you than that, Lord Stark. Please, write to the Queen and lend your support to my plan. Will you do that, my lord?”

With a heavy sigh, Ned nodded his assent. “I will do that, my lady. I do not know how easily a letter will reach her, but I shall send several in hopes that at least one will find its mark.”

“Thank you,” Shireen said. Then she turned to Lord Seaworth. “I know you must be anxious to go to your family, my lord, and I have no right to ask you to delay. But I do ask it. I ask that you remain at Winterfell with me to await the Queen’s response so that you might escort me to your home in the Stormlands.”

“You needn’t ask it, my lady. I am yours to command,” the man said firmly.

“I do not wish to command you in this.” She turned to Devan. “Can you wait to go to your mother, Devan? To your brothers? Is it fair of me to even ask that?”

The younger Seaworth had barely spoken since his initial pronouncements after reading the letter that he and his father must go home. Now he looked at Shireen with an unhappy, but determined expression on his face. “Nothing is fair, my lady. And I won’t tell you that I don’t want to leave this very day. You know me better than that. But I believe you are right about this. And as long as I’ve waited to see my mother, I can wait some more.”

“Thank you, Devan,” she said softly. “I thank all of you.” Her eyes lingered upon Catelyn’s as she said that, and Catelyn gave her a slight nod of acknowledgement. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to speak with Bran.”

“Bran?” Ned asked, startled by the sudden shift in the conversation. “What on earth about?”

“Oh,” Shireen said, looking evasive for the first time since the conversation had begun. “Nothing, really. It is only that I promised him I would come and keep him company when the others go outside and it is starting to get light.” She nodded toward the window.

Her words were true enough, Catelyn knew, but she still felt the girl was holding something back.

“That’s kind of you,” Ned said. “Although I fear no one may be outdoors very long today. The sky has looked like heavy snow since last night.”

Shireen smiled. “Your children will go out as long as it is not a blizzard, my lord. Arya and Rickon will anyway. I have never seen two people less content to be inside.”

Catelyn smiled at how well the Baratheon girl had come to know her children, and Shireen and the Seaworths made their farewells. When they had left, Catelyn walked to the window overlooking the courtyard. It was light enough to see now, and snow was indeed falling—thick heavy flakes that had already begun obscuring the cleared paths. There did not appear to be much wind though, and the flakes fell gently down to the ground without blowing about.

“It isn’t bad out,” she said. “Arya and Rickon will likely go to the godswood with their wolves, if Sam doesn’t have them at lessons. I do think it’s likely snowing a bit too hard for sword practice.”

Ned laughed. “A Northman must learn to use a sword in the snow. You know that.”

“Yes, but I don’t think any of the children have progressed quite so far that they need that level of challenge yet. Not even Arya, although she’d likely argue the point.” She frowned. “Particularly if I were the one making it.”

She heard Ned sigh and rise heavily from his seat. The tap of his cane upon the floor let her know that she didn’t have to turn around and scold him for not using it so she kept her eyes fixed on the snow outside as he walked over to her. She saw his arm reach around her to lean the cane against the wall beneath the window and then felt his hands on her waist  
.  
“Cat,” he said, bending his head slightly to put his lips near her ear. “You should speak with her, my love.”

“I know.” She continued to watch the snow fall without saying more, and he moved his hands from her waist to her arms, turning her gently to face him.

“Go to her, Cat,” he said, looking into her eyes.

“I want to,” she told him. “I don’t know what to say. Or even if she wishes to hear anything from me.” The lingering anger between her daughter and herself hurt badly. She’d thought that the two of them had begun to understand each other far better since finding each other again, but during the argument at Bran’s bedside, Arya had been as resentful and spiteful as she’d ever been. _I spoke rather spitefully as well,_ Catelyn admitted to herself.

Ned was watching her face closely, and suddenly he chuckled and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “You are so alike, the two of you,” he said.

“Gods, don’t say that to Arya! She’ll stop speaking to you as well if you suggest she’s anything at all like me. I am not a Stark.”

“You are a Stark,” Ned corrected her. “I made you one in a sept in Riverrun a long time ago. But you’re a Tully as well, as is our daughter, whatever she may say of it at the moment. Our children all have two parents, Cat, and thank the gods for it because I’d pity them if they truly had only myself to take after.”

She laughed a little at that and then leaned against his chest. “I don’t want her to hate me. And I can’t stand for her to believe that I could ever not love her.” It hurt to say the words, and she bit her lip hard to keep from crying, but Ned only put his arms around her and held her close.

“She could never hate you. And she knows you love her.” They stood there like that for a few moments before Ned pulled away enough to look at her face again. “Do you think I did right in promising to support Shireen Baratheon’s scheme?”

“It isn’t a scheme and yes.” It was easier to speak of the Baratheon girl than of her own daughter. That made Catelyn rather sad.

“She could die in the Stormlands easily you know. They are virtually lawless at present by all accounts. Greyscale is hardly the only danger there.”

“She could die. And she’s very well aware of that, my love. But she’s right in wanting to go. It is the decision a true leader would make, and you know it.”

“I promised Stannis I’d keep her safe,” Ned said bitterly between gritted teeth.

“Keep her safe or keep her prisoner?”

“Dammit, Catelyn, you know I’ll not keep her a prisoner.”

She reached up to touch his cheek then, wanting to ease his distress. “I know you would never intentionally do so, my love. But there is sometimes little difference between keeping someone safe and keeping them prisoner.” She swallowed and looked him in the eyes. “There was a moment, when I first found Robb after your arrest. I rode into his camp with the White Harbor men, and the look on his face when he saw me . . .” She laughed at the memory even as tears stung her eyes. “He had a beard, Ned. Only the beginnings of one then, but I could see it. And I could also see the relief on his face at my presence. Beard or no, he looked no older than Rickon to me then.” She sighed. “When we were alone, he actually asked me if I intended to send him back to Winterfell. He had called the banners and led all your bannermen south in order to protest your arrest and secure your freedom. Yet when I appeared, he became a little boy again, waiting for me to tell him what to do.” She swallowed hard as she recalled her choice that day. Remembering it hurt as much as making it had. “He would have gone then, had I sent him. He saw himself more as my son than the future Lord of Winterfell that day, and he would have obeyed me had I insisted he go home. And gods, I wanted to. I wanted to wrap him in my arms and ride north as quickly as horses could carry us, letting our bannermen go south and deal with the Lannisters. I wanted to keep our boys safe. But I couldn’t go home. The Lannisters had thrown you in a cell, and I had no idea what they were doing to my daughters. And I couldn’t send Robb home, either. He had ridden out from Winterfell as a man, and if I sent him home as a boy, that’s what our bannermen would remember of him.” She paused, unable to continue speaking for a moment.

“Cat,” Ned whispered, but she put her hand to his lips.

“I would not change my choice, Ned,” she said, even as the tears began spilling from her eyes. “I could not. In the last moment I had the chance to keep him a boy, to keep him safe, to keep him within Winterfell’s walls, I allowed him instead to be a man. And he died for it. And I still hate myself at times for it.”

“Cat, you cannot . . .”

“But he would not have thanked me for doing otherwise, Ned. And neither would Shireen Baratheon. That is what I’m telling you. Your son acted as a man, a lord, and finally a king. For all the love I bore him, I had no right to keep him a boy. And so while I shall always look back upon that moment with a great deal of bitterness at the choice I made and what it cost, I cannot truly regret it, because I know Robb would have me do no differently now.”

“No,” Ned said, his voice thick with emotion. “He would not. He was the man we raised him to be, Catelyn.”

They stood there holding each other, each thinking about the son they had lost, until Catelyn had lost track of the time.

Finally, Ned spoke again. “And Shireen Baratheon is the young woman that her father raised her to be, isn’t she?”

“She is,” Catelyn said quietly. Then she pulled herself out of her husband’s arms. “You should send for Sam,” she said. “The two of you can draft your letters for Daenerys and discuss where best to send them.”

“And where are you going, my lady?” he asked her.

“To find our daughter,” she said.

He smiled at her and kissed her very gently, but not briefly, before finally letting her leave the solar. He did not need to ask her which daughter she meant.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

The snow had been falling thickly in the courtyard, but the flakes had difficulty reaching the ground through the thick growth of the sentinel pines in the godswood. As Arya Stark stood before the heart tree, she could almost imagine that the snowfall wasn’t growing ever heavier and that a much bigger storm was not coming. It was, though. Nymeria knew it and so she did, too. _I won’t stay out much longer,_ she told herself.

She’d already sent Dak and Rickon in. Both had protested, of course, complaining that the sun wasn’t even at its brightest yet, and that they’d barely been out at all. She had responded that by the time the sun should be at its brightest, there would likely be no light at all. When the boys had professed doubts, she’d sent Rickon to Shaggydog. While he may not have understood entirely that a blizzard was bearing down upon them, he did understand that Shaggy wanted very much to go inside the Keep. That was atypical enough of the wolf that Rickon protested no further.

Dak, naturally enough, had gotten all stupid and bossy and demanded that she come with them, but she could still get him to do what she wanted most times if she pushed him hard enough. So, with a promise to come very soon, she had sent them away and remained here with Nymeria.

Now, she stared at the heart tree in the relative calm of the godswood, shielded from the worst of the snow and the slowly rising wind. She reached out her hand to touch the white trunk and felt nothing but the rough bark, cold to the touch even through her gloves. She pulled off her glove as Bran had done and got only a splinter in her finger and painful, cold-reddened skin for her trouble. As she stuffed her hand back into the glove, a task made more difficult by her stiff, painfully cold fingers, she continued to stare at the tree and wonder.

_Why can Bran see what no one else can? How does it work? And what happened to him?_

Something had happened to Bran. She was certain of it. Just as she was certain that he knew far more about what had happened than he was saying. She’d been scared when he wouldn’t wake up and guilty over sending him to look for Jon in the first place. Yet, she was almost as angry at her brother for refusing to talk to her about it as she was at her mother for refusing to acknowledge that Jon was still her brother.

_Not that she ever acknowledged him as my brother in the first place._

Bran did say that Jon was alive, but he looked so uncertain every time he spoke of him—not that he would speak much of Jon at all. And Ghost was still beyond the Wall. Or . . . _No! Ghost is not dead. Nymeria would know that._ Arya comforted herself with that thought, but still a little nagging voice continually asked, _But would she know? If Ghost died beyond the Wall, would Nymeria feel it? She cannot feel her brother there._

She wished she could do what Bran did. Her need to see Jon, to truly know he was all right threatened to overwhelm her. She would risk looking through the trees’ eyes whatever Mother might say about it. But the trees were only bark and sap to her. No matter how long she stared. No matter how much she prayed.

Nymeria lay at her feet, and Arya saw the direwolf’s ears prick up. Someone had entered the godswood. She didn’t need to slip into the wolf’s skin to know who it was. Only two people would remain so quiet if they thought she was praying here. And Father couldn’t approach so silently with his cane.

“I’m coming in, Mother,” she said without turning around. “I know it’s snowing harder.”

“It’s difficult to tell here, isn’t it?” Mother said softly. “The new snow in the courtyard is nearly to my ankles already and getting deeper quickly, but here it scarcely covers the ground.”

“There will be a storm soon. A big one, I think. I sent the boys in.”

“I know. I saw them.” Now that she was listening for them, Arya could hear her mother’s soft footfalls as she approached more closely. “Your father says the same. About the storm. He thought it likely from the sky last night. Have you been learning to read the winter sky as well, child?”

Arya shook her head. 

“Ah,” Mother said. “Your wolf knows, doesn’t she? I should have thought of that. Animals do seem to have a knack for knowing what the weather will bring.”

Mother always seemed to have a more intuitive grasp of what Arya and her brothers shared with their wolves than Father did. At the moment, that annoyed her. Mother wasn’t even a Stark. Why should she understand such things so readily?

“I didn’t mean to disturb your prayers, Arya, if that is what you were doing. But I need to speak with you.”

Arya did turn around then. Her mother stood no more than two paces behind her. _Traitor,_ she thought at Nymeria. The wolf would allow no one else to get that close to her while her back was turned regardless of how well known the person was. Nymeria should have been on her feet and between them, but the wolf simply lay calmly where she was.

“What?” Arya said, hearing the discourtesy in her one word response. She sighed. “What do you want to speak about, I mean?”

Her mother’s mouth twitched slightly, but did not quite smile. “I don’t want to speak about it at all, in truth, but I need to speak with you about our conversation in Bran’s room.”

“There is nothing to talk about,” Arya said. “You say Jon is not my brother. You’re wrong. And I won’t say that you aren’t because you are.” She bit her lip and looked steadily at her mother, willing herself not to look away.

Mother sighed rather sadly. “I don’t often admit I am wrong,” she said after a moment. “It doesn’t come easily to me, I confess.” She gave Arya a rather pointed look. “It doesn’t come easily to you, either, Arya. That is one trait we share, for all I know you would wish to be nothing like me.”

 _That isn’t true!_ Arya wanted to scream. But she was angry at Mother, and not about to admit she did sometimes wish she was more like her. “I told you it was my idea for Bran to find Jon,” she said. “I didn’t lie about it.”

“I never said you did,” Mother told her. “But you could not bring yourself to admit it was a foolish thing to do in spite of the fact I could see how badly you felt for Bran.”

“You only think it was foolish because you hate Jon!” Arya nearly shouted.

“I don’t hate Jon,” Mother said in an infuriatingly calm voice. “And it would have been foolish regardless of whose sake it was done for. But I was wrong when I said Jon Snow is not your brother.”

“You . . .” Whatever angry retort she’d been prepared to make died on her lips as her mother’s words sank into her brain. “Wrong?” she asked.

“Wrong,” her mother repeated firmly. “Jon has been a brother to you since the day you were born, for all I would have had it otherwise. The fact that Rhaegar Targaryen fathered him changes that no more than my disapproval ever did.”

“But you said . . .”

“I was angry. Not at you, Arya, but at your father. And I spoke unkindly. Unfairly.”

“Why were you angry with Father? Was it about Jon?” Arya asked sharply. She watched her mother closely as she took several breaths before replying. _She is trying not to get angry with me._ She wanted to find fault with her mother for being even almost angry, but a tiny voice inside her mind whispered, _You are trying to make her angry, and it isn’t working._

“No,” Mother said. “My anger at your father is none of your concern. He and I have already spoken about it, and it is in the past. But it truly was not about Jon.”

That gave Arya pause. She could not think of anything else her mother ever got truly angry at her father about. She wondered if her mother was speaking truthfully. _Mother always speaks truthfully. That much I’ll give her._ “All right,” she said slowly. “You were angry and you were wrong. Is that all you had to say?”

“Arya Stark, listen to yourself even if you will not listen to me,” her mother said, a hint of exasperation entering her voice. “I was wrong to say that Jon is not your brother. I was not wrong to believe that using your brother Bran as you did was wrong. Putting one brother at risk for another is wrong, Arya. Surely you know that.”

Arya bit her lip harder. “I didn’t think it would hurt Bran. He even said it wouldn’t. I . . .didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know,” Mother agreed. “You don’t truly understand what it is Bran does. None of us do. Yet you didn’t consider him at all, and he is your family as much as Jon Snow.”

“I . . . I didn’t know! And don’t say I don’t care about Bran! I care about all of my family! You have no idea what I did, Mother! No idea how hard I tried to get back to all of you! I did terrible things. And I would do more terrible things if I had to! And if you want me to say that’s wrong, I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!”

She wasn’t certain how it happened that she was sobbing in her mother’s arms, but she was. Mother was sitting on the thin blanket of snow that had covered the ground even here now and holding her tightly against her, murmuring soothing things just as she did to Brien when he was fretful. She was even rocking back and forth as she often did with Brien. 

When Arya finally stilled, Mother quit cooing and spoke. “I never said you do not care for Bran, and I never will. I only said you did not consider him in this. And I will never call you wrong, Arya, for anything you did to stay alive or get back to us. Never. I will never call you wrong for anything you did or wished to do against anyone who harmed you or any of your family. For I have done, and wished to do still more, terrible things to those who have hurt us, sweetling.” 

Arya looked up at her mother’s face. It looked more pale than usual in the cold air, and the red lines stood out against her white skin. She didn’t look frail, though. She looked strong and hard and determined. “Cersei Lannister is dead,” she said suddenly.

Arya made a small strangled sound in her throat. Cersei Lannister had been on her list from the very beginning. “How do you know?” she asked.

“Your father and I had a letter from Tyrion Lannister. It seems she killed herself and her son Tommen rather than surrender to Daenerys Targaryen.”

Arya was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry for Tommen,” she said finally. “He was just a little boy who wanted to play with kittens. I don’t think he was ever mean on purpose.” She wasn’t sorry for Cersei Lannister, though. She recalled how the woman had offered a reward for Nymeria’s skin, the way she had smiled when she’d said, “We have a wolf.” She was glad Cersei was dead.

“I am sorry for Tommen, too,” Mother said softly. “As for Cersei Lannister, I am only sorry I did not get the privilege of killing her myself.”

Arya’s eyes widened. She knew her mother had killed Roose Bolton. They’d spoken about that when she’d first returned to Winterfell after Father and Mother got the castle back. But these words still sounded wrong coming from her mother’s lips.

“I will never call you wrong for hating those who harm your family, Arya. Nor will I fault you for wanting to protect those you love, even when I prevent you from doing so because you are mine to protect.” She paused and took a breath. “But you are wrong to ever use one family member for the benefit of another. You cannot put one at risk for another’s benefit. You will cause more harm than good, and you will tear yourself apart. Can you not see that?”

Her mother’s face didn’t look hard now. Her blue eyes were soft and filled with concern. _Concern for me,_ Arya thought. _Not just for Bran._ She nodded. “I see that,” she said softly. “I was wrong, to talk Bran into it.” After a moment, she added, “I was wrong to shout at you and accuse you of hating Jon, too.”

“I truly don’t, you know,” Mother said even more softly. “I never did hate the boy. I resented him, I admit that. I resented his being here in my home and taking the love of my husband and children. I feared what else he might take as he grew to be a man.”

She didn’t want to make Mother angry or hurt again. She truly didn’t. But she had to say it. “It wasn’t Jon’s fault.” She didn’t shout it this time at least. “None of it was ever Jon’s fault.”

“No,” her mother said surprisingly. “It never was. And I neither fear nor resent him any more, Arya. Truly. I do hope he is safe and that he returns to Castle Black soon.”

Arya swallowed hard and considered keeping silent, but she had to ask. “Do you love him? Jon, I mean?”

Her mother looked at her sadly. “No,” she said. “Not as I love you or any of my children. I am sorry, Arya, but I will not lie to you. The past lies heavy between Jon Snow and myself, and I fear I spent too many years keeping him as far from my heart as possible to easily allow him into it now. But I do care about him. Because he cares so much for all the people I hold most dear. And because you love him as your brother.”

“I love you, too, Mother!” Arya said suddenly, the words coming out in a rush. “I do. I swear I do.”

“Hush,” Mother said, stroking her back softly. “I know you . . .”

Mother’s words were interrupted by a sudden howl from Nymeria who had stood up rather suddenly.

“I think we should get inside,” she and Mother said at the same time, and Arya laughed because Mother always understood her wolf better than anyone other than Jon, Bran, and Rickon.

They stood up, and Arya realized that Mother was shivering. It had gotten quite a bit colder and darker even though it wasn’t time for the the sun to go down yet, and Mother did not tolerate cold so well as Arya did.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing Mother’s arm. 

Nymeria went ahead of them, trotting toward the gate. The wind had picked up enough that it blew even in the godswood now, and Arya was not surprised that the first gust that hit them when they emerged from the trees nearly knocked them over.

“Keep your head down,” Mother shouted at her. “Lean into the wind and follow the wolf. Don’t try to look any further ahead. She’ll lead us back.”

 _Of course, she will,_ Arya thought. Still, it was nice to hear Mother express such confidence in her. It occurred to her that Mother’s trust in Nymeria mirrored Nymeria’s trust in Mother.

The snow swirled thickly around them, piling up in mounds higher than their knees in some places as the cold wind blew it about. Just when Arya was certain she could make out the dim outline of the Great Keep ahead of them, she heard a shout.

“Cat! Arya!”

Her mother pulled on her arm and began moving at a pace as close to a run as could be accomplished in the snowstorm. They nearly ran straight into Father, leaning heavily on his cane. “Ned!” Mother gasped. “What are you . . .”

“What in bloody hell are you two doing out here in this?” he shouted at them. “We must get inside now!”

They couldn’t have been more than twenty paces from the door of the Keep, but it was a struggle to get that far, especially for Father. When at last they stood in the entryway, having forced the door shut behind them, Father looked at the two of them, his grey eyes filled with both fury and fear. It shocked Arya to see the fear there, and she realized that once she would have only seen the anger. 

“My gods, Cat!” he nearly exploded. “How could you be so foolish? The two of you could have . . .”

“How could I be so foolish?” Mother threw back at him before he could finish speaking. “Look at yourself! You can barely stand! Do you want to cripple the leg permanently?”

“I could not leave the two of you out there to freeze!”

“You could have sent . . .”

“Stop it!” Arya surprised herself with her shout. But as angry as she’d been at Mother these past few days, she had been as bothered by the trouble between her parents as Sansa and Bran had whether she’d admitted it or not. 

Both of her parents stopped speaking and stared at her. “Stop it,” she said more quietly. “Please. Father, Mother and I were wrong to stay out so long. We knew the storm was coming and should have come in sooner. And you were wrong to come out in it and risk hurting your leg.” Her parents continued to stare at her as if they weren’t certain they knew her. “But we’re all inside now and we’re all safe. So don’t be angry at each other, please.”

“Oh, Arya,” her mother said, coming to put her arms around her. 

Father stared at the two of them a moment as if he still had more to say, but then he smiled. “We are all safe,” he agreed. “And well?” He looked back and forth between the two of them.

“I believe we are quite well, my lord,” Mother said, and Arya nodded. Then she saw a look pass between Mother and Father that seemed to say a great many things. They did that a lot, but this look seemed to be a happy one, at least.

“Good,” Father said. “Can I at least have a promise from both of you that you will not leave this Keep again until this storm is ended and paths are cleared unless you have my express permission?”

“Yes, Father,” Arya said at the same time her mother said, “Yes, my lord.”

Shaking his head at the two of them, Father turned away to start up the stairs. He moved slowly, but he manged them well enough. Mother watched his progress critically, but remained in the entryway with Arya. 

“Is it well between us, sweetling? Or is there anything else you would say to me?” she asked.

Arya chewed her lower lip and caught Mother smiling at her as she did. Mother bit her lip sometimes, too. Arya had seen her. “I was wrong to risk Bran,” she said carefully, “But . . .if I could do what Bran can do, and Jon or any of you were in trouble . . .I would do it. I would look for you and help you if I could.”

Her mother didn’t frown at her. She actually smiled at her. “Of course you would, Arya. I would do the same. Only, I would prevent you from risking yourself for you are mine to protect. And I will protect you. Whether you want me to or not.”

Arya started to protest, but her eyes fell upon the direwolf, now lying at the foot of the stairs and looking at the two of them with mild interest, and it occurred to her that her mother was as protective as the wolf and just as fierce when it came to her and her siblings. “I know you will,” she said simply. “Even if I don’t always like it.”

“I know you don’t,” said Mother, smiling even more widely. “I love you, Arya. Always. Nothing will ever change that.”

“I love you, too.” They stood there looking at each other for a moment. “I should go let Rickon and Dak know I came in before they do something stupid like go out and look for me, too.”

Mother laughed. “All right. I shall go upstairs and make sure your father has propped that leg up to rest it.”

Arya grinned and turned to go in search of the boys. It didn’t surprise her at all when Nymeria padded over to nuzzle Mother before coming to follow her down the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize I told people that Jon would have a POV in this chapter, but as so frequently has happened over the course of Love and Honor, what I initially thought would be one chapter became two, and this was the break point that made the most sense. I absolutely promise that Jon's POV is up FIRST in the next chapter! :)
> 
> I also want to take a moment to express my immense gratitude to everyone who has been reading this fic. As I work on the final few chapters, I remain as overwhelmed and humbled by your gracious response to this story as I was when I first began writing it. Thank you, thank you, thank you.


	78. Seeking Refuge at Home

Jon cried out with joy when he spied the grey walls of Winterfell rising before him though the white haze of snow that still swirled all around. He was so intent upon the flying, so much a part of Rhaegal, that he honestly couldn’t say whether he had cried out with his own voice or the dragon’s. Certainly he viewed those walls through Rhaegal’s eyes. His own could see nothing but white even though the winds had long since died down from the blizzard that had raged for days.

He couldn’t truly say how many days it had been. Time had held little meaning for him since the time spent in that godsforsaken cave. Even now, he closed his eyes against the memory of all that had occurred there. The memory of the men who had died simply because he asked them to. The memory of that last terrible . . . _No!_ He felt Rhaegal’s urgent intrusion upon his thoughts and realized he had closed the dragon’s eyes as well as his own. The creature did not appreciate flying blindly through the snow.

 _I’m all right,_ Jon thought into the dragon’s mind. _I’m here with you._ The words would mean little to the dragon, but he hoped the sense of assurance would get through. Rhaegal was unhappy enough with him over the large bundle secured across its back. He’d wrapped the cursed things thickly enough that their chill did not reach the dragon’s scales, but it knew they were there and did not like it one bit. For once, Ghost and Rhaegal had been in accord on something as the wolf had refused to come near the damned things as well.

Ghost was back at Castle Black, of course, and Jon had no reason to believe he wasn’t safe. While he personally had never seen such a storm, Castle Black had withstood many. He hoped Satin would remember to keep him fed so that he wouldn’t be tempted to take food from the men. Too many of the men who would give him food from the table had not returned to Castle Black, and Jon felt the loss strike him painfully once more.

The snow had started falling heavily even before they’d made it back to the Wall, those who’d survived. Jon had made the journey on horseback, both because he felt the need to be close to his men and because he’d needed to allow Rhaegal a chance to heal somewhat. Ghost had led them when none of them could see, and Rhaegal had been free to find a sheltered place of its own and rest. Jon had known even then that he’d have to come to Winterfell, and the days spent snowbound by the blizzard within Castle Black had confirmed that to him. He’d spent those days attempting to recall every word his aunt had ever said to him about her dragons and about the eggs they’d come from. He’d also followed Sam’s example from once upon a time and pored over some of the most ancient books from deep below the Wall. He’d wished desperately that Sam was with him for he had no doubt his friend could find more useful information than he could, but he had done his best.

He hadn’t been able to send a raven to Winterfell or anyone else. For days on end, the wind had howled and snow had piled up so that it lay against windows well above the ground floor. No one moved anywhere except by the tunnels. Daylight had seemed a distant memory.

Finally, the winds had lessened and the snowfall lightened somewhat. Rhaegal had returned to Castle Black and its shrieks could be heard above the wind. Jon, against the advice of nearly all his men had decided the time had come for him to depart. Satin, in particular had begged him to wait until the storm had truly finished, but Jon could not shake a sense of urgency. He had to get to Winterfell. He had to speak with his father. And with Bran.

Bran. Even now, as the walls of Winterfell drew ever closer, he found it difficult to think about Bran. He didn’t truly want to remember how it had felt to have Bran take possession of him, cause not only his limbs to move but his very heart and soul to feel a fear and panic that was not his. What sort of person could do that to another man? How much power did Bran possess and could he possibly even understand it? Or control it? Whatever Bran’s power, Jon feared that they all needed it now, and that frightened Jon as much as the ancient, freezing eggs wrapped and secured behind him. _It is an awful thing,_ he thought. _To be afraid of my little brother._

At that moment, Rhaegal gave a loud cry of its own volition, and Jon saw through its eyes that there were men atop Winterfell’s walls. Apparently, the castle had begun the process of digging itself out now that the storm had begun to die. The men obviously recognized Rhaegal for they were waving, and Jon smiled, allowing the anticipation of seeing his family once more to push away all the darker thoughts even if only for a moment.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

They had all been together when the man came to announce that the green dragon had been spotted from the northern wall. Just as during the previous blizzard, Catelyn had taken to having their meager meals served in her chambers as her rooms most comfortably accommodated seven Starks along with Dak, Jeyne and sometimes now Lord Seaworth, his son, and Lady Shireen as well.

On this afternoon, all were present except Lord Seaworth, Devan, and Dak. Those three had eaten their midday meal quickly and gone outside to help with the tedious work of clearing the large snowdrifts against the doors and windows of all the buildings. Snow still fell, but it had slowed enough that progress could be made at least.

Rickon and Arya had both protested vigorously at being kept indoors, but Ned had silenced them both rather firmly, telling Rickon that he was simply too young and small and telling Arya that such work was not the task of a daughter of the house. Neither had been pleased by their father’s words, but his stern voice and grim expression had effectively prevented any continued arguments on their parts.

Catelyn knew well why her husband had been so harsh with the children. He was beyond frustrated at remaining indoors himself. He felt it was his place to be out in the courtyard overseeing the work within his castle. When Lord Seaworth had declared his intent to go out with the boys, she’d watched Ned’s face and it made her want to slap the Onion Lord upside the head for his words. He’d meant only to be helpful, of course. He always sought ways to make himself useful here. But he’d only made Ned feel lame and less of a man. It was ridiculous, of course, but men were often ridiculous about such things, and she hated the pain and entirely unnecessary guilt in her husband’s eyes.

Once Seaworth, Devan, and Dak had gone, she’d found a pretense to pull him into the small side room and whisper to him, “You were right to keep Arya and Rickon inside, my love, but you must stop frowning and snarling so. Poor Jeyne’s only just begun speaking in your presence again, and I’m afraid you’ll terrify her right back into silence.”

Ned hadn’t responded. He’d only frowned more deeply and walked to look out the window into the courtyard. “I should be down there,” he’d said after a moment, his voice an angry rasp escaping through clenched teeth.

Catelyn had looked around, but none of the children had come near them. Likely, they were rather relieved to have their father removed from their immediate presence for a bit. “No,” she’d said firmly. “You shouldn’t. You are the Lord of Winterfell, and you are far too important and too necessary to this place and its people to risk your health moving snow. We have more than enough men and boys for the job.”

“Able-bodied men and boys, you mean,” he’d muttered. “Not invalids.”

“Stop it,” she’d hissed at him under her breath, thoroughly tired of this conversation as they seemed to have had some form of it at least a thousand times now. “You are no invalid, but your leg is not yet healed because you insist upon . . .”

“Seaworth just had half his foot chopped off, and he’s out there!” Ned had interrupted her.

Catelyn had taken a deep breath in an effort to remain calm. “Toes, Ned. Lord Seaworth had several toes amputated, that is true. But while the procedure was no doubt painful, a few toes does not constitute half a foot. What has been done to your leg more than once has left a far greater wound. Furthermore,” she’d said before he could speak again, “Lord Seaworth followed Sam’s instructions about remaining abed far better than you ever have. He allowed himself to heal while you’ve pushed yourself constantly to do more than you should. I’m having no more of it, my lord. You will allow that leg to heal.”

“It’s better, Cat. You know it’s getting better,” he’d insisted.

“Yes, I do. And it’s getting better because for more than a fortnight, you’ve been stuck here in the Great Keep with little opportunity to do aught but rest it. Now that the storm is ending, I know very well you will find some reason to to traipse all over Winterfell before you truly should, but I’ll be damned if I’ll allow you to do it to move snow. Look out that window again.”

He’d still looked angry and thoroughly sick of his infirmity, but she’d thought she saw a hint of amusement in the grey eyes at her command. He had said nothing, but simply cocked a brow at her before turning back to the window to do as she’d asked. 

“How many men do you see below?” she’d asked softly.

“Too many to count easily with the snow still falling. None of them are still.”

She’d smiled. “Of course, none of them are still. They are Winterfell men. They know well how to deal with the aftermath of a winter storm. How much more quickly would the snow be removed by addition of one man working with them?”

He’d turned to look at her then. “Cat . . .”

“Even if he is the Lord of Winterfell, and the strongest, most determined, and most pigheaded man in the castle.” He’d snorted at that, but she’d continued. “How much more quickly would the snow be cleared from the windows and doors if you were down there, Ned?”

He’d sighed and shaken his head. “No more quickly,” he’d admitted. “Although, if you think it is a comfort to me to admit how truly useless I . . .”

“Lord and Lady Stark! Come look!” The breathlessly excited voice had belonged to Jeyne Poole, speaking with more joyful enthusiasm than Catelyn had heard from the poor girl since her return to Winterfell.

She and Ned had turned at once to see Jeyne beckoning them both back into the main bedchamber where Sansa knelt on the floor, a smile on her face and her arms held out in a welcoming gesture. Walking toward her had been Arya, bent forward and holding Brien’s little hands over his head as the baby took very uncoordinated, but very determined steps in the direction of his older sister’s arms. He’d relied entirely on Arya for balance, but his intent was unmistakable. The youngest Stark couldn’t quite manage it yet, but he’d wanted very badly to walk.

“Clever, clever boy!” Catelyn had cried, clapping her hands as her baby reached Sansa’s outstretched hands and Arya let go of his hands so that he fell into his other sister’s waiting arms.

“But he’s too little to walk. The others never walked so young,” Ned had said, a smile now on his face.

“Oh, he won’t truly walk for awhile yet, but Arya was scarcely nine moons when she walked, and Brien isn’t so terribly much younger than that.”

“How old was I when I learned to walk?” Rickon had shouted.

“Ten moons,” Catelyn had answered without hesitation. “You might have walked sooner, but Robb was forever carrying you around on his back, and you rather liked it.”

“What about Robb?” Rickon had demanded, and Catelyn had simultaneously wanted to laugh and cry to hear him ask about the brother he would never truly remember. 

“Robb and Sansa both waited until past their first name day to take their first steps. I fear that’s my fault as I was terrified to put them down. I held them and carried them constantly as babes, and they were rarely on the floor.”

“What about me? When did I first walk?” The quietly voiced question had stabbed at a wound Catelyn often tried to tell herself was healed, but in truth, never could be.

She turned to face her oldest living son where he sat in his wheeled chair with Shireen Baratheon seated close beside him. “You were just shy of your first name day, Bran, when you actually walked. But you had little need of walking as you crawled faster than any babe I’d ever seen. And when you did start pulling up on things, rather than let go and walk, you’d simply find a way to pull yourself up onto all sorts of things you really shouldn’t have.”

She’d had to stop speaking then for fear her voice would break, and Bran certainly didn’t need that. He’d only just started smiling again, and still only rarely. But as she’d looked at him there in the damned chair with the wheels he shouldn’t have to depend upon, she’d seen him so clearly at nine and ten moons, terrifying her as he managed to pull himself onto the stool by her dressing table or climb onto the edge of the hearth. She’d been forever grabbing him up into her arms to keep him from falling. She’d never stopped fearing he’d fall. But he never had. He had never once fallen, and still he sat in that chair with legs that no longer climbed anything because of Jaime and Cersei Lannister.

“Cat?” Ned’s voice had caused her to turn toward him, and she saw the concern in his eyes. He’d known where her thoughts had gone.

She’d smiled to let him know she was all right even though she hadn’t been sure that she was. _The are dead,_ she thought fiercely. _Dead and gone. And Bran is still here._ “So all those times Old Nan would swear you had scaled the walls of Winterfell before you could walk, she wasn’t exaggerating as much as you might think,” she had said as brightly as she could, and Bran had smiled at her. 

If he’d been about to say anything, however, it was cut off by the knock at the door and the entry of a man who’d obviously come directly from outside.

“Milord! Milady! The green dragon’s coming! The one that killed all them Walkers!”

That pronouncement had stunned all of them. Rickon had recovered first, jumping to his feet from where he’d been sitting on the floor and crying out, “Rhaegal? Is it really, really Rhaegal?”

“Well, it’s hard to mistake a dragon for anything else, my little lord,” the man had said, smiling widely.

“It comes from the north, you said? Can you truly see it clearly in this weather?” Ned’s voice had come from just behind her, and she’d heard the desperate hope beneath his controlled tone.

“Well, milord,” the man had said, turning to nod deferentially to her husband before continuing. “Even in all that snow, the bright green skin of our Jon’s dragon shows plainly enough. It isn’t the queen’s black beast, I’d stake my life on it.”

Catelyn had looked at Ned who only nodded slightly at the man’s words, his expression almost unreadable. He didn’t react at all to the soldier referring to the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch as “our Jon,” and Catelyn had known his mind was already out on the castle wall, looking northward in anticipation of his son’s safe arrival here.

“Thank you for bringing us word,” she’d said to the man. “You may go.”

He’d barely closed the door behind when it seemed all the children were speaking at once. 

“Of course, you may go,” she’d said. “He’ll be here any moment. That dragon can fly as quickly as our man could run from the wall to the Keep.”

Rickon had bounced up and down, and Arya had nearly thrown Brien into her arms in her haste to be gone. Sansa had taken Jeyne Poole by the hand, encouraging her to come as well. “Get your cloaks!” Catelyn had called after them. “And gloves!”

“I’ll wait here, Mother,” Bran had said quietly as the four left the room. He’d had a very odd expression on his face, looking almost fearful. Before she’d been able to ask him about it, he’d continued, “I can’t possibly get someone to help me down the stairs and carry me out before Jon arrives.”

“I’ll stay with him, Lady Stark.”

Catelyn had nearly forgotten Shireen Baratheon who remained sitting beside Bran.

Catelyn had nodded. “Thank you, Shireen.” To Bran, she had said, “Your brother will want to see you, sweetling. We’ll bring him here.”

“Yes, Mother,” Bran had said, and again she’d heard something odd in his voice.

“Catelyn, I will not remain in your chambers like an invalid while . . .”

“Of course, you won’t,” she had interrupted him, moving swiftly to hand Brien into Bran’s lap and to retrieve Ned’s cane for him. While he no longer used it to move around her room, he needed it for any long walks and certainly for any stairs.

Only when they were in the corridor outside her rooms did he notice she had not gotten her own cloak or his. “My lady,” he’d started. “I intend to greet Jon and . . .”

“And you shall,” she’d said firmly. “In your solar. Firmly on your feet. Not half limping and half being dragged by me through snow too deep to walk easily in after attempting to kill yourself by taking the stairs too quickly.”

He’d glowered at her. 

“Ned,” she’d said softly. “You know as well as I that he’s probably already landing in the courtyard. We’ll only have time to reach your solar because the children will delay the poor man with their own greetings. Do you want his first sight of you to be standing at your desk as he seen you do all his life or hobbling through the snow?”

Her words had sounded unkind to her own ears, but she knew that such things mattered to Ned and that he would prefer to greet Jon without having to immediately answer questions about his own health.When his stubborn resistance had given way to grateful acceptance of her plan, it confirmed she’d been right.

So, having escorted her husband part of the way to his solar, she’d agreed with a smile when he’d informed her he could bloody well walk down a corridor and open a door by himself, and she should meet Jon at the door of the Great Keep and bring him up, which is how she came to be in the entry hall of the Great Keep when a very bedraggled looking Jon Snow was triumphantly ushered in by Sansa, Arya, Rickon, Jeyne, and Dak who had apparently met them all in the courtyard.

They were all laughing and talking at once, and the joy written on her children’s faces caused Catelyn to scarcely notice the terrible cold which rushed in as they opened the door. Jon had Rickon on his shoulders as they entered, and she watched him bend as low as he could to avoid banging the child’s head. Rickon laughed and bent forward, throwing his arms tightly around Jon’s neck and bending so that his own bright head was resting against the top of Jon’s dark one. Unbidden, an image of Robb carrying a three year old Rickon in precisely the same manner entered her mind, and she shut her eyes briefly against pain that threatened to stir old resentments.

Jon saw her as he swung Rickon down to the floor. “Lady Stark,” he said formally, but he looked genuinely pleased to see her, and she found herself surprisingly pleased to see him.

“Jon,” she said. “It is good to see you safe and well.”

He actually smiled at that. “My fa . . .Lord Stark,” he said, not quite voicing the questions—where is he? Is he well?

She smiled back at him. “Your father is well. He awaits you in his solar as I have no doubt there is much you need to discuss.”

A shadow crossed the young man’s face then, causing him to look so much like a troubled Ned Stark that Catelyn caught her breath.

“Aye,” he said grimly, even sounding like Ned. “Dak,” he said, turning to find the Pentoshi boy. “You’ve got that pack I gave you?”

“Yes, Jon,” the boy said promptly, raising up a very large fur bundle that looked heavy. Dak held it with two hands.

“Thank you. I’ll take it now.”

“So we’re going to Father’s solar now?” Arya asked. The girl was positively glowing as she looked up at Jon with adoration and Catelyn realized that it didn’t bother her as it always had. “To open up your mystery bundle?”

“No,” Jon said almost harshly. Arya’s face fell, and Jon looked contrite. Reaching out to muss her hair, he said, “I’m sorry, Arya. I want nothing more than to be with all of you, but I have things I must say to Father, and those things cannot wait.”

“But why can’t we hear . . .”

“Arya,” Catelyn interrupted firmly. “Jon has come a long way in terrible conditions. Let’s not keep him dripping and cold in the entry. He needs to speak with your father, and that is that.”

Arya’s grey eyes, _Ned’s eyes, Jon Snow’s eyes,_ darkened, but she said no more.

Turning to Jon, Catelyn said, “I will have food sent to the solar, Jon. And something warm to drink. You look half frozen and you must be starving. I fear it won’t be very elaborate fare as the kitchen was hardly run at all during the storm and . . .”

“I would be grateful for whatever there is, Lady Stark,” Jon interrupted her. “But I would like you to come with me. I know Father will want you to hear what I have to say as well.”

Catelyn was stunned into silence by those words, but she did raise a hand to quell the protest she saw once again rising in Arya’s face. Sansa stepped into the silence.

“I will have food sent, Mother. There is an hour of light left at least and the way to the godswood is quite passable if not completely clear. Mayhap we could go out with the wolves?”

Catelyn smiled at her elder daughter in gratitude, wondering at what point she had become so completely a young woman, leaving her childhood behind. Being allowed out of the Keep for the first time in more than a fortnight would go a long way toward soothing even Arya, and Ned did like them to get out as much as possible during the brief daylight every day it was feasible. He’d told Catelyn that light was essential to health, and as it was in short supply during northern winters, it must be never be squandered.

“Thank you, Sansa,” she said. “You all may go out, but dress very warmly and come in as soon as the sky begins to darken. The temperature will drop very quickly as we lose the sun.”

A chorus of “Yes, Mother” and “Yes, my lady” met this pronouncement, and Arya and the two boys ran off immediately, Arya looking at least less murderous if not entirely happy.

Jeyne remained because Sansa did, and Jeyne Poole rarely took three steps away from Sansa when anywhere other than the girls’ room or Catelyn’s. “What about Bran, Mother?” Sansa asked.

A look passed over Jon Snow’s face at the mention of Bran which reminded Catelyn uncomfortably of the expression on Bran’s face earlier. “I do not think he should go out quite yet, Sansa. He is in my room with Brien and Lady Shireen. You could send Dak or Rickon to see if Shireen would like to go out.” In truth, she hoped the young Lady of Storm’s End would remain to keep Bran company, but she couldn’t deny her the opportunity to get outdoors if she wished it.

“All right, Mother.” Turning toward Jon, Sansa smiled, “I’ve barely gotten a word in between Arya and Rickon, but it is so good to have you home, Jon. We were all worried about you.” Without waiting for a response, she threw her arms around Jon, briefly embracing him before taking Jeyne’s hand and walking away.

“Worried about me?” Jon asked, as he watched the two girls walk away.

“You did write you were going beyond the Wall,” Catelyn said. “We might have kept that from the children, but they knew before we received the letter.”

Jon raised his brows.

“The wolves. Apparently, they lost touch with Ghost when he crossed the Wall.”

“Oh,” Jon said. “That’s right. That does happen.” He hesitated a moment. “Did Bran say . . .”

“Bran was terrified,” Catelyn interrupted. “He told us he had seen that you would die beyond the Wall.” She bit her lip, hesitant to say more about what had occurred with Bran until they were with Ned.

“Is he ill? Bran? You said he couldn’t go outside.”

Catelyn sighed. “I suppose he has been ill, but he is doing better now. Let’s go to Ned’s solar. His patience is surely wearing thin. I’m surprised he hasn’t come down here after us already.”

“Is he well, truly?”

“Yes,” she said simply. More detailed discussions of Ned’s health could come from Ned himself.

They walked without speaking after that. Catelyn wanted to ask what was wrapped up in so many layers of fur, but thought it likely that Jon wished to show whatever it was to Ned, so she remained silent. They were nearly to the solar when a young woman’s voice stopped them.

“Lord Commander!”

Both of them turned to see Shireen Baratheon behind them. She looked out of breath as if she had run.

“Shireen!” Catelyn said before Jon could reply. “Is something amiss with Brien or Bran?”

“No, my lady. I need the Lord Commander to come and speak with Bran.”

Jon and Catelyn both stared at her. “I’m going to speak with Lord Stark,” Jon said.

“You need to speak with Bran,” Lady Shireen insisted.

“Shireen,” Catelyn said firmly, “I know Bran is terribly worried about Jon, but you can assure him he’s fine. All the children want to speak with Jon, but first we must know what has occurred beyond the Wall.”

The dark blue eyes looked directly at Catelyn as she spoke, and the stubborn expression on the girl’s face was Stannis Baratheon to the life. “This is important,” she said simply before turning back to Jon. “You know it is important. You must speak with him. However wrong it was, you know he only meant . . .”

“I’ll speak with him soon,” Jon interrupted almost angrily, sounding more as if he wished to stop the girl’s words far more than he wanted to speak with Bran. His eyes looked almost frightened.

“What is this about?” Catelyn asked, becoming a bit frightened herself. “Explain yourself, Shireen.”

“I can’t,” said Shireen. “I am sorry, my lady, but it is not my tale to tell.”

“It is no one’s tale to tell,” Jon hissed. “I will speak with my brother when I can. I am glad to see you safe at Winterfell, Your Grace, but now I must speak with my Father. If you will excuse us.”

Shireen smiled that sad smile of hers. “It’s ‘my lady’ now, Lord Commander. I thought you would know that.”

Jon almost smiled in return, and he softened his voice. “I do know, my lady. I beg your pardon, but old habits die hard, and I certainly never referred to you as anything other than ‘Your Grace’ when speaking to either of your parents.”

“Well, they are gone now,” Shireen said flatly. “When you finish your conversation with Lord Stark, Bran is Lady Catelyn’s chambers.” She turned back to Catelyn, bowed her head slightly, and murmured, “My lady” politely before turning to leave.

“She acts more like royalty now than when she had the title,” Jon said darkly.

“What did she mean, Jon? About Bran. What did she mean?”

“Don’t ask me, my lady. Please.”

The expression on his face chilled Catelyn to the bone for she had seen it far too often on Ned’s face in the early days of their marriage. It was the face of a Stark keeping a secret which made him very uncomfortable.

“Bran is my son, Jon,” she said, looking him directly in the eyes. _Ned’s eyes._

“I know that, my lady. And he is a brother to me no matter who fathered me. You know that to be true. I will forever do all I can to keep him from harm. But do not ask me of these things now. I beg you.” 

She could not bring herself to ask more in the face of the desperation she heard in that plea although Jon’s obvious worry caused her own to magnify. “Very well, then,” she forced herself to say as steadily as possible. “Come, Jon. Ned is waiting for us.”

_______________________________________________________________

His father had been seated behind his big desk, but he’d risen and come around that desk to embrace Jon when he’d entered behind Lady Stark.

“Jon,” Father had said, almost exhaling his name more than speaking it. “Gods, you are a sight for sore eyes. Are you truly well?”

“I’m well, Father,” Jon had answered, barely able to speak himself as he saw the affection, relief, and concern written more plainly on his father’s face than it normally was. “Truly. I am tired and full of concerns which I must share with you, but simply to see all of you here . . .” He’d swallowed hard as it hit him just how much he had missed his family. He’d even been glad to see Lady Catelyn, and that was certainly a novel experience. She’d seemed genuinely pleased to see him as well, although he feared her pleasure had not survived Shireen Baratheon’s surprising declarations and his own refusal to answer questions about them.

He’d had no time to reflect upon that, however, as his father had said, “We know something terrible happened north of the Wall, Jon. Bran saw it. He will not speak of it, but it frightened him badly enough that it took him some time to come back to himself. He could only tell us you were alive whenever he . . . quit looking . . . or whatever it is that he does.”

His father had sounded uncomfortable speaking of Bran’s visions, and it occurred to Jon that neither Lord nor Lady Stark seemed to know as much about what had happened between Bran and himself as Shireen Baratheon. _‘Whatever it is he does’_ indeed, Jon thought darkly. 

He must have been silent too long with a scowl upon his face because his father had clapped his arms with his hands and said, “Come. Let’s sit. I am a poor host and a poorer father to keep my son standing after a journey such as you must have had.”

His father had turned to walk back around the desk, and Jon had noted his limp was still quite pronounced. Then he’d noticed a cane leaning against the desk near his father’s chair and frowned. He knew the leg had been bad when he’d left, but Sam had assured him it would improve greatly with time and rest. 

“The leg is fine, Jon,” Father had said as he sat down in his seat, startling Jon out of his thoughts. His father had actually smiled at whatever expression had crossed Jon’s face. “I cannot read your mind, son,” he’d said softly, “But that is precisely the expression my dear lady wife wears when she is concerned about the damned leg. You both worry too much.”

Lady Catelyn had taken her seat next to Father as Jon sat down across from them. “He doesn’t behave well,” she’d said. “I fear Sam and I must tie him to the bed in order to keep him from doing more than he should, but in spite of that, he is improving, Jon. Simply more slowly than he would like.”

Father had made a harrumphing sort of sound and proclaimed they had all talked quite enough of his leg and should move on to whatever had happened to Jon beyond the Wall.

Now, Jon sat in his father’s solar, having finished the first part of his tale, sipping on the warm ale that had finally arrived with a bit of cold meat and cheese. Father and Lady Catelyn stared at the bundle which lay on the floor not far from his own chair. Father’s grey eyes were narrowed as if assessing an enemy for weaknesses, and Lady Catelyn’s blue eyes were wide with wonder and some fright as she regarded the danger he had carried right into Winterfell.

“Can I see them?” Father asked after a moment. 

Jon nodded and rose to undo the ties binding the furs. “They’re cold,” he said. “Far too cold to touch without pain. Rhaegal hated them. It took this much wrapping to get the dragon to allow me to put them on it, and even then, it was with great reluctance.” He had been unwrapping as he spoke, and as the second fur fell away, he began to feel the cold emanating from the objects within. When he pulled the next fur away, Lady Catelyn caught her breath.

“My gods! I can feel it from here. It chills the air!”

“It does,” Jon nodded grimly. As he unwrapped the last furs, he noticed from the corner of his eye that she actually leaned into Father as if to draw warmth from him. When the final fur fell away, and he stepped back to allow them to see, he heard his father’s sharp intake of breath.

“They’re beautiful,” Lady Catelyn whispered.

She was correct. Lying there on the furs in the floor of Father’s solar, with no intervening ice obscuring them, the dragon eggs were even more striking than they had been in the cavern. The solid white one seemed to glow and the silver one shone as if it truly were made of the precious metal, the white flecks upon it sparkling as the flames of the candles and the hearth flickered.

“What are they made of?” Father asked after a moment. 

“I don’t know,” Jon answered. “It isn’t ice, I don’t think, although it’s colder than ice. If feels a bit like stone, but don’t touch them. Two of my men got frost bite from barely brushing them with ungloved fingertips. Whatever it is, it can’t be broken or burned by anything I have found.”

“The dragon?” His father asked.

“I had Rhaegal breathe fire on one of them for more than a quarter hour. The poor dragon grew quite tired of it. The egg scarcely even warmed at all. As for breaking it . . .” He shook his head. “I damn near broke Longclaw trying. And I know nothing stronger than Valyrian steel.”

“Why did you bring them here?” Lady Catelyn whispered, not taking her eyes from the eggs, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering even as she leaned into her husband.

Jon sighed. “I had a thought. Something sparked from what my aunt . . . Queen Daenerys, I mean . . . told me of her dragon eggs, what little I can understand of Rhaegal’s own memories, and some things I read at Castle Black.”

“And what is your thought?” Father asked him.

“I think these eggs require ice just as Dany’s eggs required fire. She told me they hatched in the funeral pyre of her Dothraki lord.”

If either of them had noticed his use of Dany’s familiar name, they didn’t comment upon it. Lady Stark frowned, but it turned out to be about something else entirely. “She told me her eggs were hundreds of years old. They were thought to be petrified, long dead, when they were given to her. In all that time, no one thought to put them in a fire?”

“Most likely, someone tried that,” he said. “God know the Targaryens have tried any number of desperate measures to hatch dragon’s eggs. Daenerys believes the eggs were meant for her. They required the fire, herself . . . and some sort of magic she doesn’t understand. It was costly, though. Her husband did die.”

“So did her babe,” Catelyn whispered.

“What?” Jon asked.

“Her unborn child. She told me of him. A child needn’t be born alive for his mother to mourn him. It would seem to me this was costly magic, indeed. And dark.”

Lady Catelyn’s eyes searched his, and it occurred to Jon that his father’s southron wife accepted magic in all its forms far more easily than his father did. She embraced the connection between her children and their wolves and feared such powers as those that had awakened Rhaegal and its siblings from their long slumber. He wondered what she would think of Bran’s magic if she knew all of it.

“So why bring them here?” his father asked. He had been silent for some time, but now he asked the question which of course mattered most to him.

“Winterfell has its own magic,” Jon said. “It’s written of more than once in all the oldest books that tell of long winters. Winterfell’s magic brings life back to the North each spring.”

“Winterfell’s hot springs keep us alive. Not magic,” Father said flatly.

Lady Catelyn actually laughed. “And that isn’t magic?” she asked. “I didn’t even believe Brandon the first time he told me of pools filled with water that bubbled up from the earth already hot without ever seeing a pot over a fire. It sounded like magic to me. Walk into my room and place your hand on the wall, my lord. Tell me what other castle has walls as warm as flesh with water flowing through them like blood. Your gods put that hot water in the earth, and Brandon the Builder pulled it into the very stones of Winterfell. Can you tell me how he did that?”

Jon and his father simply stared at her silently. 

“You can’t,” she said. “No more than you can tell me how he made the Wall proof against those things that dwell north of it. And you don’t deny that’s magic.”

“Cat,” his father started. “The maesters have . . .”

“Oh, don’t talk to me of maesters, Ned. They are wise, I know. And they can explain a great many things, but not all. I adore Sam, and you know that. I do not know what we would do without him, but I think what I love about him best is that he admits there are many things that have no explanation the citadel can find. Maester Luwin was one of the wisest men I ever knew, and certainly the most learned. Yet, for the past year, Old Nan’s tales have proven more useful than anything he ever told us. Winterfell is magic, Ned. You’re simply too close to it to see that. It’s always just been your home, but it hasn’t always been mine, and I believe I see it more clearly for that.”

As Jon listened to her speak, he watched the two of them. They looked only at each other as if he weren’t even there. When she finished speaking, his father took both her hands in his. 

“But it is your home now, my love, is it not?”

She smiled at him. “Oh, yes, my love. Winterfell is the only home I ever want to have. I love its people, its towers, its tunnels, and its magic.” She tilted her head to the side and laughed just a bit. “I even love its godswood, even if I’ll never feel completely at ease there.”

They sat there a moment, their hands joined, simply looking at each other. Jon began to wonder if he should say something, but then he saw Lady Catelyn shiver. His father apparently saw it as well, and it called his attention back to the eggs they were discussing.

“Wrap those things back up, Jon. They do leech all the heat from the room.” As Jon stood up to bundle the furs back around the dragon eggs, Father said, “So you want us to keep them warm . . . or as warm as they can be. Away from ice at any rate.”

Jon nodded. “Something like that. Yes.”

“How did you get them out of the ice, anyway? Didn’t you say they were encased in it? Did you break it or melt it with torches.”

Jon shivered. He hadn’t yet told them this part. “A bit of both,” he said. “It wasn’t easy. That ice was thick and solid. More than one man broke his sword on it. We splintered several logs we used to beat upon it. The fire worked. But far more slowly than we hoped it would. Far too slowly.” His voice trailed off, and he stared ahead of him, not seeing Lord or Lady Stark or even the walls of the solar. He saw only the ice encrusted walls of that cavern that wasn’t truly a cavern. Perwyn had been right about that, he thought. That place had been built—dug out of the ground and fashioned for a specific purpose. 

“Jon?” 

His father sounded worried. Hurriedly, Jon tied all the furs back around the eggs and returned to his seat. “It was terrible,” he said softly. “I thought the worst of it was over when Rhaegal killed the blue dragon, but it wasn’t.”

“Tell us,” his father encouraged him softly. 

Jon took a deep breath and began to speak once more. As the words fell from his lips, haltingly at times because they were painful, he felt himself back there once more.

_They’d been at this for more than full day, and the ice had only begun to melt at the very top of the little frozen pool. Much more still lay over the two eggs, preventing their removal. They’d tried simply laying burning torches on the ice at first so that men did not have to stay in the godsforsaken place all the time. But that had proven futile. The extreme cold of the ice extinguished the torches far too quickly for them to have any effect. They had to be constantly relit, and it became apparent that men would have to remain in the cavern at all times, coming and going and bringing new fire._

_Several men expressed a wish to explore down the tunnels, but Jon forbade it. They had no way of knowing if the tunnels opened up into large chambers or if those chambers were filled with wights or Others lying in wait to ambush them. It was better to simply guard the entrances._

_Not long into the second day, the first Others had emerged from the leftmost tunnel. Half a dozen of them, easily shot down by the dragonglass arrows the men had trained on the tunnel entrance. Just before that, one of Jon’s men, a large fellow originally from near Last Hearth who must have Umber blood had finally succeeded in making a very large crack in the ice by smashing a huge stone into it. Of course, the stone had broken into tiny bits as well, but a cheer had gone up, and the men’s spirits had been higher than since before the blue dragon appeared._

_The appearance of Others had darkened the mood quickly enough. More archers and more men wielding dragonglass blades were set to guard that tunnel and the other two. More flaming brands were held to the ice above the eggs as the men pounded it with everything they could find to try. Progress was being made, but it was far too slow._

_The next time Others appeared, there were a score of them, and this time they could not be dispatched so quickly. Four men fell to their icy blades before Jon himself destroyed the final three Walkers with Longclaw._

_Some men began to mutter about giving up on the eggs and riding for the safety of Castle Black before more of those monsters emerged, but Jon knew they couldn’t leave the eggs here. The Others could not be allowed to have dragons. Of course, there could be more nests with more eggs, but he had no wish to think long about that. He had to dwell on the problem before him._

_“Faster,” he urged the men. “We must get those eggs away from here. Work faster!”_

_When the section of ice above the white egg finally gave way, it was the big man from Last Hearth who reached beneath it to grasp it and pull it free. “It’s not so terribly heavy,” he said as he lifted it, “But it’s damn cold.” He wore gloves, but even so, he held it aloft only moments before a cried out with pain and dropped it. “It’s too damned cold!” he shouted. “I can’t hold it!”_

_It had lain there, a smooth white ovoid jewel upon the white, frost-covered floor of the cavern, and before Jon could give any orders about it, Others emerged from the tunnel once more in numbers too great to count._

_“Get it out of here!” he’d cried. “Do whatever it takes!”_

_His men were lining up bravely to stand between the Others and the dragon egg, but they were too few. Jon screamed at Perwyn to get the egg out as he slashed at Others with Longclaw while trying to avoid entirely too many of those icy blades. He saw Perwyn remove his own cloak and shout at several others to do the same. They wrapped the cloaks around the egg and Perwyn handed it to a man who began to run for the surface._

_As soon as the man began running, the Others focused their attention solely on trying to go after him. Men not in the path toward the tunnel out were not attacked._

_“Perwyn!” Jon shouted. “Try to delay them another few moments. Then let them pass!”_

_Perwyn looked puzzled for a moment, but then nodded understanding as Jon pointed to the tunnel where they’d taken refuge during the ice dragon’s exit from the cavern. Jon then ran to the entrance of that tunnel as quickly as he could, and once inside he collapsed against the wall and reached for Rhaegal._

_The dragon wasn’t far as its wing still pained it when it moved, and its chest hurt when it breathed too deeply. Jon couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t let Rhaegal think about that. He hoped Perwyn had understood him completely. Ignoring the pain, he took to the air and flew to the cavern entrance as quickly as the injuries allowed. He spied the man running out of it with the dragon egg wrapped in cloaks. As soon as the man cleared the cavern entrance, he dove, breathing deeply enough to cause the wound in the dragon’s chest to burn as if it were new._

_Rhaegal hated the cavern and hated the creatures within it. Jon scarcely had to direct the dragon at all as it landed just at the entrance of the cavern and exhaled fire with a force it shouldn’t be capable of with the wound to the chest. As soon as the fire stopped, it inhaled once more and again sprayed fire into the cavern’s first chamber, actually moving as far forward as it could, pushing its head all the way inside._

_How many times the dragon repeated that, Jon did not know, but after a time he became aware that he no longer sensed any Others close by. That meant none were approaching the upper chamber. He prayed that none of his men had come up with the Others for nothing in that chamber could have lived. Silently, he ordered Rhaegal to remain where it was, and he slipped from its skin._

_Perwyn was standing over him. Other men were in the tunnel, but not enough. Not nearly enough._

_“The White Walkers,” he said as he reoriented himself to his own body and stood up._

_“Gone, I think. We could hear the dragon. It burned those that went above?”_

_Jon nodded. Again, he took stock of the men around him. There couldn’t be more than ten. There had been at least twice that number in the cavern. “Where are the rest of our men?”_

_Perwyn shook his head sadly. He must have seen the look of horror on Jon’s face because he then said, “They didn’t go up the tunnel, Jon. There were simply too many Others. I tried to pull them all in here, but . . . those on the far side of the cavern had to come through those creatures and . . .”_

_Jon continued to look around and realized whose face he missed. “Mully,” he said._

_Perwyn looked grim. “He made it here, but then he saw the men trying to cut their way through that tide of Others moving toward the exit. He went back out to help them, and he got three men safely through before he fell. Did Moryn make it out?”_

_Stunned by the loss of Mully, it took Jon a moment to realize that he was speaking of the man with the dragon egg._

_“Yes,” he said. Mention of Moryn made him recall their purpose here. “We have to get the other one, Perwyn.”_

_“It isn’t quite free, Jon, and there are more of those things down there.”_

_“I know.” He forced himself to think. “Have the men bring torches to toss down into that tunnel as well as for the ice in the egg pool.”_

_“Ordinary fire doesn’t kill Others, Jon.”_

_“I know. But they don’t like it much either. It might slow them down. Especially if they realize what happened up there to their friends. Mayhap it will take them a few moments to realize there is no dragonfire down here.”_

_Perwyn looked doubtful, but then nodded. “It’s something, I suppose. I’ll go above and get more men and more fire.”_

_“Don’t be startled by Rhaegal. It’s lying in the entrance.”_

_Perwyn appeared startled by that news. “Is it hurt?”_

_“No more than it was already.” Jon shrugged. “I need it to remain there in case . . .”_

_Perwyn took a deep breath. “Jon, it will happen again. Somehow, they knew when we got that egg from the ice. That’s all they wanted. They didn’t care how many of them died. They moved with a single purpose, and they will again when that silver egg is freed.”_

_Jon nodded grimly, realizing his friend was correct. “We need to get it free quickly, and not waste time once it’s out. Have something ready to wrap it in and give it to the fastest man we’ve got. I’ll stay behind with a force of men and . . .”_

_“No.”_

_“Perwyn, we’ll have to give our runner time like we did before. Our fastest man cannot outrun these things. You know that.”_

_“I do know that. That’s why I shall stay here and lead that rear guard.”_

_“Perywn, I want you to . . .”_

_“You are Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. You are the only man who can control that dragon, not to mention the direwolf out there who’s pretty damn useful in his own right. You are too valuable to lose, Jon. It’s that simple.”_

_“No, Perwyn. There’s nothing simple about telling men they must die while I must live. And I’ve already lost Mully. I can’t afford to lose you, too.”_

_“I’m going up top, Jon, to get this business started. If you even feel a hint of extra cold, you get out of here, do you understand me?”_

_“Are you giving your Lord Commander an order?” Jon asked him._

_“You’re damn right I am. What are you going to do? Condemn me? I’ve already been condemned. It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”_

_Perwyn shrugged and gave him a crooked grin, and Jon couldn’t help but laugh. “Go on,” he said. “We’ll start banging on that ice with whatever we have here and hold the torches we have left near that Walker tunnel.”_

_Perwyn left without another word and was soon back with more men and many more torches. Whether the fires in the tunnel helped or not, the Others did not trouble them for the two hours although every man’s nerves were stretched to the limit. Finally, a man was able to poke a large stick into the melting ice and move the silver egg a bit._

_“Jon!” Perwyn called when he saw the egg move. “Time for you to go.”_

_“No. I’ll stay here until . . .”_

_“Jon, listen to me. Those things were rabid to get that egg back. They kept going up that tunnel even after they had to know you and your dragon were frying them all. They didn’t care. Only a very few went back where they came from, and those stopped to stare at the silver egg on their way.”_

_“You didn’t tell me that before.”_

_“It didn’t matter. We had to do this. We had to get that last egg, right? But it is the last egg. I don’t think they’ll stop this time because they have nothing left to lose. Can Rhaegal kill them all?”_

_“I don’t know how many there are, Perwyn, but we have to hope so.”_

_“The more we can kill down here, the less the dragon will have to do.”_

_“Perwyn, I don’t want you . . .”_

_“I don’t have a death wish, Jon. But I haven’t the compelling reasons you have for living, either. My own skin is not as important to me as knowing that we’ve done everything to protect the North and the rest of the realm. That is what the Night’s Watch does, isn’t it?”_

_“It is.”_

_“Then go.”_

_Jon went. When he reached the exit, he told the men still above to take up defensive positions past Rhaegal in case any Others got through. If more came than before, he might have to take Rhaegal out of the battle for brief rests. He assigned riders to head for Castle Black with the two eggs as soon the second was out of the cavern and he silently bid Ghost to lead them there and guard them from harm, whatever may happen to him. Then he climbed upon Rhaegal’s back and waited. He much preferred to fight like this than safely from afar, controlling the dragon’s movements with his mind and not sharing any of the risk._

_It seemed no time at all before a man came sprinting from the cavern a large bundle slung over his shoulder. He was followed closely by another four men, all with weapons drawn who screamed “Dragonfire” at Jon as they passed the dragon._

_Jon heeded them instantly, and only as the flames erupted from Rhaegal’s mouth, lighting up the cavern in front of him did he realize there were men left still, fighting a veritable sea of Others. Others and men burned alike in Rhaegal’s flame, but already more Others teemed upward from the tunnel. Even as his stomach turned, Jon knew his only choice was to spray fire again and again and again until Rhaegal was completely out of breath. Two Others managed to reach them, and Jon felt the pain of their frozen sword tips as they struck Rhaegal’s flesh. The dragon got airborne before the blades could do serious damage, but it served as a cold reminder that it was not invincible. He landed Rhaegal nearby and heard the shouts of his men who now fought the Others above ground as well as below. He prayed they could hold their ground for just a little while. He prayed the riders had already put a good distance between the dragon eggs and this place. He prayed that Rhaegal would recover enough to rejoin the battle quickly._

“Was the dragon able to fight again?” his father asked, the deep voice drawing him back into the lord’s solar at Winterfell. 

Jon blinked, wondering how long he’d been silent before his father had spoken.

“Yes,” he said softly. “And it’s a good thing, for it seems Perwyn was prophetic. Wave upon wave of Others emerged from that tunnel, and eventually I had to let them get out of the cave. Rhaegal was too weak to spray enough fire to destroy them all, and I couldn’t risk its being stabbed by those blades.” Jon swallowed. “I ordered the men to stand back a good distance and I positioned Rhaegal where we could breathe fire toward the cave entrance and then take to the air out of their reach while it recovered its breath. We could still kill most of the Others, but some would get through each time, and the men would engage them once they were clear of the dragonfire.”

“How many did you lose, Jon?” his father asked softly.

“Above ground? More than a quarter of my men. Most of them while Rhaegal and I were out of the battle.” He shook his head. “Not one of them fled. Not one. Whatever they were before they came to the Wall, they were true men of the Night’s Watch that day. All of them.”

“And Perwyn? With his men inside the cavern?”

Lady Stark had not spoken for some time, and when Jon looked at her, her eyes were shining with tears. 

Sadly, Jon shook his head. “He was lost. They were all lost.” He swallowed hard. “The men who came out with the dragon’s egg told me that Perwyn had given the men a choice. They could stand with him within the chamber where the eggs had been and attempt to stop as many of the Others as they could before dying, or they could follow the runner, fighting as they went with the understanding that dragonfire would be loosed as soon as the egg was safely out of the cavern. Or if any man didn’t like those choices, he could run right then when Perwyn finished speaking. No one ran.”

“Oh, Perwyn,” Lady Stark whispered and the tears shining in her eyes began to run down her cheeks.

“He truly cared for you, my lady,” Jon said, feeling that he had to say something. It was true. Perwyn had spoken of Lady Stark far more often than Jon wished to hear about her, especially in his early days at the Wall when Catelyn Stark was simply Jon’s most bitter childhood memory and nothing more. And always, he’d spoken with admiration and respect mingled with guilt and regret. “He always wished he had done more to . . . protect you.” Jon didn’t feel comfortable speaking to Lady Stark about what had happened to her at the Twins, but he wanted her to know how much his friend had done to redeem whatever honor he thought he’d lost, and how much of that he’d done for her sake.

“Protect me?” Lady Catelyn said with a sound that was half a laugh, half a sob. “He saved my life. He made himself kinslayer for my sake.” She shook her head slowly, and when she spoke again, her voice was laced with bitterness. “It seems the gods do not look favorably upon those who wish to protect me.”

“Cat,” his father said, taking her hands again. “You are not to blame for Perwyn Frey’s death. This business with the Others has nothing to do with you.”

“Perhaps not. But he is no less dead for that. Another man who fought for us and bled for us is dead. Another loss, Ned. How many more must we endure? How many can we endure?”

“We will endure, my lady, because to do anything less would dishonor Perwyn and all of the others who have died, and you will never let that happen.”

She gave a tiny nod and bit her lip as she regained control of herself. Not that she had truly lost it. She’d not broken down sobbing or anything. Still, it was as close to coming undone as Jon had ever seen Catelyn Stark with the exception of her breakdown after Bran’s fall. Once he would have believed her incapable of tears for someone like Perwyn Frey after all House Frey had done to the Starks. Now, he found himself wanting to comfort her even though the memory of her words the one time he had tried to offer her comfort before still stung. He supposed it always would.

“Jon,” she said suddenly, her use of his name reminding him even further of that last terrible day at Winterfell before he left for the Wall.

_It should have been you. Is that what she’s thinking? Is that what she wants to say?_

“You were right to bring those dragon eggs here. We will come up with some way to keep them safe. Far from ice and far from Others. Your father will see to it.”

Her words were so at odds with the memories in his mind, he could do nothing except nod.

“You’ve done well, but you should rest now, Jon,” his father said. “And what of your dragon with its injuries?”

“Rhaegal is somewhere in the Wolfswood. It heals remarkably fast, thank the gods, or it never would have gotten me here. It needs no medical attention and will rest more easily away from the castle.”

“And you?”

Jon sighed. “I need to speak with Bran.”

Lady Catelyn looked at him sharply. “He is in my chambers.”

“I recall,” Jon said.

“Shall we come with you then?” his father asked.

“No,” Lady Catelyn said quickly before Jon could answer. “He needs to speak with Bran alone. Don’t you, Jon?”

She was looking directly at him with those blue eyes that very clearly said to him, _Don’t make me regret trusting you with my son._

“Yes, my lady. I believe Bran and I should speak privately, if you don’t mind, Father.”

His father looked back and forth between him and Lady Catelyn as if trying to discern what he was missing, but only said, “Of course we don’t mind, Jon. Catelyn can remain here with me for a time.” 

Jon had no doubt that his father would ask his wife what she knew about his need to speak to Bran as soon as he closed the door to the solar behind him, but there would be little she could tell him. Jon wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say to Bran. He still didn’t know precisely how he felt about what Bran had done. It was evil. It felt . . . dark and wrong to have someone invade your mind like that. To take away your will. Yet, Bran wasn’t evil. Jon knew that as certainly as he knew anything. And did he have the right to be angry with Bran when he knew perfectly well he’d be dead now had Bran not done what he did? Yes, he thought. _Yes, I should be angry because no one should play god, not even to save a brother._

Yet, when he recalled the way his brother and sisters had run to him with joy the moment he’d dismounted from Rhaegal’s back and the feel of his father’s embrace and the way he’d said his name, Jon knew he was glad to be alive. He felt guilty that so many had died to bring those damned eggs to this place. He would forever feel guilty that he continued to draw breath when Perwyn did not. Yet, he was glad to be alive. Did his own selfish joy in living make his anger over Bran’s actions less justified? 

With more questions than answers running through his mind, he walked slowly down the corridor that would take him to Lady Catelyn’s chambers. Whatever he and Bran said to each other, and however painful it might be, Jon was certain of one thing. Shireen Baratheon had been correct. He needed to speak with his brother.


	79. Dragons, Wolves, and Gods

“What does Jon intend to speak to Bran about?” Ned asked his wife as soon as Jon had closed the door behind him.

“I truly do not know, my love.”

Her answer irritated him. Obviously, she had some knowledge of it. Her worry had shown plainly enough on her face when Jon had announced his intention, and she had been the one to insist that Jon needed privacy for the conversation.

“Do not lie to me, Catelyn. I can see plainly enough that you . . .”

“Don’t you dare accuse me of lying to you, Eddard Stark. You have no right to ever do that, and you know it.”

She hadn’t raised her voice. She’d lowered it in fact, speaking almost in a whisper, but the hurt and anger which resonated in those words shamed him. He’d risen from his seat when Jon took his leave, and he looked down at her, sitting in the seat beside his, blue eyes blazing up at him, as if daring him to repeat his accusation. _Accusation._ He hadn’t meant it as such, but he realized it must have sounded like one. He was tired and unnerved by both Jon’s story and the presence of those fur wrapped eggs still on the floor of the solar. He realized Catelyn had her arms tightly wrapped around herself and wondered if she still felt the chill from the icy eggs even bundled or if she sought to protect herself from the sting of his words.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said earnestly. “I spoke without thought, and I spoke unfairly. You have given me truth through all the years of our marriage, even when I did not wish to hear it.”

She looked at him without speaking for a moment, and he met her gaze without looking away, hoping she could see the depth of the remorse he could never quite express adequately in words, remorse that went far beyond his thoughtless remark just now and encompassed the years of pain caused by the one lie that had been so long between them. His lie. 

“Sit down, Ned,” she said finally, lifting a hand to him, the anger gone from her voice. “I would not have you undo all the progress you’ve made with that leg by simply standing up needlessly.”

He took the offered hand and sat down once more beside her. “Cat . . .I . . .”

“You spoke unkindly from fear for our son. I responded harshly from the same fear.” She shivered visibly, and he pulled her held her hand more tightly as her gaze went to the large fur bundle on the floor. “I still feel the chill,” she said. “I don’t know if the cold truly escapes all those wrappings or if I’m only chilled because I know they are there.”

“Likely both,” he answered. “You know I am bothered little by cold, but I confess I feel chilled myself knowing those bloody things exist, let alone that they are lying here in my solar.”

Ned did not easily admit fear to anyone, but when she turned to look back at him, he could see she understood what he had admitted to her. He was afraid—for Bran, for Jon. He was afraid of the ice cold eggs Jon had brought to Winterfell and what they might mean for all of them. He would not show his fear even to Jon, but he would not hide it from Catelyn. He imagined he couldn’t, even if he tried.

She sighed. “I don’t know what Jon has to say to Bran,” she asserted once more, “but I can tell you what was said between Jon and Shireen Baratheon when she met us on our way here.”

“Lady Shireen? What has she to do with . . .”

“Peace, Ned. Let me tell it.” 

He sat quietly then as she recounted how Stannis’s daughter had confronted them in the hallway, practically demanded that Jon go and speak with Bran, and then refused to speak anything of it to Catelyn. When she finished speaking, he shook his head. “Gods preserve him, Cat, what the devil did our poor boy see?”

She was quiet then, her eyes drifting briefly to the bundle on the floor before returning to his. “I fear it is more than what he may have seen, my love.” She frowned in concentration. “ ‘However wrong it was, you know he only meant . . .’ Those were her words, Ned. Jon cut her off before she could speak more, but those words make it sound as if Bran had done something . . . something wrong.” Her voice trembled on the last two words, and he reached once more for the hand she’d pulled free as she told her tale.

“Bran could do nothing, Cat. He was here in the godswood the entire time. He was foolish to attempt to see across the Wall, that is all.” He spoke the words firmly, but a doubt he could not quite put a finger on crept into his mind.

“Jon knew he was there,” Catelyn said flatly, identifying that doubt precisely. “He had only just arrived, Ned, and hadn’t spoken with Bran or Shireen. How could he have known Bran watched from the weirwoods if Bran hadn’t somehow communicated with him? What does that mean, Ned?”

Ned felt cold now, and he didn’t think it had anything to do with the dragon eggs. “I do not know, my love. I do not know.” Neither of them spoke for a moment, and he clutched at a question he felt at least slightly more prepared to consider. “What has Shireen Baratheon got to do with all of it anyway?”

She withdrew her hand from his once more and leaned back in her chair, hugging herself once more against a chill before shrugging slightly. “He confided in her, I suppose. Gods know he hasn’t confided in either of us. But then we were too busy blaming each other for any number of things to really give him the chance.” The bitter self-recrimination in her voice was unmistakeable.

“Don’t, Cat. Whatever we may have done rightly or wrongly, I do not think Bran wished to share his secrets with us. Gods know I wish he would, but I fear he has kept much to himself since his wolf found me north of the Wall.”

“Why doesn’t he trust us?” Catelyn whispered. “He was so little when we left. My gods, he wasn’t even awake to tell either of us goodbye. I suppose it would be more surprising if he didn’t mistrust us.”

“Catelyn, Bran loves us. There is no mistaking that. And I do not think it is a matter of trust so much as . . .” He frowned, seeking the words to tell her what he meant. “They all have secrets, Cat. All the children. And when they’ve hesitated to share them, I believe it’s been more a fear of what we’ll think of them.” He recalled Sansa’s face so clearly that long ago day in his solar when she’d come to him confessing how she’d gone to Cersei Lannister in King’s Landing. “They don’t want to risk our love for them.”

Catelyn stood up abruptly and walked away toward the hearth. “That is entirely about trust, Ned!” she exclaimed. “What sort of mother leaves a child in doubt of her love? As if anything could ever take any one of them from my heart! Why don’t they know that, Ned? Why have I failed them so terribly?”

He stood and walked slowly to her, wrapping his arms around her and letting her cry softly against his chest. He knew the pain she felt too well. The guilt of his failures weighed upon him at times so heavily he feared he could not longer stand. His failure to protect them all. His failure to act wisely far too many times. His failure to heal their many wounds. Too often, he forgot that the woman in his arms, rightly or wrongly, felt that same guilt. 

It was easy some days, with all of them together in Winterfell— _all save Robb_ , came the automatic correction in his mind—to forget how wounded they all were, to forget that he was not the only one who carried the burden of the past and the present on his shoulders. Catelyn so rarely allowed herself to break down, he too often forgot that she never laid down her own burdens. He would take them from her if he could, but she would never allow it. Wordlessly, he held her and allowed her at least a safe haven for her tears.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said after a bit. “I should be stronger than this.”

“You are stronger than most. Certainly stronger than I,” he replied, kissing the top of her head.

She laughed at that and straightened up to look at him. “I would argue that point, but I fear neither of us will concede.”

He chuckled. “Well, I most definitely won’t.” He looked into her eyes. “I am most profoundly grateful that you are the mother of my children, Catelyn Tully Stark. They survived. All save Robb, who was betrayed and murdered, they all survived. I credit you a great deal for that, my lady, for you are the most stubborn person I have ever met and I am glad our children have both your example and your mettle.” He kissed her briefly to silence her protest, and then continued. “You are also the most gentle person I have ever met, and since they have been returned to us, you have helped each of them heal—not entirely, I know. I fear that some wounds will take long to heal, and some possibly never will. But they are whole, Cat. And they are loved and love in return. That is no small thing, my lady. And so I thank the gods that you are indeed my lady.”

She looked at him, eyes shining, seeming at a loss for words. In spite of the new worries over Bran, Jon, and yet more mythical beasts threatening to plague them, he smiled. “It is not often I’ve left a Tully speechless,” he said.

She smiled back, shaking her head slowly. “I love you,” she said. Nothing more. Merely the three words that had always come more easily to her lips than his. He laughed again and then kissed her, marveling that his wife, far more gifted with words than he had managed to say in three words what had required of him so many. 

When he pulled himself from her this time, he said softly, “We shall give Bran and Jon the time they need, and then we shall speak with them both. Mayhap in the mean time, we can put our minds to the question of what, by all the gods, we are to do with those damned eggs.” 

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

“You shouldn’t have done that, Shireen.” 

Bran Stark glared at the girl who sat on the floor of his mother’s bedchamber, calmly playing with Brien.

“You’ve told me that at least six times, Bran,” she said without looking up from his baby brother. “He really does want to walk, you know. Do you think it comes from being so much younger than everyone around him? Do you suppose it makes him want to grow up faster?”

“Shireen . . .” Bran said in annoyance. She was ignoring him. He had no idea what he would say to Jon or whether or not Jon would even want to hear what he had to say, and she had apparently ordered Jon to come to him. In front of Mother, no less. Surely Jon wouldn’t tell Mother what he’d done. Jon and Mother barely spoke. _Jon is not your father’s son,_ a nagging voice whispered in his head. _He and your mother do speak more than they once did._ No! Jon would not tell her about this. He couldn’t!

“Bran?” The sound of her voice startled him, and he opened eyes he hadn’t realized he’d shut to see her staring at him quizzically. “Bran?” she repeated. “You said my name and then just sat there without saying anything else. Are you all right?”

“Am I all right?” he said angrily. “No, I’m not all right. You had no right to go to Jon like that and . . .”

“And do what?” she said, sounding exasperated. “Tell him to come and talk to you? You have to face him eventually Bran. It isn’t going to get easier by waiting.” She sighed. “You told me.”

“You weren’t there. It wasn’t your mind that . . .” He closed his lips tightly, unable to say more.

“That you invaded?” she asked boldly. “No, it wasn’t.” She frowned again, looking uncharacteristically uncertain about what to say next. “I don’t know what he’ll say, Bran, but you have to listen to him say it,” she finally said. “Did you hear what I said about Brien?” she asked then, and Bran’s mind struggled to make the conversational leap.

“Not really,” Bran said, not actually wanting to continue the conversationa about Jon, but aggravated at her for changing the subject all the same. “You’d better get him, though. He’s almost in the hearth.”

“Oh!” Shireen jumped up and went to retrieve the baby who had crawled away from her as she and Bran spoke. Brien wailed when she scooped him up, but then yawned enormously and laid his head on her shoulder as she stood there bouncing him up and down gently.

Bran watched her soothe the baby in silence. 

“He’s heavy,” Shireen said after a moment. “I don’t know how your lady mother carries him around as much as she does.”

“She’s had lots of practice, I suppose,” Bran said, sounding sullen to his own ears. “What were you trying to tell me about him anyway?”

“Oh. I guess I wasn’t really speaking just of Brien. I asked if you thought he might be in a hurry to grow up because there aren’t any other small children around. Even Rickon’s six years older than he is.” She hesitated. “There were many times when there were no children around at Dragonstone. I think I tried to grow up before I should have. I didn’t know anything else to do. But I was still a child.”

Bran looked at her, wondering what point she was trying to make. He knew her well enough now to realize she had one. This wasn’t just idle conversation.

“I couldn’t be something I wasn’t even if it seemed lonely being who I was,” she said. 

“Are you telling me I should just be a greenseer and be done with it?” he asked her. She looked at him without changing expression. “Or shall I just be a broken boy?”

She sighed. “Your back is broken, Bran. Not you. And you should try being Bran Stark because you’ll never be any good at being anyone else. Besides, Bran Stark has a lot of people who love him, and I don’t think you realize how amazing that is.”

“I . . .” He almost said that he didn’t even know who Bran Stark was, but he couldn’t say that. Not even to her. 

She’d come to him after she’d realized what he’d done. After he’d been convinced she’d never speak to him again. She’d come to him and told him he had done a terrible thing, but he wasn’t a monster. That he had done it only out of love and fear and the need to keep a brother safe. She trusted that he understood why he must never do it again. He’d promised her he did understand and he’d kept the rest of his shameful secret buried safely away. No one knew except Meera, and she was far away. Shireen never needed to hear that he had done this before, many times, to a poor soul who had no defense against him. Sometimes for good reason, yes, but other times simply to explore a cave and feel strong again. It was wrong whatever the reason anyway. He knew she would tell him that, and he never wanted to see the disapproval and disappointment which would darken her face if she ever learned all the truth about him.

“Of course, I know they love me,” he snapped instead. “You just don’t understand how . . .”

“No!” she interrupted with more anger than he was used to hearing from her. Brien, who’d started to doze on her shoulder actually startled and raised his head, opening his blue eyes wide at the sound of her voice. Shireen glared at Bran and patted the baby’s back in silence for a moment before saying. “How could I possibly understand what it is to be loved by a family like yours?”

Her voice trembled and her eyes got very shiny. Bran realized she was about to cry, and he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t mean to make her cry. It hit him suddenly. Shireen had no brothers and sisters. Her parents were both dead, and while he supposed they had loved her, Stannis Baratheon had certainly seemed nothing like Father. He’d never met Shireen’s mother, but she had gone mad and killed herself right before Shireen’s eyes. _Gods, I am stupid,_ he thought angrily at himself.

“Shireen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

“I know you didn’t, Bran,” she said quickly and quietly, regaining control of her voice and her face impressively quickly. “Just talk to Jon. Wait here until he comes. I should take Brien to the nursery before my arms go numb from holding him like this.”

She didn’t say anything else. Not even goodbye. She didn’t wait for him to say anything either. She simply turned and walked out of Mother’s room, not bothering to close the door behind her as she tried to keep Brien comfortable on her shoulder. 

Bran felt like crying himself. He was terrified of seeing Jon. And now he’d driven away the best friend he’d made since Meera had gone. For a moment he thought about fleeing from Mother’s chambers before Jon could find him there, but there was nowhere else on this floor of the Keep where he really wanted to go, and he didn’t want to seek out help for the stairs. Maybe Jon wouldn’t even come. He didn’t imagine Jon truly wanted to see him. He’d felt the fear and revulsion in his brother’s mind when he’d pushed Jon’s will aside for his own, and he’d felt the power of his brother’s anger when Jon had asserted his will and pushed him out of his mind. That had been terrifying. Bran had never felt anything like that before. Resistance, yes. Even failure to slip into the skins of some particularly stubborn creatures, although that hadn’t happened in a long time. But he had never been hurled out of another mind, lost and confused, groping almost blindly for his own broken body.

He didn’t know how long he sat there lost in his own thoughts before the sound of his own name being spoken softly caused him to look up. “Bran.” It wasn’t a question or a greeting, really. More a simple statement of his identity.

Bran looked at his bastard brother who wasn’t truly his bastard brother leaning against the open doorway of Mother’s room and couldn’t speak. He simply studied Jon’s face. Jon appeared to be doing the same. His grey eyes moved over Bran’s face while his expression seemed as stern as any of Father’s. It made Bran uncomfortable.

“You seemed much larger in side my mind,” Jon said after a moment. “It made me forget how young you really are.”

Bran swallowed. “I’m one and ten,” he said. “But I remember things that happened more than a thousand years ago. Sometimes I forget how old I really am.”

“You shouldn’t,” Jon said simply, and it reminded Bran somehow of what Shireen had said about being what he was.

When Bran didn’t respond, Jon stepped all the way into the room and closed the door behind him. He didn’t come any closer to Bran, though. Instead, he leaned back against the closed door. “I don’t know whether to thank you for saving my life or throttle you for stripping me of my will,” he said.

“I didn’t . . .”

“You did. Do not pretend otherwise, Bran.”

Bran swallowed again. Jon not only looked more like Father than he ever had. He sounded like him, too. “I told you not to go north of the Wall,” Bran said finally. His voice sounded as sullen as Rickon’s ever did to his own ears.

“You did. And whether you believe me or not, I did take your warning to heart. I rarely set foot on the ground beyond the Wall, flying where I needed on Rhaegal. But I could not avoid this, Bran, and you know it.”

“It didn’t have to be you there,” Bran protested. “You have men. You could . . .”

“Sit at Castle Black while my men face dangers that I will not dare? I’m the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Bran. That means something, you know.”

“But . . . you’re important. I’ve seen it, and I . . .”

“All my men are important!” Jon shouted. “I can see that without a weirwood or three eyed crow! Why can’t you? You took me from them, Bran! When you took my mind, you took their commander from them! If Perwyn hadn’t ordered all to follow me when I fled in terror—when you made me flee—those men would have died!”

“But if . . . if you’d stayed there . . . you would have died, and then . . .”

“It was wrong, Bran! You had no right!”

“I . . . I couldn’t let you die, Jon! Too much depends on you! And . . . you’re my brother.” Bran heard his voice break on the last part and only then realized tears were falling down his face.

“You may call me brother or cousin, either one. I am not a beast to be ridden at will.” Jon spoke softly, almost gently, but Bran could hear the revulsion in his voice.

“That isn’t what I did. . .”

“It is, Bran,” Jon insisted. “You took my skin as your own and made me your prisoner. I know you did it to protect me, but it was still wrong. Surely you know that.”

Bran looked down and did not answer.

“Bran,” Jon said sharply. “Look at me. Promise me you will never do it again. Not to me. Not to anyone. No matter what your reasons. It is too easy to believe you know best when you can see the things you see. When you can do the things you do. But you don’t know, Bran. You can’t always know.”

“I know more than almost anyone, Jon. I know things that are so frightening, and I have to . . .”

“No!” Jon insisted, coming toward him now and kneeling in front of his chair, forcing him to look at his face. “You see more than anyone, but that isn’t the same as knowing. How many men have seen my face through the years and known me for a son of Eddard Stark? Yet I am no son of Eddard Stark, am I? Seeing is not knowing.”

“That’s different. Father lied. He said that . . .”

“Father lied. The most honorable man either of us will ever know lied, and then allowed everyone to believe what they saw. Do you think that your Bloodraven has never lied, Bran? He is just a man, however old he is. Is he as honorable as Father? And if he is, will he lie to protect what he believes worth protecting?”

“He lied to me,” Bran said quietly, thinking back to that cave. “He knew Mother and Father were alive, but tried to hide it from me.”

Jon nodded. “And your friend Jojen Reed. You told me of his dreams as we rode south to the Wall. He saw many things, but often the meaning of those dreams was quite different from what he saw, was it not?”

“Green dreams and greensight are not the same thing,” Bran protested. 

“I know that. But don’t sit here and tell me you understand everything you see, Bran. Don’t tell me that or I’ll know I have a liar for a brother.”

“I’m learning,” Bran insisted. “I’m getting better at . . .”

“Keeping secrets. You’re getting better at keeping secrets. I had no idea you were powerful enough to warg a human. Did you? Before you did it to me?”

Bran looked down again, closing his eyes and slowly shaking his head against different truths fighting each other in his mind. Jon misunderstood the motion as an answer to his question. “Well you know now, and you must live with that knowledge. Bran, look at me. You can’t keep looking away.”

 _Don’t look away. Father will know if you do._ How long ago had Jon said that to him at the deserter’s execution? It seemed another lifetime. Would things have been different had Father listened to the man’s ravings before taking his head? If he’d believed them? Bran forced himself to look up into Jon’s face and was surprised to see more concern there than anger.

“Your greensight is a gift, Bran,” Jon said softly once Bran met his eyes. “But it’s a dangerous gift, and no man should have to shoulder it alone. Much less a boy of one and ten. You should tell Father what you see. All of it. Maybe even Sam as well or even your lady mother. Let them help you make sense of it. The gift is yours, but you don’t have to do everything alone.”

Bran thought of some of the visions he had seen of Winterfell, even of his own family members—some were pleasant enough and others haunted his normal dreams stealing his sleep and and making his heart beat loudly in his chest. Not all could come to pass. He knew that. But how could he tell someone their own future? Even their own possible future?

“You needn’t tell them everything you see, Bran,” Jon said softly, and Bran wondered what had shown on his face. “But you can tell them enough to let them help you. They will likely understand more than you think.”

Bran shook his head slowly again, but he didn’t close his eyes this time. “I’m afraid,” he said. “I don’t want them to be afraid of me.”

“Fear of your visions is not the same as fear of you, Bran,” Jon said, and then a shadow crossed his face. “It isn’t your greensight that makes you frightening to others.”

“Are . . . you afraid of me, Jon?” Bran whispered. _Hodor was afraid of me. He loved me, but he was afraid of me all the same._ Bran had refused to look too closely at that truth for a very long time, and he did not want to look at it now. 

“I’m afraid of what you can do, Bran,” Jon said carefully. “There are tales of men among the wildlings who were powerful wargs, and some of them would do as you did to me. They were evil, twisted men, and their actions caused them to become more so over time. But even they could not do what you did. You reached from Winterfell to beyond the Wall and possessed my mind. That is terrifying, Bran.”

“I would never . . .” _You lie!_ accused the voice in his head. _You would. You have. You used Hodor as you saw fit._ Now, he did close his eyes again. _Never for anything bad,_ he protested to himself. _Never for evil!_ But even as his thoughts chased themselves about his mind, he knew he had been selfish more often than not in his possession of Hodor’s skin.

“Bran?”

Bran opened his eyes. Jon looked at him with unmistakeable worry in those eyes so much like Father’s, and Bran realized he’d stopped speaking mid-sentence. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I don’t want to be evil.”

“Oh, Bran, of course you don’t! And you aren’t.” He reached out and put his arms around him then just as he would when Bran was a very small boy. 

“But you’re afraid of me,” he whispered against the black of his brother’s clothing.

“No,” Jon assured him. “Your power is terrifying, Bran. And should someone other than you possess it, I would likely fear them greatly. But I know you are good, and instead I fear for you. I don’t know many men with the courage to have such power and not wield it. And while I know you used it for a good reason, Bran, I fear what it may do to you to use it at all.” He hesitated a moment. “And I truly don’t believe there is a good enough reason to do that to another person. Not even for my life.”

“I don’t want to do that again,” Bran said softly. “I truly don’t . . . but . . .”

“There is no but, Bran. You mustn’t do it again, ever.”

Bran pulled himself back so he could look Jon in the eyes. “What good are a thousand eyes and one if I cannot help anyone? If I cannot do anything about what I see?”

Jon frowned. “You must find another way to help. Not that. Never again, Bran. Tell Father of your visions. Give counsel where you can. But don’t ever do that to anyone else. It is cruel. I cannot tell you how wrong it feels.”

Bran closed his eyes again, not wanting to cry again. _Hodor couldn’t tell me anything. But I knew he was afraid. I knew it all the time._

He opened his eyes, and made himself look at Jon. “I don’t want to do it. But I want to help. And if I see . . .” The visions he tried hardest to keep from his mind, the ones he prayed would never come to pass, flashed before his eyes. “ Mother . . . or Arya . . . or . . .” He shook his head, not wanting to think of any more. “I will try never to do it again, Jon, but I’m afraid. I don’t know if I have the courage not to do it if someone I love . . . someone . . .”

“You’ll find the courage, Bran,” Jon said firmly. “I trust you to do that. You can find courage no matter how great your fear.”

Bran looked at his brother and was once again thrust back in time to the day of that long ago execution. But it was his father’s words to him he recalled now. Jon’s words were so similar, and he looked and sounded so much like like Father when he said them. Father and Jon were two of the bravest men he knew, so mayhap those words really were true if they both believed them. Bran hoped they were because the one thing he knew for certain is that he was afraid.

“Do you forgive me?” he asked, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice.

“Of course, I do, little brother,” Jon said. “And I am glad I am still alive. I won’t lie to you about that.”

Bran smiled just a little. He was more than glad Jon was still alive. He didn’t want to lose anyone else. “Did you bring the dragon eggs here?”

Jon looked startled. “Yes. How did you know we took them? Were you still there then? I didn’t think . . .”

Bran shook his head. “I saw them here. I didn’t understand what they were even, but I knew they must come to Winterfell. And when I saw you with them in that cave . . .”

“I was right to bring them here then?” For the first time in their conversation, Jon sounded uncertain of himself. He was looking to Bran for an answer rather than chastising him or reassuring him or trying to tell him anything. It made Bran feel suddenly older and the sensation was odd.

“Yes,” he said with no hesitation in his voice. “They need to be here. It’s the safest place for them.”

“You mean the safest place for us to keep the ice dragons within from hatching, don’t you?”

Bran thought carefully before responding. “They should rest in their eggs many more years, and this is the safest place for them to do so.”

Jon looked at him thoughtfully. “Bran, what aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing,” Bran said. “Nothing that will matter until long after you’re dead if we keep those eggs safe here at Winterfell, far from the Others.” He smiled at his brother. “And I mean after you’re dead of old, old age.”

Jon looked at him another moment as if he wanted to press him further, but he didn’t. He only returned Bran’s smile and said, “How do I look when I’m an old man then? Have you seen it?”

Bran only smiled more widely and said nothing more on that subject. Instead he said, “Go and get Mother and Father. We should talk about the dragon eggs.”

Jon got to his feet and said, “All right. You’ll be here when I return with them?”

Bran looked down at his useless legs and wheeled chair. “I’m not going anywhere.” _But I do know how to keep those eggs safely here. I can do that. And that’s one more thing that keeps Winterfell safe._

“I’d like to bring Sam, too, if you don’t mind.”

 _If I don’t mind._ It was odd to hear Jon being deferential to his wants. Mayhap, he should speak more freely about some of the things he had seen. Mayhap, the adults would listen to him and allow him to help. He made up his mind then to tell them all of it. About this anyway. “I don’t mind. Sam should hear what I have to say. Our sisters, too, I think. Not Rickon. He’s too young. Shireen will entertain him if you ask her. He likes Shireen.”

“Bran . . . what do you . . .”

“I’ll tell you all of it, Jon. But I think it is something for all the Starks to hear. Even Rickon when he’s old enough. And Dak. He’s as a good as a Stark. Ask Father if he can come, too.”

Jon regarded him with a thoughtful expression once more. “All right, Bran,” he said. “I’ll do as you ask.”

As Jon closed the door behind him leaving Bran alone once more, he shivered even though Mother’s room was warm enough. He hadn’t lied to Jon. He was frightened. He was afraid of telling his family anything he had seen of the future—afraid of what they might think of him and if they would even believe him. He was terrified of some things he had seen—those things he wouldn’t share with his family ever. Most of all he was terrified of what he might do to keep those things from ever coming to pass. He wanted to have courage. He did. But he didn’t know if he could have the kind of courage Jon had spoken about. He just might be brave enough to do something, but he prayed to the gods he would never need the kind of courage required to do nothing. 

_I’m so afraid,_ he thought. _That is the only time a man can be brave,_ he heard his father’s voice say. 

_I am a Stark of Winterfell. I can be brave._

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“If the thought is to keep them warm, mayhap one of the pools?” she asked hesitantly.

Ned shook his head. “The water is mostly still in the pools, but not entirely. If the things shifted and fell to a deep part, we could not observe them. And if we did keep them in one of the very shallow pools, they’d be visible to all who passed by. Impossible to hide.”

“You mean to keep them hidden then?” She thought that was the wisest course of action. The more people who knew aout the dragon eggs, the more likely some fool would take it into his head to attempt to steal them. Even among Ned’s Northmen, there would always be those too easily tempted by a chance for profit.

Ned nodded grimly. “I would have none know of them save us if it were possible, but they shall have to be guarded wherever we put them. Guarded continuously, kept warm in a northern winter, and kept as secret as possible. Gods, Cat, I don’t know if I have an answer that serves all these things.”

He put a hand to his face and rubbed at it wearily. Before she could say anything to comfort him, a knock came at the solar door.

“Enter,” Ned called.

Jon Snow entered, but barely stepped inside the room. “My lord, my lady,” he said formally, looking at each of them in turn. “Bran would like both of you to come and speak with him.”

“He’s still in my room?” Catelyn asked before Ned could reply.

Jon nodded. “I’ll take those along,” he said, indicating the fur bundle.

“Take it along where?” Ned asked.

“To Lady Stark’s chambers. Bran wants to see them.”

“You told him about them?” Ned challenged him.

“He knew about them already,” Jon said without hesitation. “He’s seen them before, you know. Simply not with his own eyes.”

“What did the two of you speak about, Jon?” Ned asked sharply but before he could even finish the question, Catelyn was asking her own.

“Is Bran all right?” Her voice was little more than a whisper as she feared Jon’s response more than she wanted to, but it was her question the young man answered. He looked at Ned only a moment before turning to face her.

“I don’t know, Lady Stark.”

He spoke the words flatly without any emotion at all, but Catelyn was far too well versed in reading Ned’s subtle emotional cues to miss the apprehension in Jon’s response, and it caused her to grow colder than she already was.

“What do you mean, Jon? Tell me what you spoke about,” Ned demanded again.

“Our conversation was our own,” Jon said with as much steel in his voice as Ned had, and Catelyn raised her brow to hear it. She watched her husband’s anger at that response flash quickly through his grey eyes before he forced it down.

“Very well,” Ned said stiffly. Catelyn could tell he was still angry at Jon’s reply, but he would not insist upon the boy divulging the contents of a private conversation regardless of how badly he wanted to know. “Can you tell us why you are concerned Bran may not be all right?”

Jon hesitated, looking back and forth between the two of them, but he could not meet Catelyn’s eyes for long. It reminded her of how he’d been with her as a child. She’d wanted him to to look away from her then. Now she simply wondered what showed on her face. Finally, looking directly at Ned, he spoke.

“There are powers in this world that no man should have,” he said quietly. “Certainly no boy of one and ten.”

“What power?” Catelyn asked almost breathlessly. “You mean the greensight? You have the power to change skins yourself. Is it his visions which frighten you?”

Jon turned toward her, and even as distressed as she was, Catelyn could see the visible effort he put into meeting her eyes. “It’s all of it, my lady. Were so much power held by anyone other than Bran, I would fear that man above all others.”

“He’s only a boy,” she breathed. “A sweet, loving boy.”

Jon nodded. “He is. A wise man once told me that we are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.” He shook his head. “Bran does love all of us very much, and I fear he might act from that love without truly understanding how terrible his powers can be.”

“He’s not a dragon,” Ned said darkly, and Catelyn watched Jon’s face cloud at the words. She, however, knew he was thinking of Daenerys’s wild cream colored beast which had behaved without any comprehension of the horror of its actions rather than Jon’s Targaryen blood. “He is no mythical beast. He is a boy with a good mind and true heart who will grow to be a man of honor. And he will use whatever power the gods have given him with honor.”

Jon’s face relaxed just slightly as he, too, realized the comparison Ned was making. He nodded. “I pray you are right. If anyone can do that, I do believe it is Bran. But I do not envy him the task or the temptations.” He sort of shrugged then, and bent to pick up the pack he had carried into the solar upon his arrival. The pack that contained the most recent manifestation of powers that Catelyn would wish gone from the world if only she could.

“I shall see you in Lady Stark’s chambers,” he said as he turned to go.

“You are not accompanying us?” Ned asked.

Jon shook his head. “He wants Sam there, too. I’ll find him and meet you there.”

He left without another word, and Ned and Catelyn did not move for a moment. “Ned,” she said finally. “What could Bran possibly have done that’s worried Jon so?”

Ned shook his head thoughtfully. He wore his lord’s face, but Catelyn could easily see he was as upset by Jon’s words as she was for all his staunch defense of Bran’s character and ability to handle whatever power he’d been blessed . . . or cursed . . . with. “I do not know,” he said. “But we have both been lamenting that our son has not confided in us. I believe it is time we go and hear what he has to say, my love.”

She nodded, and wordlessly, she moved to hand her husband his cane. As he took it from her, he held onto her hand just a moment longer than needful, and Catelyn felt strengthened and reassured by that simple touch. As she took his arm to walk from the solar, she knew that whatever Bran had to tell them—whatever he had done or must do—they two of them would help him through it together.

Ned traversed the distance to her chambers with surprising speed, and she found herself torn between admonishing him to slow down for the sake of his leg and urging him on even faster in her desperation to see her son for herself after all the talk about dragon eggs and terrible powers. She bit her lip until it nearly bled, remaining silent as she held Ned’s arm, and kept to his pace.

When she opened the door without knocking as it was her room, she stopped suddenly and nearly gasped in surprise. She had expected Bran to be alone, but found herself greeted by the sight of her daughters and Dak as well. Arya sat cross-legged on her bed while Sansa was seated in one of the chairs. Dak perched on the stool for the dressing table a little behind Sansa, looking uncertain about being there. Both of the girls looked somewhat puzzled and at least mildly concerned. Bran himself appeared calm enough, but upon a close look at his eyes, Catelyn thought he had been crying.

“Bran?” she asked softly.

“I am fine, Mother,” he said simply.

Ned had closed the door behind them. He took in Dak and the girls and then turned his own eyes toward Bran. “Jon told us you wished to speak with your mother and myself,” he said.

“I need to speak with all of you,” Bran said with a resolve which made him sound older than his eleven years. “Whether I wish it or not.”

Ned gave a single nod. “Very well,” he said, guiding Catelyn to the chair closest to Bran. She seated herself as he pulled another chair beside hers for himself. 

A great number of chairs had found their way into her chambers during the course of the blizzard as they had all spent so much time gathered here in those days. Catelyn found herself suppressing laughter as she looked at the odd collection of mismatched furniture and wondered if she was becoming hysterical because there was certainly nothing funny about their current situation, and the décor of her room mattered not at all.

“We are all here Bran,” Ned said as he sat down. “So speak.”

“We’re not all here yet,” Bran told him.

“Rickon?” Catelyn asked. “Are you certain that whatever you have to say is . . .”

“Not Rickon, Mother,” Bran said quickly. “He must know these things, but not yet. He is only a little boy.”

To hear those words from the mouth of the boy in front of her nearly broke Catelyn’s heart. _You are a little boy!_ she wanted to say. _You should not be forced to know the things you do!_

Just as she remembered that Jon had told them Bran had asked for Sam as well, a knock came at the door. She quickly called, “Come in!” and Jon entered, carrying the bundled dragon eggs and followed by a rather confused looking Sam.

“Bring them here please, Jon,” Bran said, and Jon came forward and laid the bundle at Bran’s feet rather than handing it too him. Catelyn saw her son shiver once at the proximity of them.

“What’s in there?” Arya asked, leaning forward on the bed. She sounded both eager and apprehensive.

“Dragon eggs,” Bran said without hesitation.

Sansa gasped, Dak sat up straighter and leaned forward on his stool, Sam made a choked kind of coughing sound, and Arya’s eyes grew wide.

“Real dragon eggs?” Catelyn’s younger daughter asked. “Like the Targaryens had?”

“Real dragon eggs, but not like those of the Targaryens.” It was Jon who answered, and all eyes in the room went to him. He and Sam had remained standing although there were chairs available.

“We found them north of the Wall. In a cave of sorts.” 

“Just lying there?” Arya asked. “Can we see them?”

Jon looked to Bran, and it startled Catelyn to see the tall young man who stood there looking so like Ned at his most authoritarian defer to her much younger son.

Bran nodded. “Show them, Jon. And tell them what happened north of the Wall.”

Jon sighed heavily and bent to undo the furs wrapped around the eggs just as he had in the solar. When the two dragon eggs were revealed, Catelyn found her eyes drawn to them as powerfully as they had been before, but she forced herself to watch her children instead. Arya leaned forward so far she nearly tumbled from the bed, reaching out a finger as if to touch them. Before Catelyn could admonish her not to touch, she jerked her hand back and hugged herself tightly as she stared at them. Sansa was a bit further away. “They’re beautiful!” she exclaimed, adding “And cold!” a moment later as she wrapped her arms around herself in a manner almost identical to her sister. Dak simply sat still and silent as if mesmerized.

Bran stared down at them with both recognition and amazement written on his face. She could see the gooseflesh rise where his arms were exposed at the end of his sleeves, but he didn’t move or speak.

“Bran?” she said softly.

Her voice seemed to reach him, and he slowly took his eyes from the eggs to look up at her. “I’ve seen them before,” he said, his voice sounding oddly choked, “But to know that they are truly here is . . .” He shook his head and swallowed. “Tell them what happened, Jon.”

“Wrap those things up first,” Ned interjected. “The room will soon be freezing if you don’t. And move them over there by the hearth.”

Jon moved to follow Ned’s instructions. As he did so, Catelyn saw Sansa move to sit on the bed beside Arya, and the two girls leaned close together with their arms around each other. It was the happiest sight she had seen since Jon’s arrival, and it lightened her heart quite a bit. _We are a family—a pack, Ned would say—we can be strong. ___

__“Sit down, Sam,” Jon said as he carried the rewrapped eggs across the room. “This won’t be easy for you to hear.”_ _

___Of course,_ Catelyn thought as Sam took the seat Sansa had vacated. _He was with the Night’s Watch. He will have known many of the men who died.__ _

__Jon pulled another chair over into the loose circle and slowly began to tell the tale he had already recounted for Ned and herself. He spoke with much less detail, likely for the benefit of the children’s feelings, but his words left Sam visibly shaken and grieving in spite of that. When he finished speaking, there was silence for a long while. Arya, predictably, was the one who finally broke it._ _

__“So how do we destroy them?” she asked grimly, turning her gaze toward the bundle of furs. Her expression was now one of blatant hostility with none of the wonder it had held when she looked at the eggs before._ _

__“We can’t,” said Jon._ _

__“We don’t want to,” said Bran at the same time._ _

__Everyone looked at Bran in disbelief, but Jon was the one who spoke. “I’ve beat upon them with Longclaw which scratched the blade, stabbed at them with dragonglass which only served to shatter the daggers, and kept them in fire for long periods of time. I even tried dragonfire on them. I swear to the gods they barely even grow warmer.”_ _

__“We don’t want them destroyed,” Bran said, and a variety of exclamations from multiple people followed that statement. “We don’t want them to hatch,” he continued as if no one else had made a sound, “Not now. Not even in your lifetimes . . .but they are not meant to be destroyed.”_ _

__“But they belong to the Others! They’re evil!” Arya protested._ _

__“Do they? Are they?” Bran asked sharply. “Do the dragons of Valyria belong to the Targaryens? Or do they choose to be with them? And are the fire breathing dragons evil? One of them killed Lord Stannis and Lord Royce, but another saved all of us at Winterfell! Can any of us know their minds?”_ _

__Everyone in the room looked at Jon then, and Ned’s erstwhile bastard looked distinctly uncomfortable. “No,” he said finally. “Rhaegal is not human and there are parts of its mind that are alien to me even when I share it. There is a bond between us, not entirely unlike that between brothers.” He looked carefully at Bran then. “But while we may love and trust them, what man can say he truly knows all the mind of even his own brother?”_ _

__Bran nodded at him, and Catelyn thought some sort of understanding passed between the two._ _

__“But surely . . .” Arya started._ _

__“It’s like your wolves,” Sansa said suddenly, and Catelyn heard an almost surprised sense of certainty in her older daughter’s voice. “You share so much with Nymeria that I think it’s hard for you to see sometimes what you don’t share. I love her Arya, and I trust her, because I love and trust you. But I confess she still can frighten me a bit at times. She is a direwolf—capable of terrible violence—and a free, wild animal for all that she is connected to you. To the Starks.”_ _

__Arya started to protest, but Sansa cut her off. “I am a Stark, Arya, even if I lost my wolf. And I do understand better than you think I do. But imagine how the direwolves must be viewed by other people. That is how dragons are to us. Well, to all of us except Jon, anyway.” She turned from Arya briefly to smile up that the man she considered an older brother. “And you’ve heard what he has to say.”_ _

__“So we do what with them?” Arya asked in exasperation. “Keep them around and hope we discover a way to tame them or something?”_ _

__“Dragons can no more be tamed than a direwolf can.” Ned’s deep voice spoke with certainty and all eyes went immediately to him. He had remained silent, allowing his children to think and speak their thoughts, but Catelyn was well aware that his own mind had not not been idle. “Bran has more to say on this, I think. Let us all be silent and allow your brother to speak.”_ _

__His tone allowed for no further argument, and Catelyn saw everyone’s eyes move to Bran. Everyone’s save Ned’s. His grey eyes lingered sadly on Sansa for a moment first. _I am a Stark even if I lost my wolf,_ she had said. Ned would never stop blaming himself bitterly for taking Lady’s life, and Catelyn reached out to take his hand as they both turned their attention to Bran._ _

__Bran looked uncomfortable, but determined. “The eggs belong here,” he started. “It is the only place they are safe, and having them here is the only way we can remain safe.”_ _

__“How can those stupid eggs keep us safe from anything?” Arya asked. She appeared about to say more, but Ned silenced her with a glare._ _

__“I don’t know,” Bran said simply. “But it’s true.” He sighed. “I . . . I need to tell you what I see. I mean, how I see things. It’s hard to explain.” He shook his head as if at a loss. “Arya and Jon, you know what it is to see through the eyes of your wolves. Even Rickon understands that.”_ _

__Arya nodded and Bran continued. “When we see with the wolves, whatever we see is happening now. Then, I mean. When we’re seeing it.” Jon and Arya both nodded at that. “That’s true of any animal whose skin we share.” He gave Arya a look then than Catelyn didn’t quite understand. “Even with Rhaegal and Jon.” He paused._ _

__“We understand, Bran,” Ned said softly, speaking for the people in the room who did not share the skins of other creatures. “Go on.”_ _

__“It’s different with the trees. Trees have no sense of time, or if they do it isn’t like ours. I see things from now and from last week or last year or a thousand years ago and it isn’t always clear what the time is, and it can change suddenly without my doing anything.” He took a deep breath. “When I was in the cave with the Children of the Forest, I saw Father in our godswood.” He looked up at Ned. “You were praying, Father, and I tried to talk to you, but . . .if I looked more closely I could tell you were younger than I knew you. Your hair was all brown, and Lord Brynden explained to me that I had been looking at something from the past. So when I saw you again in the godswood, I knew it had to be the past because you were dead. But then I saw Mother with you, and she had the scars on her face, and . . .” He shook his head. “There was nothing different about those times except what I could figure out by what I saw. It doesn’t feel different. Do you understand? And that makes it hard.”_ _

__He sounded so young and in such desperate need of both understanding and comfort that Catelyn had to will herself to remain in her chair rather than going to him and taking him into her arms. He wouldn’t want that now._ _

__“We understand,” Ned repeated calmly. Everyone else remained silent, allowing Ned to speak for all of them as if by some tacit agreement. “You’re explaining it very well, son. Continue.”_ _

__“Sometimes I see things that haven’t happened yet,” he whispered. “Sometimes they’re like Jojen described his dreams—full of visions that have to be symbols for something rather than actual events—like when Jojen dreamed the sea would come to Winterfell. That didn’t make sense. The sea cannot possibly come here. But Theon and the Ironborn did come. Other times, I see things that are very real. I see you—older than now. I’ve seen you living and I’ve seen some of you . . . dead. I’ve seen things that can’t possibly happen if some other things I’ve seen do happen. And it’s hard to sort out what it all means, and I don’t like to talk about it, and I don’t want to frighten everyone but I have to tell you. I have to. Because we have to try to do something or what’s the purpose of seeing anything at all?”_ _

__Bran’s voice had gotten higher pitched and his words had come more and more quickly as he spoke, and Catelyn could no longer stand the distress on her son’s face. She did rise then and walked the two steps necessary to kneel before him and take his hands._ _

__“We are all here, Bran,” she assured him. “And we will not shrink from whatever you tell us. We are stronger together than alone, sweetling. Don’t keep yourself alone.”_ _

__He almost smiled at her, and she could see the tears in his blue eyes. That her son had felt so isolated in his terrifying visions broke her heart, and she was determined to change that. None of her children would ever be alone again if she could help it._ _

__“You know how we’re going to die?” Arya asked with a morbid sort of curiosity in her voice._ _

__“No!” Bran said quickly. “I’ve seen . . . possibilities I guess you’d call them. But then I’ll see someone obviously older than they were when I saw them dead . . . so . . .” He sort of shrugged helplessly._ _

__“Well, what have you seen?” Arya insisted. “Of me, for instance?”_ _

__“No.” It was Ned who spoke. The word was quiet, but carried great authority. “None of us shall ask Bran such questions. No one should know such things. And as he has said, none of it is certain. Why live with fear of something that may never come to pass? It is hard enough that your brother should suffer such images, Arya. I will not have him or you suffer the sharing of things which would only bring pain or fear. We must trust him to tell us what is needful for us to know.”_ _

__“Thank you, Father,” Bran said gratefully, but still he sounded unhappy. “I hope I can be wise enough to do that it. I will try to be.”_ _

__“You have always been a very intelligent boy, Bran, but you are only one and ten. While I will not ask you to speak to me of things you truly believe would cause me only grief to no purpose, I would encourage you to share anything you wish, particularly anything that frightens you or confuses you. I have lived a great deal longer than you, son, and I am strong enough to bear a bit of fear or pain.”_ _

__“As am I,” Catelyn added, squeezing her son’s hands. “You are not alone, Bran. You will never be alone.”_ _

__Bran looked from his father to her and nodded. “Thank you, Mother,” he whispered. “I’m all right. Truly I am.”_ _

__She was far from certain of that, but she stood, kissing him briefly on the forehead as she did so, and returned to her seat._ _

__“Bran,” Sam said thoughtfully, speaking for the first time since he’d come into the room. “I don’t mean to push, but there’s something I don’t understand. Unless people are dropping dead in the godswood in front of the heart tree, how do you see them? How do the trees see them I mean? And how do the trees remember things that haven’t happened and might never happen? I just don’t understand it.”_ _

__Bran actually laughed, and Catelyn could have hugged Sam for asking his typically logical questions and allowing Bran to draw his mind from the more emotionally painful aspects of his greensight._ _

__“I don’t understand it either, Sam,” he said. “If you ever figure it out, you can explain it to me. But as for how I see—most of the time, I know I’m looking through the eyes of a weirwood, and I mean that figuratively. I can see through any weirwood whether one has carved a face or not. I think the faces make it easier for people to visualize and understand, but they aren’t necessary. It makes no difference to me now. If there is a weirwood about, I can see.” He turned to Jon. “There were no weirwoods in that cave. I think that was intentional on the part of the Others.”_ _

__Jon nodded. Catelyn had questions about that and could see that Ned did, too, but they remained silent and allowed Bran to continue._ _

__“But sometimes, I don’t even need the trees,” Bran said. “It’s as if I’m there, wherever the thing is happening. I’m there and here, and I’m right beside people but high above them and I can see the tears on their cheeks and the horizon in the distance all at once.” He shook his head. “I know that doesn’t make sense. I don’t know why it happens sometimes. I don’t make it happen, and I can’t explain it any better than that. It isn’t so much seeing with the trees then as . . . I don’t know. Maybe seeing with the gods.”_ _

__“The gods? Which gods?” The question was voiced by Samwell Tarly, but Catelyn could feel each person in the room desiring to know the answer._ _

__“I don’t know,” Bran said softly. “The First Men didn’t name our gods and spoke of them as living in the weirwoods. Certainly greensight makes use of the weirwoods, but I think there is more to our gods than that. Maybe there are many different types of gods or maybe only one who answers us whether a prayer is offered to the Old Gods or Mother’s Seven or any other god you can name. Maybe I can’t understand what I see because we can’t possibly understand the gods, not entirely, and so we name them in whatever way makes sense to us. I don’t know, Sam. But I do know that there is power in the world far beyond what I understand, and I think the things I see come from it. And I don’t know where power so great that it holds all the possible futures in its vision could possibly come from except from gods.”_ _

__Everyone was silent then for what seemed like forever, and Catelyn looked at her son, marveling that the same boy who had seemed so young and in need of her reassurance only moments before now spoke as if he was by far the oldest person in the room—certainly the person with the deepest thoughts on time and gods. It frightened her and filled her with pride all at once. _Please,_ she prayed silently. _Please help me to know how to help him. Please._ As she prayed, it occurred to her that while she certainly still kept the Seven, her most desperate prayers had long since been offered without names or ritual—only need and faith in equal measure. She thought that Bran likely approached his greensight the same way—the need to know something accompanied by faith that whatever he was shown could be useful to him._ _

__“Tell us what you’ve seen of the eggs, Bran,” Ned said finally._ _

__Bran took a deep breath. “I saw the ice dragons,” he said. “Ice dragons from long ago. And the one Jon and Rhaegal killed. And the two in these eggs. I’ve seen them all, grown to full size and terrible.”_ _

__“But the blue one Jon told us about is dead,” Sansa said. “It is dead, isn’t it, Jon?”_ _

__“Yes. There is no mistake about that,” Jon said grimly._ _

__Bran nodded. “But it might not have been. I saw Jon dying north of the Wall. I saw the dragon growing. I saw Winterfell encased in ice, and I saw the Others . . .” He closed his eyes. “I don’t want to speak about all of it. Jon is important. Whenever I saw him dead beyond the Wall, I saw nothing but death in the wake of it.”_ _

__Jon looked very thoughtful, and Catelyn thought that whatever he and Bran had discussed, this was the first time Jon was hearing this particular information._ _

__“The eggs, Bran,” Ned urged gently._ _

__“I saw them at Winterfell,” he said. “Any time I’ve seen Winterfell standing, they’ve been here. That’s important. I don’t know why. But they must sleep quietly here for us to survive the winter and beyond. I know that is true.”_ _

__“But you said they would hatch,” Arya insisted._ _

__“One day,” Bran said. “But not yet. Not if we keep them safe. And that is what we must do.”_ _

__“But when . . .”_ _

__“Arya,” Ned said firmly. “Our concern is now. And the future that lies before us here. Bran has told us he sees a thousand years in the past. Mayhap he sees a thousand years in the future as well. If ice dragons are to rise in a thousand years, that is not our concern. We are to keep the eggs still and quiescent for our lifetimes.” He turned to face Bran. “That is what you are saying, isn’t it?”_ _

__Bran nodded, looking relieved that he wasn’t being asked to explain further._ _

__“Where?” Sam asked. “Where do we hide two ice dragon eggs that give off enough cold to lower the temperature in this warm room even while wrapped up in layers of fur?”_ _

__The room was chilly, Catelyn realized. She hadn’t paid attention to it because she had been so focused on Bran._ _

__“Catelyn and I were discussing that very issue before we came here,” Ned said. “We hadn’t . . .”_ _

__“The First Keep,” Bran said._ _

__“The First Keep is a pile of rubble,” Arya told him._ _

__“It’s where they belong,” Bran insisted. “I’ve seen them there.”_ _

__“It’s certainly warm,” Catelyn mused, recalling her days of captivity there._ _

__“And the underground portions are intact,” Ned added. “We kept a number of prisoners there when we first retook Winterfell.” He reached out and squeezed her hand, and she knew that he too was recalling her own captivity although he would not speak of it here._ _

__“The little rooms we always played in?” Arya asked. “But anyone can wander into those. There’s a lot of debris from when the tower fell, but Dak and Rickon and I have been in there any number of times.”_ _

__“I like the idea of keeping them someplace so warm. But we’d have to construct some sort of hiding place for them and build some structure to keep people out,” Jon said thoughtfully._ _

__“And keep them guarded,” Ned said darkly. “But how do we explain the need to guard a ruin? I would prefer that very few people outside the family know of the eggs’ existence.”_ _

__“The men of the Night’s Watch know of them,” Jon said. “That was unavoidable. The men who returned from that godsforsaken cave were asked not to speak of them, but . . . someone will. There are too many of them to keep a secret.”_ _

__“Do they know where you have taken them?” Ned asked him._ _

__“No.”_ _

__“When you return, you will make it known that you flew well out to sea and watched them sink. With luck and time, they will become the stuff of legends once more.” Ned’s voice made it clear this was not a suggestion, but a command, and Jon nodded his agreement._ _

__“M’lord?”_ _

__The Dothraki boy had been so quiet, Catelyn had almost forgotten his presence._ _

__“Yes, Dak?” Ned said._ _

__“I swear upon my life I will keep this secret.”_ _

__Dak remained thin, but he had grown a great deal over the past year, and his muscles had hardened as he’d worked with practice swords and labored at various tasks throughout the castle. At two and ten, he looked a good deal older than he had when he’d arrived at Winterfell, but those big brown eyes were the same—open, honest, and looking at Ned with admiration and respect bordering on worship._ _

__“Of course, you will, stupid. We all will,” Arya said, rolling her eyes at him._ _

__“But I am not a Stark,” Dak said earnestly. “I should swear a vow, and I do.”_ _

__Ned smiled at the boy. “Your vow is gratefully accepted, Dak. You have earned my trust.”_ _

__“You’re here because I asked for you,” Bran added. “You’re practically our brother.”_ _

__Those big brown eyes looked to her then, and Catelyn smiled at him. “You’re family, Dak.”_ _

__Dak seemed to glow at their words, and he actually moved his stool closer in to the rest of them. Catelyn smiled to see it, but when she looked toward Jon, she saw a shadow in his eyes as he looked back at her._ _

___You’re family._ She’d certainly never spoken such words to Jon Snow when he was two and ten or at any age. She’d not considered him family, and she’d made certain he knew it. She bit her lip. The past could not be changed. She did feel some regret at the pain Jon had suffered in his situation as a child and her part in it, but given what she had believed at the time, she couldn’t honestly say she would do anything differently. Now, however, things were undeniably different._ _

__“We are all family,” she said firmly, keeping her eyes meaningfully on Jon’s. “That includes you, Sam,” she added, turning toward Samwell with a smile. "And we shall count on each other to keep this secret. Rickon, too, when he’s old enough. And Brien. And all of your children.”_ _

__Ned smiled at her. “Well spoken, my lady.” He quickly frowned again, though. “It doesn’t answer the question of keeping the eggs guarded, however. Or even how we explain a sudden construction project in the ruins of the First Keep when so many obviously needed repairs still aren’t completed.”_ _

__“Father,” Sansa said slowly, and Catelyn turned to look at her, only then realizing that she’d been silent throughout the conversation about the eggs and where to keep them. She hadn’t even participated in reassuring Dak of his place among them which was very unlike her. She now wore a very thoughtful expression._ _

__“Yes, Sansa?” Ned replied._ _

__“We have spoken repeatedly about a monument for all who’ve been lost—those who rode to war with Robb, those who died at the hands of Roose Bolton and his son, and all who perished in battles with the Others.”_ _

__“Go on,” he said thoughtfully._ _

__“I think a fairly large structure would be appropriate for such a monument, don’t you? And there are good stones to be used in the rubble of the First Keep. And the location near the lichyard and the crypts is suitable, don’t you think?”_ _

__“I do think,” Ned said, smiling at his daughter._ _

__“And if we are to give the dead the highest honor possible . . .” Sansa continued._ _

__“An Honor Guard!” Jon said, a wide grin now lighting up his face. “You could post a pair of fully armed men in Stark colors at the monument round the clock! The men would think it easy ceremonial duty, but all the same they’d be armed, and I can’t imagine they’d suffer lightly any attempt to break into or otherwise desecrate such a monument.”_ _

__“And I cannot imagine any complaints about construction of such a monument, either,” Ned added. “There isn’t a person in Winterfell or the town who hasn’t lost someone.” He looked at Sansa. “It is a well conceived plan, Sansa. Thank you.”_ _

__Sansa lit up at her father’s praise, and Catelyn smiled at the color that crept into her cheeks._ _

__“It will take time to implement, however,” Ned said. “Constructing a hidden chamber within the monument with very few people aware of its existence will be difficult, but not insurmountable, and none need to know what is to be kept there. But what do we do with the bloody things in the mean time?”_ _

__“Put them in my room,” said Bran._ _

__“What?” Catelyn protested._ _

__“Rickon and Dak can sleep in Dak’s room. We’ll tell Rickon I’m having screaming nightmares again or something.” As Catelyn looked at him dubiously, Bran continued, “They aren’t going to hatch, Mother, and even if they did, I don’t think they would be that difficult to kill as hatchlings. Not for Summer. And I can keep him in my room. When he needs to go out, we’ll be certain Dak or Arya are there with the eggs.” He grinned at his sister, looking for a moment almost like the little boy who’d once loved to tease his siblings as he chased them about. “You’re at least good enough with that Needle of yours to stab a little bitty dragon, right?”_ _

__“Better than him,” Arya said, elbowing Dak._ _

__“You wish,” Dak replied._ _

__“Stop it,” Catelyn said, wishing she could enjoy their banter, but unwilling to even contemplate the possibility of the ice dragon eggs being left with any of her children. “The eggs will remain here.”_ _

__“But Mother . . .” Arya protested._ _

__“The wolves are a good thought,” she acknowledged. “Nymeria or Summer shall stay here whenever your father and I are not present. We want the eggs kept warm, do we not? And these rooms are the warmest in the Keep.” She rolled her eyes as all three of her children started to say something. “Yes, it is colder now with the accursed things in here, but I assure you I shall not freeze to death. As for my safety, you know perfectly well I am rarely here without your father, and while you and Dak are doing very well at swords, Arya, I daresay your father is still the much better swordsman and Oathkeeper is certainly a better blade. There will be no further discussion on the matter.”_ _

__No one said anything although Catelyn could see the corner of Ned’s mouth threatening to smile. She glared at him, and he assumed his lord’s face immediately. She then smiled in a satisfied manner herself. Her lord husband was not the only one who could command the children’s obedience._ _

__Much later, Ned walked into the nursery where she sat nursing Brien before putting him to sleep._ _

__“Is Rickon down?” she asked quietly. She’d sat with him and sung to him, but he’d been restless even with Dak and Bran both in the room with him, so Ned had come in when Brien needed fed._ _

__“Finally.” Ned sighed and sank down in a chair opposite hers. “I think it’s Shaggydog.” He shook his head. “It isn’t going to be easy or pleasant keeping the presence of those dragon eggs from Rickon, Cat. He feels what his wolf does, and Shaggy has to know something if Summer and Nymeria do. And they certainly have to know something if Bran and Arya do.” He ran a hand through his hair and yawned tiredly. “My gods, how did our lives get to this point?”_ _

__Catelyn shrugged, raising Brien to her shoulder and rubbing his back. He was so big now, his legs reached her lap when she held him so. “I don’t know, my love. Which wolf is in my room?”_ _

__“Nymeria. Bran told me that Shireen Baratheon knows nothing of the dragon eggs,” Ned said. “What the devil do you think it is that Shireen does know?”_ _

__Catelyn sighed wearily. “I don’t know that either. Bran is still keeping secrets, I fear. Whatever Shireen knows, it seems it is a secret he does not yet wish to share with us. Sansa and Arya have their secrets as well, you know. Likely, Rickon, too. He speaks nothing of his time on Skaagos.” She laughed softly. “Is it mad to be thankful that at least the ice dragons have given us a secret to share?”_ _

__Ned laughed. “I suppose not. All of us save Rickon anyway.”_ _

__“He’ll share it soon enough,” Catelyn said. “And mayhap we’ll share all our children’s secrets in time. Or not. Either way, Ned, we’ll keep them safe. And gods willing, we’ll see them happy.”_ _

__“They are happy, Cat,” Ned said softly. “Not always, certainly. They have suffered much. But they are happy here with each other and with us. Do not doubt that.”_ _

__She sighed. “When does Jon leave?”_ _

__“On the morrow.” Ned sounded sad as he spoke._ _

__“Can he not stay longer?”_ _

__“He is Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Cat. He belongs on the Wall.”_ _

__“I know,” she said softly. “It simply seems cruel. He belongs to Winterfell, too, Ned, and now that I can say that without reservation, he cannot stay here.”_ _

__“That is not your fault, my love.”_ _

__“I know, but that makes it no less cruel.”_ _

__They sat silently for a moment in the near darkness as Brien fell deeply asleep on her shoulder._ _

__“Can you take him for me?” she asked finally. He was so heavy now that rising while holding him was a bit challenging._ _

__Ned took him from her and laid him in his cot after kissing his dark hair._ _

__“You aren’t using your cane.”_ _

__“My leg’s fine, Cat.”_ _

__“Well, you weren’t limping too badly when you came in. Or just now. I’ll admit that. I just don’t want you to overdo it.”_ _

__He smiled at her. “You accuse me frequently of thinking you more fragile than you are. I must admit I grow tired of you doing the same.”_ _

__She laughed, and he extended a hand to her. “Come, my lady. Let’s go throw a direwolf out of your chambers.”_ _

__“Throw her out?” Catelyn asked as she rose, taking his hand._ _

__“Our children see through the eyes of their wolves, do they not? I have no intention of allowing our daughter to see precisely how I intend to keep her mother warm while we play host to ice dragon eggs.”_ _

__He pulled her against him and kissed her soundly until she felt quite warm indeed and quite a bit less interested in sleep than she had been a moment ago._ _

__“Take me to bed, my lord.”_ _

__“With pleasure, my lady.”_ _

__On the arm of her husband, she walked to her chambers, comforted once more by the knowledge that whatever faced them and however long this winter was to last, none of them would face it alone._ _


	80. Farewell Dragon and Stag

Jon Snow walked through the courtyard looking around him. So much of Winterfell was changed from his childhood days. The maester’s turret was an entirely new and different structure, as were the stables. The roof on the Great Hall was different, and the bridge from the Great Keep to the Armory had been rebuilt as well. There was an odd empty space between the Great Keep and the Great Hall as Lady Stark’s sept was gone, even the rubble of it having been cleared away now; and over toward the lichyard, the fallen stones of the First Keep were discernible even with all the snow.

 _So much has changed,_ he thought. _For all of us._ He heard a boy’s shout and another boy’s laughter in response and turned to see Dak, Lord Seaworth’s son, and several boys of similar age pelting each other with snowballs. As he watched, he saw Rickon dive out from behind one of the older boys and attempt to tackle Dak to the ground, and for a moment he felt that nothing had changed. The older boys could have been Robb and himself with their friends, and Rickon could have easily been Bran as he’d followed fearlessly after them just as Rickon did with Dak now. Jon closed his eyes and allowed himself to go back for just a moment to one of those summer snows of past days, savoring the joy of it before the present awareness that Bran would never tackle a brother in the snow again and that Robb was lost to him forever inevitably pushed into his thoughts. He opened his eyes once again. _We never had nearly so much so snow then,_ he thought. _What Robb and I could have built with this!_

“Jon!”

Rickon was racing toward him, a grin on his face. The boy’s cheeks were very red, and Jon knew he’d get a terrible scolding about not keeping his scarf wrapped well enough about his face when Lady Stark saw that.

“Having fun?” he asked his little brother.

“The most! Come and play with us!”

Rickon had reached him now, and Jon put his hands on his little brother’s shoulders as he replied. “I’d love to, Rickon. I was just thinking of how much Robb and I loved the snow when we were kids. But you know I’m leaving today. I’ve already stayed too long.”

He’d meant to go before sunrise, but he’d found himself unable to hurry away. He’d broken his fast in his father’s solar, speaking to Father of plans for the monument in which the ice dragon eggs would be hidden away and then of a great number of inconsequential things. Neither of them had seemed to want the conversation to come to an end. 

Then he’d sought out Sam. He’d tried to express his gratitude for all Sam had done and was still doing at Winterfell, but he didn’t have the words, and Sam didn’t want to hear them anyway, so mostly they spoke of men they both knew at the Wall—some still living and some now dead—and laughed together at shared memories for they only dwelt on the good ones. Sam had told him of a letter he’d received from Gilly. Mance Rayder’s son lived and thrived. While it pained Jon to know that the boy’s father likely did not, he knew Val would be glad of such tidings, and he would see that she heard of it. He’d told Sam that Gilly’s babe was well, too, as far as he knew, although he’d not actually spoken to Val since his return from the ice dragon cave.

 _“Gilly still wants her son, Jon,”_ Sam had said gravely. _“She loves the boy she has like her own now and would never want him gone from her, but she’ll never stop wanting the boy she birthed as well.”_

Jon had merely nodded. While Mance’s child was no longer in danger from the red priestess since her disappearance and the deaths of Stannis and Selyse Baratheon, it seemed cruel to take the boy away from the only mother he’d ever known. Both his parents were dead, after all. Yet, he wasn’t certain Val would readily part from the child she called “little monster” either. Like everyone, Val had suffered too many losses already.

 _“We shall see what the future brings us, Sam,”_ he’d said finally. _“But I’ll have Val write to you of the child here at Winterfell.”_

By the time he’d left Sam, the sky had begun to lighten, and it was plain that today would not only be fair, but considerably warmer than the previous day. He’d gone to say farewell to Bran then, for whether or not his brother would come and see him off with the rest of the family, he’d wanted to speak to him alone once more. When he’d arrived in his room, however, he’d discovered Shireen Baratheon there as well, and when she’d attempted to excuse herself, Bran had asked her to stay.

 _“You and Shireen are the only people who know what I am, Jon,”_ his brother had said rather sadly. _“You can say anything you wish to me in her presence.”_

Before Jon could even reply, Shireen Baratheon had insisted, _“Everyone in your family knows who you are, Bran. Everyone in Winterfell, even! The Lord Commander and I just know a bit more about what you can do. That is all.”_

Jon had looked at the girl in gratitude. It was precisely what he’d wanted Bran to know, but he’d had no idea how to say it. His father had told him Shireen Baratheon was likely to grow into a formidable woman—possessing all her father’s honor and iron resolve, but far more compassion. In his few dealings with her here, he was inclined to agree.

 _“She’s right,”_ he’d told Bran. _“You are Brandon Stark of Winterfell. And you will always be my little brother. As to what you can do . . .”_ He’d shrugged. _“I trust you, Bran. I want you to know that.”_

Bran had looked uncertain then just as he had when Jon had spoken to him before, and that worried him. But there was nothing more he could do. He had to trust in his brother’s good heart and pray that he had the strength to handle a kind of power that Jon would never want to hold in his hands. And that he could wield that power as needed without losing himself.

Bran had hugged him tightly and told him to journey safely, but thankfully had given him no more ominous warnings before he left the room.

He’d found none of his other siblings in the Great Keep except for Brien who’d been with Letty in the nursery, sitting in the center of the room and happily throwing a cloth ball at the nursemaid. Letty hadn’t known where the babe’s mother or sisters were so Jon had watched the littlest Stark play for a moment and then taken his leave, thinking that Brien would likely be running through corridors before he saw him again.

“Stayed too long? You just got here!”

Rickon’s plaintive voice brought him back to where he stood in the courtyard looking down into an unmistakably Tully face with something inescapably Stark-like about the eyes. The boy was certainly frowning like Arya did when disappointed.

“I know, Rickon,” he sighed. “But I fear my place is at the Wall. There is much work to be done, and I cannot be long away from my post.”

“But I don’t want you to go,” Rickon complained. “If you were going right back to the Wall, why did you come at all?”

That was a tricky question. He’d come to bring the eggs, of course, but Rickon was still too young to share in that secret. “I had to bring some important messages to Father. Rhaegal is faster than any raven and less bothered by snow.” He grinned and bopped the boy’s nose with his finger. “And I was glad of any excuse to see you, even if it is too brief a visit.”

Rickon smiled at that, but only for a moment. “It still isn’t fair,” he said. “You’re our brother, too, and you should be able to stay at Winterfell as long as you like.”

The echoes of Robb’s voice in those words caused Jon’s breath to catch. “I’ll always be your brother, Rickon,” he managed to choke out. “Wherever I am.”

A snowball hit Rickon smack in the back then, and Jon looked up to see Dak standing about fifteen paces away howling with laughter.

“Hey!” Rickon yelled. “I’ll make you pay, Dak!”

“Go get him,” Jon encouraged, and Rickon dashed off through the snow, his hood falling back and revealing messy auburn curls.

Jon once more found himself in the past, running through the snow after another auburn haired boy, shouting, “You’ll pay for that, Stark!” between peals of laughter.

As he turned away and trudged on toward the Great Hall, it occurred to him that Arya had not been among the participants in the snowball fight, and that surprised him. He’d hoped to speak with her alone at least once before he left today, but it was rapidly approaching time for the midday meal. He’d resigned himself to staying here at least long enough to eat with his family one last time, but he had to leave immediately afterward. He had to leave.

For a moment, he thought he caught sight of Lady Stark coming out of the Great Hall, but realized it was Sansa instead. Their heights and builds were so similar now that from a distance the two were nearly impossible to tell apart, even with their matching hair largely covered by hoods.

“Jon!” she called out with a smile on her face and in her voice as she saw him walking toward her, and it warmed him to his toes. There was no mistaking his sister for her mother when she greeted him like that. For all the newfound respect and even understanding between the two of them, Catelyn Stark’s face would never light up to see him the way Sansa’s did now.

“Sansa,” he replied just as warmly, reaching out to take her hands in his.

“I was afraid you’d be gone already,” she said. “Sneaking off the way you did last time in the middle of the night!”

He laughed. “It wasn’t the middle of the night, you know. It was just dark. And I didn’t sneak off, really. I just . . .”

“Yes, you did,” she corrected him. “But I understand why. Everything was still in such a shambles then and all the people hanging about and calling you the ‘Dragonrider of Winterfell’ and all. I know you hated that.”

“I didn’t realize any of you heard that stupid name.”

Sansa laughed then. “Of course, we did. We aren’t deaf. It plainly made you uncomfortable, though, so we made sure even Rickon didn’t tease you about it. And Mother . . .” She pressed her lips together and stopped speaking suddenly. 

“It’s all right, Sansa. I’ve no doubt what your mother had to say about it.”

She looked at him for a moment. “No,” she said after a moment. “I doubt that you do. She said that you were the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and that as such you needed the respect of the North. While your Stark blood would serve you well in that, being named ‘Dragonrider’ which pretty much means ‘Targaryen’ would not. So she had Deryk forbid the men to call you by anything other than your proper title.” Sansa smiled. “Of course, that didn’t stop everyone else using the name. You did ride in on a dragon and save everybody after all.”

Jon scowled. He knew that Lady Stark had been as motivated by her perceived need to protect Bran’s position as anything else. She’d told him that herself. But he was pleasantly surprised to hear the woman had spoken to his sisters and brother of his Stark blood being a good thing in any manner. “Well, it’s a stupid name,” he said now.

Sansa laughed again, and he enjoyed the sound of it. Once her laughter had too often sounded mocking to his ears and on recent visits to Winterfell, her laughter had been too infrequent--his lighthearted, romance-minded sister replaced by a far more serious and often sad young woman. “Now, you sound like Arya,” she teased.

“Speaking of Arya, where is she?” Jon asked, reminded that he’d sort of been looking for her.

Sansa’s face fell. It was only a moment, but the disappointment that had flashed briefly in those blue eyes was replaced not with the same joy that had been there, but with one of her mother’s carefully pleasant expressions. “Of course, you’ll want to spend some time with her before you leave. She told me she was going to the First Keep.”

 _She thinks I only want to speak with Arya. And I suppose once that would have been true._ “Oh, I’ll see her at the meal, if not before,” he said, hoping he sounded convincingly nonchalant. “I only asked because there is a tremendous snowball fight going on over there, and she isn’t in the middle of it. I was shocked.”

His sister laughed then, turning to look toward Rickon and the others. “I am, too. But she probably doesn’t even know it’s happening. She went out toward the First Keep pretty early. Took Nymeria with her. She wouldn’t say why.” Sansa frowned slightly. “She keeps a lot to herself.”

 _Too much,_ Jon thought. “Likely she’s wandering in the old cellar rooms deciding where best to build a secret dragon egg chamber,” he whispered theatrically in an attempt to bring the smile back to Sansa’s face.

She did smile a little. “Probably,” she agreed. She was still watching the boys across the courtyard. “Were we ever that young?” she asked softly.

Sansa was only five and ten and he barely eight and ten, but he knew what she meant. It was hard to remember truly feeling like a child or even a relatively carefree lad old enough to resent being called a child. Her gaze hadn’t wavered from the snowball fight, and instead of replying, he carefully bent down and scooped up a handful of snow, packing it into a very loose approximation of a snowball as he stood back up.

“We still are,” he said, and as she turned back to face him, he tossed the snow directly at her chest where it broke apart all over the front of her cloak.

The shocked expression on her face which slowly transformed itself into one of gleeful determination caused him to grin as he took a couple steps backward.

“Oh, I will get you for that, Jon Snow!” she declared bending down to scoop up a much larger amount of snow than he’d surreptitiously grabbed.

He watched her packing it for only a moment before saying, “You’ll have to catch me first,” and then turning to run toward the Great Keep.

“You’d better run, craven!” she shouted after him. 

He could hear the sounds of her laughter as she came running behind him, and he turned back to see her—one hand holding the enormous snowball, the other clutching at her cloak and skirts so that she might move more quickly. She’d never catch him, though.

“Dak! Rickon! Stop him!” Sansa shouted then, and Jon realized they’d been spied by the boys—the very boys he was running directly toward. Within moments, Rickon had grabbed him round one leg and while he was off balance, Dak tackled him. He landed flat on his back, laughing, and before he could sit up, a cold mass of snow hit him right in the face.

He sputtered and wiped the snow out of his eyes to see Sansa standing over him grinning with Rickon and Dak beside her. He sat up and shook his head. “I thought you made better snowballs than that, Sansa. That just felt like a bunch of loose snow.”

She only smiled at him and offered her hand to help him up.

“Hey, Jon! I told you this was the most fun!” Rickon shouted from behind him as he stood. 

Jon turned to respond, but before he could answer, a hard projectile hit him solidly in the back and he whirled back around to see Sansa standing there, blue eyes dancing in merriment. 

“That _was_ just a bunch of loose snow, Jon. I make excellent snowballs. But I am a lady, and I am far too courteous to hurl one of them at a person’s face.”

Rickon and Dak howled, and once Jon joined in their laughter so did all the other boys present. Sansa simply smiled and held her chin up, channeling her mother at her most proper. “Now I am going in to make certain I have dry clothes to wear in the Hall. I would suggest you boys do the same. If you come to table drenched in melted snow, Mother won’t let you outside again for a fortnight.”

With that, she turned toward the Great Keep, but Jon called after her. “My lady!”

She turned back around laughing at the address. “Yes, Jon?”

He bowed before her. “I concede victory to Lady Sansa Stark, Warrior Queen of Snow Fights.”

She laughed and came to take his hand and bid him rise. “Thank you, brave ser,” she said. Then she looked him directly in the eyes and said much more softly and with no hint of teasing, “Thank you, Jon.”

As he watched her walk into the Keep, he thanked the gods that his sister could still laugh and that she did remember more of being a happy child at Winterfell than she had realized. He hoped those memories could help light the darkness he knew she still carried inside her. He hoped that for all of them.

“Go on, boys!” he said. “You heard the lady. Time to become presentable for the midday meal.” Dak and Rickon both made faces, but Devan Seaworth merely nodded, and the other boys began to wander away. “And Rickon, you might want to see Sam and have him put something on those cheeks of yours before Lady Stark sees them. You aren’t frostbit or anything, but she’s a mother, and she’ll make a fuss if she sees them all red like that.”

Rickon looked alarmed and put his hands over his cheeks which caused Jon to laugh. “Sam’s in his rooms. Go on, now.”

Without another word, Rickon sprinted off in the direction of the maester’s turret and the ever loyal Dak followed after. Jon watched them go. Rickon had no good memories of before, he realized. Not really. He could only hope that his fierce little brother was still young enough to form enough new childhood memories to help lessen the pain of the memories he did have. 

Sighing, he turned to walk in the direction of the ruined First Keep.

Very little energy had been expended on clearing paths around the First Keep and the lichyard. Once he passed the Guard Hall, Jon wished he had snow feet on his shoes to keep him from sinking up to his thighs with every step. At least a few people had been through here, though, and he did his best to follow their steps and clear a bit more snow with his own as he made his way to the entrance of the First Keep.

He laughed when he saw it. The first half of the stairs leading to the old cellars no longer had any roof over it and so had been buried by snow. The way down had been dug out in more of a tunnel than a true path as it passed under the low remaining wall of the Keep. As he pushed more snow out of the way, he decided it wasn’t truly even a decent tunnel. His sister had cleared so little, it wouldn’t take much to have the snow collapse upon itself again, and she could become trapped in there. As anxious as he was to see her, he took the time to remove enough snow far enough away that such at thing could not happen.

When at last, he’d adequately cleared the path, he made his way carefully down the stairs. Once below ground level, the First Keep was precisely as he recalled it and he smiled at the memory of a thousand plots hatched within this space, seemingly beyond all reach of adults. He and Robb had slept here all night on more than on occasion, sneaking out of the Great Keep when everyone was abed. They’d only been caught once and the week spent confined to chambers had not prevented them from doing it again.

“Arya?” he called softly.

No response. He walked further in and it became quite dark in spite of the bright daylight above. He wondered if his sister had gone already. “Arya? Did you bring a torch?”

“Jon?” he heard her call softly, her voice questioning. She was in one of the little rooms that locked—the ones they’d used as cells when they’d held the Frey men there after Father took back Winterfell. 

The door was pushed almost closed, but not quite, and when he opened it, he could barely make out the outline of his little sister sitting against the far wall. “No torch, I see.”

“You didn’t bring one either,” she replied.

“I didn’t know I was coming here.”

She shrugged. He could see the movement even if he couldn’t clearly see her. He thought that if he closed the door as much as she had, he wouldn’t even be able to see that so he left it open and went to sit beside her. He had to duck just a little to keep from hitting his head on the ceiling of the room. He didn’t recall having to do that when he’d last played in this tower.

“I don’t need one,” she said. “I know my way here in the dark.”

“I guess that’s true of all of us. Well, not Rickon. And maybe not even Bran quite as much.”

Arya laughed. “Oh, Bran was here enough. But he was always climbing up the First Keep rather than crawling under it.”

She stopped laughing very suddenly. This had been where Bran had fallen. Neither she nor Jon had seen it happen, but both knew it had happened here. Neither of them spoke for a bit.

“It will be strange not being able to come down here anymore,” she said finally. She shrugged again. “But then, everything else is strange so I suppose it makes no difference.”

“That’s funny. I was thinking pretty much the same thing, earlier. But then I started thinking of all the things that are exactly the same.”

“Nothing’s the same.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You missed a monster of a snowball fight just now.”

She gave a small laugh. “Yeah. Rickon and Dak like to play in the snow. But Robb is gone. And you, most of the time. And Bran can’t play.”

“I was here for this one. Sansa nailed me right in the face.”

“What?” she asked, finally turning to look at him in the darkness, disbelief evident in her voice. “Sansa played in the snow?”

“She was pretty good at it once you made her mad enough, or don’t you remember that?”

He could barely see some movement of her face, and he was certain she was biting her lip. “That was a long time ago. She would laugh even if she started out mad. But then she got too ladylike for snow even before we ever went to King’s Landing. And she never runs or plays at anything since we’ve been back. She’s too busy trying to be Mother.”

“She played today. I think she might play more if you’d ever ask her.”

Arya shook her head. “No. She’s a woman grown.” She spoke the words as if they held no appeal for her. “I’m surprised she isn’t already going on again about what lord she’s going to marry.”

“Arya,” Jon said, shaking his own head sadly. “You know what she went through in King’s Landing. How can you think such a thing?”

“What she went through?” Arya said, suddenly almost shouting. “She lived in a castle. Yes, she was a prisoner, but she had food and clothes and somebody always took care of her. Even that stupid Lannister dwarf wouldn’t really hurt her. Not Sansa. They made her marry him and he still wouldn’t fuck her. She got taken out of King’s Landing, Jon! I had to run away! Mother and Father rescued her, but I had to come find them!” 

He realized she was crying and he pulled her into him to cry against his chest. He’d thought his sisters were getting along so much better than they ever had. He had no idea Arya felt this way, and he suspected that no one else did either. He didn’t say anything at all, even after she stopped crying. He just held onto her and waited.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what a horrible person I am?” she said finally.

“No.”

“Why not? Joffrey had the Kingsguard beat her. Did you know that? She’s got scars on her back. And some on her front. And I complain she didn't suffer enough.”

Jon felt sick. He’d known Sansa had suffered cruelty at the hands of the Lannisters and then Petyr Baelish, but . . . scars? Someone had beaten his sister to the point of leaving scars? No wonder her laughter didn’t come so easily anymore.

“I don’t hate her,” Arya said then. “I don’t.”

“No one thinks you do, Arya,” Jon assured her, but he was still wrapping his mind around what she’d said about the extent of Sansa’s suffering.

“It’s just . . . she’s perfectly fine, Jon. She’s the perfect lady just like she always was. After everything they did to her. She’s just . . . perfect. And she helps Mother and she reminds Father to take his crutch and makes Rickon wear his gloves and tries to tell me things all the time and . . . . and she comes up with a brilliant plan for hiding dragon eggs.” She sat up and pulled away from him, leaning back against the wall once more. “This was my hiding place, Jon. I hid my treasures here. Why didn’t I think of it?”

“Arya . . . no one expected you to think of a hiding place for the eggs. No one . . .”

“Of course, they didn’t! Because I’m not Sansa!” She stood up then and walked away a couple paces, comfortable standing in the tiny room as he couldn’t be. “They don’t know anything about me, Jon! Not really. I can find my way through Ragman’s Harbor in Braavos blind. And I mean really blind! I speak Braavosi, you know, and bits of other languages. I’m not as good at it as Dak, but I know enough. I know what poisons work best if you want to kill someone quickly or if they need to die slowly. I know how it feels to kill somebody because if you don’t they’re going to kill you. Or how to kill somebody because they’re in your way. Or how to kill somebody because they deserve to die.” She swallowed so hard, he could hear it. “I know what happened to the singer who deserted from the Night’s Watch.”

Jon felt cold as he listened to his little sister speak. He’d told her she could tell him anything, and he’d meant it. But in his heart of hearts, he hadn’t been prepared to hear her say such things. Slowly, the last thing she’d said worked its way into his mind. _Dareon. Sam had told him that that he and Dareon had gone to Braavos with Maester Aemon, and that Dareon had left them to sing in some whorehouse in the harbor._

“What deserter, Arya?” he asked softly.

“I was supposed to be No One,” she said just as softly. “I always told the kindly man that I was No One. But he was a man of the Night’s Watch. He said the words. But he was never going back.” She swallowed. “Father took Bran to see the deserter executed, remember? And he never took me even though Bran was younger than I was. But I knew that deserters from the Night’s Watch deserve death. And the Starks of Winterfell would see they got it. Only Father was dead. And Robb dead with Mother. And even Bran and Rickon—all dead. And you were at the Wall. Why should this man be singing and fucking whores when all the Starks were dead and you were at the Wall keeping the vows he broke?”

“Arya . . .” Jon started to say, his voice sounding broken to his own ears, but she kept speaking.

“I tried to be No One. I really did. But I never was really. I’m Arya, of House Stark. And he was a deserter.”

“You killed him,” Jon said. He was pleased that his voice sounded as even as it did because he felt every part of him shaking. 

“Mmhm,” she said, and he could see her nod. “I executed him. Like Father would have done.”

She walked back to Jon and sat down facing him. “And I’m not sorry. Not about him.”

Jon struggled to find words. He pushed the last three words his sister had spoken from his mind. While nothing would ever change his love for her, he found he wasn’t certain he could stand to hear her speak of other people she had killed. “He was a criminal,” he said finally. “Father would have done the same.”

“No,” Arya said. “He wouldn’t have slit his throat in the night and dumped him in a canal. He’d have done like he did with Theon and those Freys.”

Jon forced himself not to react to her matter-of-fact description of Dareon’s death, and he was fairly certain the man had been Dareon. Sam had told him the man had refused to come back with them, and then had disappeared. “You didn’t have the same options as Father would,” he said carefully. “Arya, have you not told anyone this?”

“No. I don’t want them to hate me more than they already do.”

Jon sighed. “No one here hates you, little sister. We’re a pack, remember? Like Father says. We all love you.”

She started crying again, but these weren’t the sobs of before. He only knew she cried because she began to sniff as she spoke and she moved her arm across her face every so often as if to wipe away tears. “I know,” she said quietly. “Mother loves me even though I’m not a lady and I say awful things to her because of you, and Father loves me even when I never did what I was supposed to in King’s Landing and I made everything harder for him I know, and Sansa loves me even though her wolf got killed instead of mine, and Bran loves me even after I made him look for you in the trees and something terrible happened to him, and . . .”

“Arya, stop it!” Jon almost shouted.

“How much more, Jon?” she asked him in a desolate sounding voice. “How much more until they stop loving me? I can’t let them know everything . . . I can’t . . .”

“Come here, little sister.” He pulled her against him and mussed her hair. She wasn’t wearing her cloak, and he realized he was quite hot in his. These little rooms were even warmer than Lady Stark’s. “You could tell them anything, Arya. All you’ve told me and more. And no one here will stop loving you. And if you don’t want to tell them, you should ask them some time . . . Father and your lady mother . . . what all they did to find you. What more they were willing to do to find you. I don’t know all of it, Arya. Sansa knows more, but I do know that getting you back was more important to them than Winterfell or the North or anything. And neither of them was willing to accept that you were dead no matter how much that seemed to be the case.”

“You didn’t believe I was dead. You sent Mance Rayder after me.”

“Of course, I sent him. And I was prepared to come after you myself. But don’t you think your parents would have done any less, because they would have done as much and more. Father was willing to confess to things he’d never done and take the black for yours and Sansa’s sake. Your mother tried to trade the Kingslayer for you and your sister when no one else was willing to give the man up after Father was killed . . . or supposedly killed. You matter, Arya Stark. You matter more than could possibly know. To all of us.”

“Sometimes I don’t know what I’m going to do, Jon,” she whispered.

“What do you mean?” he asked her.

“I mean . . . it isn’t always going to be winter. We aren’t always going to be fighting these things, and if we don’t all die, then we’ll be expected to live. And then what? Mother and Father will want to promise me to someone, but who wants a lady wife who knows more of poison than needlepoint? I don’t even know if I want to marry anyone, Jon! But what am I to do?”

Suddenly, she sounded so very young.

“Arya,” he said. “You are scarcely three and ten. And not wanting to get married and do needlepoint is hardly anything new for you. I’ve no doubt Father and Lady Stark will want to see you wed because they’ll want you safe and cared for—and don’t bother telling me you can take care of yourself because I know that already. But in any event, I don’t think they will force you to wed anyone, little sister. Not after all that’s happened. I don’t think either of them would put any of you in a place you did not wish to be. Just be at home for a while. If you cannot talk of where you’ve been or what you’ve done, simply let Winterfell ease your heart. It eases mine just to come here, I think. Even just to know that Winterfell is here with all of you safe inside it. You said yourself that you were always Arya Stark of Winterfell, so just be Arya. And try not to think about what future years may bring. There will be time enough for that.”

She nodded. “I’ll try.”

“Come on,” he said then, pushing himself up to stand. “We’re going to be late for the midday meal. I won’t be held responsible for keeping you from the Great Hall.” He held out his hand to pull her up.

“Jon,” she said, as she grabbed it. “Is it terrible that even though I don’t think I want to get married, I don’t like the thought of no one wanting to marry me and only wanting Sansa?”

Jon laughed out loud at that. “No,” he said. “It’s not very fair of you, but it isn’t terrible. And most of us have thoughts like that, I think. People can’t help it. And I can assure you that plenty of men will wish to wed you, little sister. You needn’t fear that.” He laughed again as she moved to grab her cloak which she’d apparently tossed in a corner.

“What’s so funny?” she asked him.

“It’s nothing really,” he said, “But if anyone had told me I’d spend my day having snow fights with Sansa and discussing marriages with you, I’d have told them they had my sisters mixed up.”

Arya laughed then, and Jon was glad to hear it. The cold air as they emerged felt good on his face and in his lungs after the heat of the little room beneath the rubble of the First Keep, and he stood there blinking in the sunlight reflected on all the snow. As his eyes adjusted, he could see that his sister’s face bore evidence she’d been crying, but she had no tears now. 

“Race you to the Great Hall?” she asked him.

“You can’t outrun me, Stark,” he said just as he’d once said to their brother.

“Watch me, Snow,” she countered, taking off without waiting for him.

As he ran after her, he knew that she was still hurt—still more frightened and angry than she let anyone see. He was glad she’d let him see at least a little of her darkness, even if it hadn’t been easy. Mayhap, if she could share her secrets and her fears, even a little bit, they wouldn’t weigh so heavily on her.

For now, he had to leave her and the rest of his siblings at Winterfell with their parents. He knew they’d be loved. He hoped they’d have peace. The only other thing he could do for his little sister now was run as fast as his legs could carry him and show her that her big brother would always be faster than she was.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“You asked for me, my love?” Catelyn Stark said as she stuck her head into her husband’s solar. “Rickon said Sam had sent him in search of me.”

Ned looked up from his desk and smiled at her, but she could see the worry lines creasing his forehead. “I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything important, Cat, but I knew you’d want to see the letters I’ve received today.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, coming into the room. “I hadn’t seen any ravens, but then I’ve been in the glass gardens most of the morning.”

He laughed at her then, standing up to kiss her briefly as she came around the desk to join him. “I thought not,” he said. “If you’d seen the ravens arrive, you’d have been here by now.”

She made a face at him and sat down in the chair that was always beside his now as they so often worked on things here together. “Who are they from?”

“The first is from Daenerys Targaryen.”

Her eyes opened wide at that. They’d all been awaiting word from the queen for some time. They’d had no news from the south at all except from the one letter of Edmure’s that Catelyn preferred not to think about since Jon’s departure which had been nearly a moon’s turn ago. Shireen Baratheon and the Seaworths, in particular, had grown increasingly restless as they awaited Her Grace’s reply to Shireen’s request to leave for the Stormlands.

“And?”

“It would seem Her Grace has been busy,” Ned said in his infuriatingly calm voice.

“What is it, Ned? What has been happening? Did she receive our letter about Shireen’s request? Will she let her go?”

Ned chuckled softly. “Peace, my love,” said, reaching out to touch her hair. “I cannot tell it all at once.” He picked up a fairly lengthy sheet of parchment from his desk and scanned it briefly before speaking again, and Catelyn struggled to suppress her growing impatience with him.

“Our letter did reach her while she was at Highgarden as did Lord Tyrion’s regarding Lady Asha’s request about her uncle,” he said. “Willas Tyrell bent the knee as expected. He even gave her men to help her get to The Reader.”

“And?” Catelyn asked impatiently when he paused. “The man listened to what she had to say and took her proposals to the other Ironborn captains, including Euron Crow’s Eye.”

He paused again, and Catelyn huffed in irritation. “Tell it all Ned or simply hand me that letter.”

She didn’t think she imagined his gripping the letter more tightly and wondered what was in it that he didn’t want her to see.

“Euron wanted no part of it, of course, even when Lord Harlaw informed him that Daenerys intended to allow them to keep the Shield Islands.”

“What? Willas Tyrell agreed to that?”

“I seriously doubt that Willas Tyrell was given a choice, if he was even told. But it didn’t appease Euron, and Daenerys acted swiftly in response. Euron is dead, and the burned embers of his ship lie at the bottom of the Mander.”

“Did she burn them all, Ned?” Catelyn asked softly. 

“No.” He shook his head. “It seems Ser Barristan and his company made good time. They arrived in the Reach, and the Queen sent Lady Greyjoy to her uncle offering anyone who swore fealty to Daenerys Targaryen and ceased all hostilities in the Reach an immediate pardon for any raiding done prior to Lord Willas declaring Highgarden leal once more to House Targaryen. Anyone who continued to fight either the forces of queen or of the Reach lords would be summarily executed. Having already burned several ships with relative impunity, the Queen actually set Lady Greyjoy free completely, and the woman told her that if all the Ironborn chose to fight, she would fight and burn with them, but if any chose to take the offer, she would lead them back to the Shield Islands, leaving the Mander entirely free, and await Her Grace’s instructions there.”

“And what happened?”

“With Euron dead, and Lord Harlaw and Lady Greyjoy encouraging them, most of the Iron Islanders agreed to the terms. Those that did not joined Euron Greyjoy in death.” Ned shook his head. “That dragon is a terror, Cat. It is even larger than Jon’s green one and can spew fire hot enough to burn from well above the range of most arrows. When it does descend to thoroughly engulf its quarry in flame, it can soar skyward again so quickly that only the most skilled archer could hit it, and I know not what damage his arrow would do. Likely none at all.” 

Catelyn shuddered. “So there is peace in the Reach now, at any rate?” 

Her husband’s expression remained grim. “If you can call such an arrangement peace. As neither Lord Tyrell nor the Iron Islanders appear to have any desire to burn, there is now an absence of bloodshed at any rate. I fear the Queen’s decision to allow the Iron Islanders to keep the Shield Islands will prove folly. That leaves them only a short sail from Highgarden itself. Lord Tyrell cannot allow that to stand without opposition of some kind.”

“You think the fighting will commence again once she leaves?”

“Not right away. You are right about Lady Greyjoy having her own sort of honor. I do not see her raiding again in the Reach. As to Willas Tyrell . . . he will have to find a way to get his lords to refrain from attempting to take the Shield Islands back, for Lady Asha will surely fight if she is attacked. Mayhap, once the Queen feels secure on her throne, he can seek them through diplomacy.”

“You think he has the patience for that? Daenerys did kill his father.”

“And she holds his sister. I don’t know the man, Cat. He’s more than five and twenty, though. Hardly a child. And he doesn’t have a reputation as an idiot. Besides, she’s leaving him Jorah Mormont.” Ned made a face. He had never forgiven Jeor’s son for his slaving or for his flight from justice.

“Jorah and how many of her men?” Catelyn asked, cocking a brow.

Ned laughed. “Enough. To help the man keep the queen’s peace.”

“Mmm,” Catelyn said, frowning slightly. “Where is she off to now with the rest of her men?” 

“Her men are to travel to King’s Landing under the command of Barristan Selmy. She doesn’t want the High Septon to labor under the illusion that he is in charge of the capital independent of her rule. She intends to leave Ser Barristan there when she takes her men into the Stormlands to confront her putative nephew. But first, she is accepting the invitation of Andar Royce. She’s flying to Runestone on her dragon while her army marches back northward.”

“She’s going alone?”

“She came here alone, Cat. Yohn’s son is no more going to murder the woman than I would. Do I think she puts too much faith in that beast of hers in regard to her personal safety? Yes. But she won’t suffer for it with Lord Royce.”

“No,” Catelyn said softly. “Not if he’s his father’s son.” 

Ned took her hand. “Oh, he is. His father raised him well, and he’s a credit to him.”

They were both silent for a moment, and Catelyn knew they both thought of their own firstborn son, also a credit to his father, but gone far too soon. Then Catelyn forced her thoughts to return to Ned’s mention of the Stormlands. “You said she received our letter. What of Lady Baratheon’s request?”

Ned frowned. “She has given her leave for the Lady of Storm’s End to travel to the Stormlands,” he said rather darkly.

“Why are you frowning?”

“She was rather displeased at learning Marya Seaworth had sworn fealty to Aegon Targaryen in spite of my explaining the situation. She expects Lady Shireen to declare herself firmly for the ‘rightful’ queen as soon as she arrives there.”

“But that could get Shireen killed! The plan was to get her to Lord Davos’s keep by stealth and not even declare herself openly until they know a bit more what goes on there.”

Ned nodded slowly. “Yes, well I fear our dragon queen is no more careful of others’ individual safety than of her own. However, I shall speak with Lord Seaworth. If he is stealthy enough, and his reputation certainly indicates that he can be, the Queen herself need not know when they are arrived in the Stormlands. Young Shireen must simply be very careful to whom she reveals herself until they are ready to declare both that the Baratheons are returned home and that House Baratheon stands with Queen Daenerys who will assist them in ridding themselves of the plague-ridden invaders.”

Catelyn smiled at him. “Well that’s certainly an encouraging way to express it, my love. Are you certain you have no desire to become involved with southron politics again?”

He scowled at her. “I cannot help some involvement, gods forgive me. I have men marching with that impulsive dragon girl’s army, and I’ll offer men to Stannis’s daughter as well. I cannot send her off with only Lord Seaworth and his son. But, no. I have no desire to ever set foot south of Moat Cailin again, save to see you safely to Riverrun to visit your kin.” A worried look appeared briefly on his face once more. “I would keep you all in Winterfell always, but I know that will not be.”

Before she could ask what specifically alarmed him, he said, “Oh. The Queen also states she is sending me a gift. As a token of her gratitude for my loyalty and assistance.”

Catelyn raised her brows once more.

“Harrion Karstark,” Ned said simply.

“What?” No one had heard aught but rumor of Lord Karstark’s son since the ill advised battle at Duskendale. 

“He’d been held somewhere near Maidenpool all this time. Originally, his captors thought to curry favor with the Lannisters. It would appear that people in the south are aware the tide is turning in favor of Daenerys for he was brought to her men at Darry as a show of fealty. She ordered him sent to me.”

“Sent? He is still prisoner?”

Ned sighed and looked at the parchment, scanning for some specific lines. “I give you the son of the man who acted treasonously while under the command of your son and the nephew of the man who betrayed the Usurper’s brother. Do with him as you please. Keep him as hostage or execute him for the crimes of his House. You are Warden of the North and he is under your rule. His fate matters little to me.”

“Gods be good, Ned,” Catelyn breathed. “Surely, she doesn’t think you would kill a man for another man’s crime.”

Ned swallowed hard. “It is what her father did, Catelyn. He killed my father for the perceived crime of my brother and then demanded my own head as well.”

“But surely she does not think that was just!” Catelyn protested.

Ned shook his head. “She does not. I think she likes to test me, this girl. How far does my honor stretch? She knows he has no use as a hostage, so what shall I do with him? Do I restore to him his title and lands, knowing that Robb killed his father after his brothers died for him? That could give the man cause to hate me regardless of the justice in Robb’s actions. Do I trust his honor? Or do I simply kill him and remove the threat?”

“You’ll restore him to the Karhold,” Catelyn said with confidence. “Harrion did nothing but serve Robb faithfully and suffer captivity for his sake twice. That Bolton sent them on that fool’s errand was not his doing.”

Ned smiled at her. “I can always count on your confidence in me, my lady. You are correct, of course. I fear our Queen does not yet quite share your confidence in my honor, and young Karstark is a fairly risk-free way for her to test it once more.” Ned sighed. “The Karhold is empty, of course, and I have no idea how many men—noblemen or smallfolk—who would actually belong to the Karhold still live. Lord Harrion must remain here for a time at least, until we can better ascertain what occurs on his lands and decide how many of our own people should go with him to re-establish his place there.”

“That will also give us time to observe how he feels about all that has transpired.”

“Indeed.”

Ned was silent then. “Is that all, Ned? Is there nothing more in the Queen’s letter?”

“She mentions that she discussed one other thing with Lord Willas Tyrell,” Ned said with a sigh. 

It was apparent immediately to Catelyn that he now had reached the subject that put the worried expression on his face. Whatever he hesitated so to tell her now had been the cause of his holding tightly to the letter rather than simply allowing her to read it for herself.

“What is it, Ned? Tell me.”

“The man remains unwed at six and twenty. She proposed a match to him.”

“She . . . but who would she . . .” She looked at Ned’s eyes and the set of his jaw, and the answer struck her. “No,” she said flatly. “The woman will not barter my daughter for her own purposes. No.”

“You can see her logic,” Ned said quietly. “She does not trust me completely, but considers me one of her more powerful allies for all that. Edmure’s quick acknowledgement of her reign and willingness to provide what men she asked for was greatly influenced by his connection to us. She wasn’t forced to threaten him.”

“Don’t speak to me of Edmure,” Catelyn snapped, thinking of her brother’s infuriating letter. “He’s no better than the Targaryen girl!”

“The Targaryen girl is our queen, Cat. And she likely thinks she honors us with this proposed betrothal as much as she binds Willas Tyrell more closely to her allies.” He shook his head. “There are far worse fates than becoming the Lady of Highgarden. It is a prosperous and beautiful land, my love.”

“It’s a land full of Tyrells!” Catelyn cried, standing up and walking away from him. “Tyrells, Ned! You have no love for them! Do not tell me you support this! Do you not recall what Sansa told me in the Eyrie? The Tyrells used our daughter in their plot to murder Joffrey Baratheon! She told us how Lady Olenna schemed with Petyr Baelish!”

“Of course, I remember, Cat.” He stood himself and came to her, putting his hands on her arms. “I do not wish this at all, and Sansa will not be forced into it. I promise you that. But Daenerys Targaryen is not your brother. We cannot simply refuse her out of hand as we did his proposed match. We must tread carefully here, my love.”

“Edmure is an idiot,” she said dismissively, “And as for Daenerys . . .” She hated the way her voice had started to tremble. “I once warned you that we could not risk offending a monarch, and our girl wound up betrothed to that monster, Joffrey Baratheon. Gods be good, Ned. I’ll not have her sent south to a man I know not and whose family I cannot trust. Not again. Not again.”

She hadn’t meant to cry. She hadn’t wanted that at all, but the tears fell anyway, and he took her in his arms, holding her tightly and promising again that no one would take their daughter anywhere she did not wish to go. “Would that we could keep her here forever, Cat,” he said softly when her tears had stopped. “But she is five and ten now. You had been betrothed for three years by the time you were her age. She is one of the highest born maidens in the Seven Kingdoms, and once word spreads through the South of the annulment of her marriage and the fact that she is still an acknowledged maiden, I’ve no doubt we’ll receive more offers—especially as Daenerys Targaryen asserts control over the land. These two are merely the first.”

Catelyn had to admit the truth of his words. “I don’t object to our daughter marrying, Ned,” she said, although a tiny part of her knew that after losing all of her children for so long, she did wish to keep all of them at Winterfell with her forever. “But she will not wed a scheming Tyrell or, gods forbid, a Frey!” Anger at her brother for his preposterous proposal flared anew. “Gods damn Edmure for a fool! How dare he suggest such a thing to Olyvar without even speaking to us!”

Ned kissed her forehead and rubbed her arms soothingly. “Your brother thought only of Olyvar’s need for a wife, my love. And the man is Roslin’s brother, after all. Not to mention Robb’s former squire and more than a friend to us. He didn’t think of the rest of it. Thank the gods that Olyvar did. He knew better than Edmure how loath we would be to allow any child of ours take the Frey name, whatever we feel about him personally.”

Catelyn nodded. Her idiotic brother had approached Olyvar with his scheme, encouraging the man to write and ask Ned for Sansa’s hand. Olyvar had refused, stating that he feared any such proposal from him would be less than welcome, so Edmure had written instead, convinced that Ned and she would be thrilled with the idea. Thrilled with the idea of forcing Sansa to spend her life bearing a name they all hated like no other, hosting banquets in the hall in which her brother was murdered and her mother was raped. Thrilled at the prospect of Sansa and her children living in a home that Catelyn could never visit for she knew that nothing could compel her to enter the Twins ever again. She’d gone as far as the courtyard for Ned’s sake on the day of the executions there, but she would never enter that gate again. She couldn’t. It wasn’t fair to Olyvar, of course. He was a good man who would be nothing but kind to Sansa always, but it didn’t matter. Some things simply could not be forgotten, and fairness was irrelevant.

“I hate that Edmure ever mentioned it to him,” she whispered to Ned. “Or to Roslin. I hate that either of them has to think about how much we still hate their name. But I couldn’t Ned . . . I just . . .”

“I couldn’t either,” he said. “And Sansa would never have wanted it. We both know that.”

She nodded once more. They hadn’t even told Sansa of Edmure’s proposal on Olyvar’s behalf. They knew neither Olyvar or Roslin would ever mention it, and she had been blisteringly clear in her response to Edmure that he was never to breathe a word of it in Sansa’s presence. This new proposal, though. “We’ll have to speak of this with Sansa,” she said. “We cannot have the Queen fly here one day to discuss it with her without her being forewarned.”

“I fear you are correct,” Ned sighed. “But we shall make it clear we will not make her go. I will face the Queen’s black beast first.”

Catelyn shuddered. “Do not even say such a thing, Eddard Stark.” He would stand between a dragon and any of their children, she knew, but she did not wish to contemplate it. “I do not think Daenerys would force this,” she said thoughtfully, recalling her discussions of marriage with the young woman. “But we should be careful not to give her offense in our refusal. You are correct about that. I fear, however, that we must begin thinking about a marriage for her ourselves.”

That shocked him, and he actually took a step back to look carefully into her face. “You would have her wed soon?”

“Gods no! But I’d have her betrothed to someone acceptable to her and us, if we can find such a man. Safely betrothed, she is not a gamepiece for others to try and possess.”

Ned scowled. He did not like such references to games and pieces for such talk always brought back evil memories of Petyr Baelish. 

“I was betrothed at two and ten, as you said,” she hurried on quickly. “But I didn’t wed until I was eight and ten.”

“And then not to your intended husband,” Ned said softly.

“I was not to have married Brandon until then, either,” she said with a frown. She hated when he felt the need to remind her that he was not meant to have been her husband. He knew well enough that she wanted no one but him, but sometimes he still dwelt upon the fact that she somehow had not been meant for him—usually when he was already troubled about something else.

“Do you have someone in mind, my love?” he asked her.

“Not a soul,” she said. “Giving our children away has not been on my mind since you found me at the Twins, my love. I fear I’ve focused more of my attention on getting them back and then keeping them alive and safe.”

He actually laughed at her then. “I know it isn’t funny, Cat,” he said when she frowned again. “But I hardly know how else to react to such a statement other than to despair completely, and neither of us are much prone to do that.”

She smiled at him. “No, my love. We aren’t.” 

She pressed her lips to his then and allowed herself to feel his strength and her own and the greater strength that both derived from the bond between them. _I despaired so often when you were lost to me, my love. I refused to give myself to it, but it was there._ He held her more tightly, deepening the kiss, and all thoughts of despair were pushed from her mind. She might fear many things which lay before them still, but despair could not exist in a world in which they both lived.

Both of them were breathing rather heavily when Ned finally pulled back. “I fear we must stop, my love or I shall be locking the door to the solar rather than sending for the young lady we must speak with now.”

It had been a long while since they’d made love in the solar, an act which always struck Catelyn as terribly decadent and wanton, but no less enjoyable for that. Possibly more so. She ran a finger lightly down Ned’s cheek. “I hardly think we need to speak with Sansa about this immediately,” she whispered.

Ned groaned. “I agree with you entirely, my love,” he said, “But I fear that Sansa was not the young lady I meant. Lady Shireen likely knows there were ravens. She all but stalks the maester’s turret in her desire for some word from the queen. As much as I would like to do otherwise, I think I should invite her here and let her know Daenerys’s answer before she’s knocking on the solar door.”

“And wondering why it’s barred?” Catelyn teased him.

“Please, Cat. Don’t make this any more difficult.”

“All right, my lord,” she relented. “I shall go in search of Lady Baratheon for you since that’s what you wish of me.”

“I wish many things of you just now, and none of them include fetching Lady Baratheon,” he growled. “But I would have the conversation with her over, and then mayhap I can escort you to your chamber to prepare for the midday meal. And mayhap we shall be late for that meal, my lady.”

“Mayhap,” she said, smiling at him in a way that would leave him in no doubt that she would happily agree to being very late to the meal indeed. 

Then before either of them could weaken the other’s resolve, she left the solar to find Shireen. She’d check Bran’s room first. If Bran wasn’t in the godswood, chances were good the young Lady of Storm’s End was with him. As if the unwanted marriage offers for Sansa had put betrothals in her mind, it occurred to her that it was a shame in one way that Shireen was the Lady of Storm’s End for she and Bran seemed very close and got along very well, but her place was at Storm’s End as surely as Bran’s place was at Winterfell so a match between the two was out of the question. She laughed at herself as she walked through the corridor. She found it easier to contemplate the future marriage of her eleven year old son than of her fifteen year old daughter. She knew why, of course. Marriage would keep Bran here, not send him elsewhere, and the gods knew she wanted to keep him here.

She recalled a time when she’d thought easily enough of marriage for all her children. Not that she’d been eager to part with them ever, but it was what a parent did. And marriage was a tool to be used for the security and betterment of your House as much as for the welfare of the individuals to be wed. She’d bartered marriages for both Robb and Arya for the sake of godsdamned bridge! She couldn’t even fathom doing such a thing now, and she wondered if that made her a more loving parent or merely a weaker one. She didn’t know the answer to that question, but she supposed it didn’t truly matter. For better or worse, she would not force her children into marriage. Not any of them. She couldn’t. And she knew Ned would not either.

Sighing, she put all thoughts of betrothals out of her thoughts. She would retrieve young Shireen who would probably want Lord Seaworth to come as well. She and Ned would discuss Queen Daenerys’s letter with them and make some initial plans for their departure for there was no doubt in Catelyn’s mind that they would wish to depart in all possible haste. Then hopefully she would steal an hour from all the cares of this day and those to come and simply revel in the never ceasing joy of loving the man to whom she had never been betrothed, but, thank the gods, had wed.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“I hate that you’re going.” Bran couldn’t help saying it.

“If I am entirely honest with myself, I kind of hate that I’m going, too.”

Shireen looked at him steadily with those dark blue eyes of hers, and Bran knew she spoke honestly. She hated leaving for several reasons. She had gotten comfortable at Winterfell and would miss him and his siblings. She would miss Mother, too. She liked talking with Mother, Bran knew. She was also more frightened than most people could see, but Bran watched her more closely than most people so he saw it well enough. She was frightened of what could happen to her, of course, but she was even more frightened that she was somehow wrong about being able to make a difference there. She was frightened that she didn’t really know how to be the Lady of Storm’s End or anybody’s liege.

He didn’t talk about any of those things, though, because while Shireen didn’t hide things from him, he didn’t think she’d want to discuss all the ways in which she was frightened. “You are always honest with yourself,” he said instead. “That’s one of your strengths.” He swallowed. He’d had a very hard time being honest with himself. She’d helped him do better with that. He didn’t say that either, though.

She smiled at him. “One of my strengths? And what, to your mind, are my other strengths?”

He looked down, half afraid he’d blush if he met her eyes. Shireen didn’t make him feel the way Meera had, but in some ways she was even more of a friend to him. She never treated him like a child, and she demanded honesty without ever judging him harshly when he gave it. Even when he deserved harsh judgment. Shireen was important, and her opinion of him mattered a lot to him. “You have a lot of strenghs,” he said softly.

“Tell me,” she said. “I want to hear.”

He looked up at her then and had to smile at the expression on her face. There was no eagerness for praise or need for flattery reflected in her expression. Like always, she simply wanted to know. She was curious by nature, and he supposed that was one of her strengths. “You always want to know things,” he blurted out. “You never stop asking questions. It’s annoying, but it’s really a strength. The more you know, the better you’ll be prepared to handle what you face.”

“Do you know anything of what I face, Bran?” she asked quietly. “Anything that I should know?”

He shook his head. He didn’t really. He hadn’t seen her specifically except the one time he’d told her about. He saw suffering in the Stormlands, but she already knew to expect that. Gruesome images of greyscale victims from his wanderings within the trees would serve no purpose but to upset her. “You’re brave,” he said hurriedly, preferring to list her strengths than be questioned about his visions. “And smart. You see things plainly and don’t get all muddied up.” He wasn’t certain he explained that right, but he didn’t know how else to say it. 

She nodded, so he must have done all right. “My mother used to say I reminded her of my father sometimes,” she said softly. 

From her expression, Bran couldn’t tell if she thought that was a good thing or not. “You do,” he said. “But in a good way. I . . . I didn’t always like your father,” he admitted. “He was brave and honorable and smart the way you’re smart. But he wasn’t always . . . kind. And you are. You are fair, too, and I think he must have been as well because my father says that your father was probably the most just man he ever met. But you are as kind as you are fair. And that makes you better I think.”

She didn’t get angry at him for saying he didn’t particularly like her father. She accepted the words as he meant them, without any insult to her father intended. “Thank you,” she said after a moment. “For thinking I have any strength at all. Sometimes, I wonder.”

“Don’t wonder. Remember what I told you? About you in that hall with those men? I’m certain that’s somewhere in the Stormlands.”

“You said you didn’t know where it was.”

Bran rolled his eyes. “Well, I didn’t know where you were going then or why!” he insisted. “Now, it’s the only thing that makes sense. You have men supporting you there. Not just Lord Seaworth. And you’re braver than all of them. I can tell that from what you said to them.”

She smiled at him. “I hope you’re right,” she said. “I’ll miss you, Bran.”

“I’ll miss you,” he said. “Who’s going to ask me a thousand questions a day?”

She laughed. “I know you won’t miss that. Just don’t forget how brave you are. Or how good. That’s the important thing, Bran. You are a truly good person. Trust in that, and you’ll not do wrong. I know that.”

Bran looked down again. He wished he could be as certain of that as she was. But he didn’t think either she or Jon could really understand how little right and wrong seemed to matter when someone you love is going to die and you have the power to change that. 

He was saved from the need to reply by Mother’s arrival to the room. She was followed by Tom. Bran scowled involuntarily. It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful for Tom. He was. But Shireen could walk now without even a crutch and the idea of being carried out to the courtyard like some oversized parcel in order to bid her and the Seaworths goodbye almost made him want to stay indoors. He’d wanted to use one of his chairs, but it had snowed fairly steadily the past couple days—not a storm really, just a soft, thick snowfall with no wind. It had slowed considerably today, but certainly not enough to clear paths adequate for the wheeled chair.

This type of snow wouldn’t hinder the sleighs though, so Lord Seaworth had seen no reason to delay their departure. Father had concurred, laughing that they had successfully made a Northman out of an old southron sailor. He frequently referred to Lord Seaworth as a sailor, but never a smuggler as that would have been discourteous. Even if Lord Seaworth did refer to himself as smuggler on more than one occasion.

“Are you ready, Shireen?” Mother asked gently. Mother would call her Lady Shireen out in the courtyard, just as she did in the Great Hall, but here in the rooms of the Great Keep, she spoke to her just as she did Bran and his brother and sisters and Dak and Jeyne, and he knew Shireen liked that.

“Yes, Lady Catelyn.” Bran was surprised to hear his friend’s voice tremble slightly.

“Come here, child,” Mother said opening her arms to Shireen, and Shireen went into them willingly. “Let me hold onto you for just a moment here because out there I shall be the Lady of Winterfell and you shall be the Lady of Storm’s End. Here, you are simply a brave, wonderful girl I’ve come to care for a great deal.”

Shireen’s shoulders were shaking a bit, and it occurred to Bran suddenly that she was crying. Shireen didn’t cry. But then he didn’t like to cry either, except that it somehow seemed okay to cry when Mother held onto him. Maybe that’s what it was for Shireen.

After a moment, she raised her head up and looked at Mother. “Wherever we are, my lady, you are always the mother I hope I can be someday. When I have my own children, I mean.”

It seemed odd to Bran to think of Shireen with children, but he supposed she had to have some. She had no heirs at all. No brothers and sisters like he had. Mother had grabbed her into another embrace and when Bran looked at Mother’s face, she had tears in her eyes, too. Everyone would miss Shireen, he thought, but he and Mother would probably miss her more than anyone else.

“It’s time to go now,” Mother said softly. “Shall we go fetch your cloak and gloves?”

“They’re here,” Shireen said, pointing toward Rickon’s bed where her fur outergarments lay. I brought them with me so I wouldn’t have to leave early.

Bran smiled at that. His friend had wanted to stay here with him until the last. They’d spent a fair amount of time together since Queen Daenerys’s letter had come eight days ago, but Shireen had also spent time with his mother learning about being the lady of a castle, he supposed, and with Father and Lord Seaworth discussing not only the journey, but what might occur when they arrived at Cape Wrath. They’d planned for any number of possibilities, and Shireen had shared nearly all of their conversations with Bran. 

A good number of Winterfell men would travel with them to White Harbor, but Shireen had adamantly refused to allow any Northmen to come with them by ship to the Stormlands. She’d insisted to Bran that she could not arrive to the home she’d never lived in looking like a puppet of the North. She’d have to find her support there. Lord Davos had surprisingly supported her in this, stating that it would be far easier for the three of them to come ashore somewhere without notice and make their way to his keep than for a contingent of Northmen, who could not possibly be mistaken for anything else, to pass anywhere in the Stormlands undetected.

Father, to his credit, had argued fairly long with them about this because he considered Shireen’s safety his responsibility almost as much as Lord Seaworth did. Yet, after it had become plain that Shireen and Lord Seaworth would not be moved on the point, Bran had heard him mention to Mother that he felt somewhat relieved even though he felt guilty about it. He feared the greyscale in the Stormlands. He feared men bringing it back to the North when the fighting in the south was finished and could not be truly saddened if he had to send no more men south than had gone already. Having seen enough of the plague in the stormlands in his visions, Bran thought Father’s fears were justified. He had seen no plague in the North, not even in some of his scariest visions, and he hoped that meant that no plague would cross Moat Cailin or come from White Harbor. He’d mentioned that to Father, but Father only said that with plague, it was almost an impossible thing to be sure of safety anywhere.

He was glad Shireen had suffered greyscale already. He didn’t mind the grey part of her face at all, and if it protected her from death where she went now, he was glad of it. As Tom carried him down the stairs of the Keep and out into the cold courtyard, the snowflakes swirled lazily around his face and without thinking, he stuck out his tongue to catch one.

He heard a laugh and caught Shireen smiling at him. Before he could be embarrassed, she stuck out her own tongue and caught a flake. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” she said. “But I’m going to miss having so much snow.”

“Of course you are!” Bran replied enthusiastically. “Snow is the best fun there is!”

Shireen laughed up at him, for one last moment, just his friend. Just a girl two years older than himself as they both held their tongues out catching more snowflakes and laughing. 

Then Devan Seaworth came up them and actually bowed to Shireen. Bran rolled his eyes and waited for Shireen to do the same, but instead, she put her tongue back in her mouth and stood up very straight. Bran followed her gaze and saw nearly all the household lined up near the sleighs and horses with his father and siblings standing in front. All except Brien, of course. Father insisted that Brien be bundled up and brought outside at least a few moments each day now because he was adamant about all of them getting as much sunlight as they could, but no one knew how long they’d be standing out in the cold as Shireen’s party assembled and rode out so he’d been left in the nursery for this.

“My lady,” Devan said, “Allow me to escort you to your sleigh.” Devan always sounded more formal than the rest of them, but this was formal even for him.

“Thank you,” Shireen said just as formally. “Please take me to Lord Stark and his family first, though, that I might take leave of them.”

Devan offered her his arm just as Father always did for Mother, and Bran hated his useless legs more than he’d hated them in a very long time. Mother tapped Tom on the arm, and they followed Devan and Shireen to where the rest of the family waited, Mother going to stand by Father, and Tom standing on the end by Rickon. 

Bran watched Shireen and the two Seaworths moving down the line. Lord Seaworth seemed to talk a long time with his parents while Shireen spoke fairly briefly to Father and hardly at all to Mother, having bid her a much more personal farewell in his room. She laughed with Sansa, Jeyne, and Arya, and smiled when Dak bent to kiss her hand. She laughed out loud when Rickon did the same, but looked contrite when his little brother’s face contorted in anger and embarrassment. She bent to kiss the top of his head.

“That’s the most gallant kiss I’ve ever received, Rickon,” she assured him. “I only laugh because your breath tickled my hand through my glove. Your breath is much warmer than Dak’s.”

Rickon accepted this explanation and grinned at her. “Of course it is. I’m a Stark. We always stay warm in the cold.”

Arya and Dak were laughing now, and Bran heard Arya say loudly to Devan Seaworth, “You’d better practice hard, Devan, or I’m going to knock you down every time we spar the next time we meet. And I’ll have Dak fighting so much better that even he’ll knock you down sometimes.”

Devan forgot the supposed formality of the occasion then and started laughing himself as Dak protested loudly that he’d be the one knocking Devan down more often because Arya was a girl and would never get as big and strong as Devan and himself. As Shireen turned back to laugh with them, and they all began to describe Dak’s physique in terms of various types of string, Bran couldn’t stand it any more.

“Put me down,” he hissed to Tom.

“Milord?” Tom asked, confused.

“You can hold me around the chest with your arms under mine, can’t you?” he asked.

Still puzzled, Tom said, “Well, I guess so, milord, but why . . .”

“Do it,” Bran ordered. “Just let my legs go.”

Tom did as he was ordered, and Bran found himself hanging vertically in front of the much larger boy, supported under his arms. The three adults, still in deep conversation, hadn’t noticed and neither had the laughing group of young people.

“Lower me down, Tom,” Bran whispered. “Make my feet touch the ground.”

Tom complied, and Bran watched as his feet sank into the snow which they could not feel.

“Now hold me tight around the chest,” he instructed Tom. Then he spoke loudly. “Lady Baratheon.”

Shireen turned to look at him and her eyes widened. He thought the others all turned to look at him, too, but he didn’t care. He held out his arm as best as he could. He couldn’t bow, of course. “May I have your hand, my lady?”

Shireen smiled and came close enough to give him her hand. Bran was gratified to learn that he was at least as tall as she was, maybe even just a bit taller. He raised her gloved hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to it. “Farewell, my lady,” he said, thinking he sounded every bit as courteous as Devan Seaworth.

“Farewell, my lord,” Shireen said, still smiling.

Lord Seaworth and Devan both came and told him goodbye as well after that, and Bran was sincere when he said he’d miss them, but it was Shireen who held his attention when she climbed into the sleigh. She looked every inch the great lady he knew that she would be, and he paid no attention to the pain around his chest and under his arms where Tom held him so tightly. He simply held himself as straight as he could as he watched Lady Baratheon of Storm’s End ride out from Winterfell.

“Goodbye, Shireen,” he whispered softly as her sleigh was lost in the snowflakes beyond the gate. “I am very glad you are my friend.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Father standing beside him just as he would stand beside Robb long ago with a hand on his shoulder. “Lady Baratheon is very fortunate to have your friendship,” Father said. His voice sounded odd somehow, but it definitely sounded proud.

“Thank you, Father,” he said. He allowed himself to enjoy the sensation of almost standing beside his father for just moment longer, and then said, “Can you lift me back up, Tom. This can’t be easy on your arms.”

“I’ve got you, milord,” the faithful boy said. “Are you wanting to go in now?”

“Yes,” Bran said. “I think so.”

Tom bent and put an arm beneath his knees, swooping him up as easily as he ever did, and began carrying him toward the Great Keep. All of his family was going toward the Keep as well. Mother held Father’s arm, leaning close into him the way she used to instead of half holding him up. Father’s leg was much better now. Almost the way it had been before he’d fought the Others at Last Hearth. Sansa and Jeyne Poole held hands, their heads close together giggling about something. Coming out here today had been a big step for Jeyne. She’d come out more and more in the daylight, but never before with the courtyard so full of people. Arya, Dak, and Rickon ran about pelting each other with snowballs as they went.

Bran found himself smiling. Winterfell was emptier with Shireen gone, but it was still filled with people he cared about. Winterfell was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. So I thought chapter 80 would be the last one before the epilogue. A nice round number to end on. But, as is so often the case with this story, what I thought was one chapter was more than enough material to make two!!
> 
> So, next chapter, chapter 81 will be the last official chapter, and then there is an epilogue.
> 
> Thanks so incredibly much to all of you who have been reading this story and supporting me with your amazingly kind comments. I am sorry if I seem to be dragging my feet here a bit at the end. In all honesty, this tale is hard for me to let go. But end it, I shall.


	81. Family, Duty, and Honor in Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this ISN'T the last chapter after all! (ducking head and hiding). I'm afraid both Arya and Catelyn both had a LOT to say and think about in their last regular chapter POVs, so rather than subject you all to a 25-30,000 word chapter (which is ridicululous even by my verbose standards), I've split it. There are only two POVs left before the epilogue, and they shall definitely fit into one chapter! :D

Arya Stark walked along the top of the castle wall watching the men work around what was once the First Keep. So many stones had been pulled away or repositioned for the monument’s foundation now, you couldn’t find anything of the old structure. She knew the First Keep had been a ruin anyway and the reasons why this had to be done, but it still hurt her to see it. She stood still a moment and closed her eyes attempting to see it as it had been. Before it had ever fallen. Before Bran had ever fallen from it. She found it frustratingly difficult to do. She had the same problem with her mother’s sept or the old roof on the Great Hall. She remembered them all well enough. She _knew_ what they looked like. But she couldn’t quite close her eyes and see them with perfect clarity the way she once could. And that felt like loss.

She thought of her brother Jon at the Wall and was pleased to find that she could conjure his face without difficulty. A letter had arrived from him only that morning, the first since he’d left Winterfell nearly three moons ago. Father had allowed them all to hear it, and it bore no ill tidings really. Jon had been traveling up and down the length of the Wall on Rhaegal and, while there were occasional disputes between the men of the Night’s Watch and the soldiers of the Northern lords when they crossed paths patrolling the areas between their waycastles, he reported that their plan for organizing the defense of the Wall seemed largely successful. 

Father had smiled at Mother when he read them that part, taking her hand and kissing it with a flourish. Arya had rolled her eyes at the display, but she knew the plan had been Mother’s idea, and secretly she was proud both of her mother for thinking of it and her father for giving her all the credit. She even liked the way Father and Mother had continued to hold hands after that kiss as Father continued to read Jon’s letter. She wouldn’t sigh over it like Sansa, but watching Father and Mother together just as they’d always been felt right. It felt safe and familiar when so many things didn’t anymore. 

Father had skipped over a long section in the middle which detailed numbers of men in various places and a plea for some needed supplies. Jon mentioned letters he’d sent previously to both to Winterfell and White Harbor which he feared had been lost because he’d received no reply, and he asked Father to send a letter on to White Harbor about supplies to increase the chances of its being received.

Mother had frowned then. “Do you think they are in danger of starving, Ned?” she’d asked. “With the increased numbers of men? It is mostly foodstuffs on his list.”

“No, my love,” Father had assured her. “The men who marched north to take their place on the Wall brought provisions. And if something had happened to deplete their food stores to dangerous levels, Jon would be in White Harbor on that dragon of his rather than relying upon ravens. He is simply taking all measures to be certain he remains adequately provisioned.” 

Arya had heard the pride in Father’s voice and stolen a surreptitious glance at Mother as she always did when Father complimented Jon, waiting for the narrowed eyes or cold remark. Mother had merely nodded, however, and said, “That is wise.” Then she’d actually smiled at Father. “I’d forgotten about the dragon,” she’d said with a hint of laughter in her voice. “Can you believe that?”

“I want Jon to come back here on Rhaegal,” Rickon had said plaintively before Father or anyone else could respond to mother. “I want him to take the cold out of Mother’s room. Shaggy doesn’t like the cold.”

“You needn’t worry about Shaggy feeling cold in Mother’s room very much longer,” Father had said in a voice that wasn’t really stern, but carried a definite note of finality to it. “Whatever concerns Shaggy there is of no danger to you or him. I have told you this.”

Rickon had pouted, and Arya, seated closest to him, had clearly heard him mutter under his breath, “Summer and Nymeria don’t like it, either.”

Rickon knew his parents were keeping something from him. They’d all realized very quickly that while the wolves may not know what the ice dragon eggs were, at least not in a way they could communicate to the humans, they knew where they were. And they didn’t like them at all. Shaggy wasn’t in Mother’s room nearly as often as Summer or Nymeria, who had been ordered to guard the eggs whether they liked them or not, but he couldn’t be kept out entirely. Not when Rickon and his wolf had been allowed relatively unrestricted access to Mother’s chambers since they’d arrived in Wintefell. So Father had taken to treating Rickon’s inquiries the way he had infuriatingly treated any number of questions from the children over the years which he did not wish to answer. He simply refused to speak of it and forbade Rickon from asking. Arya hated it for her little brother because she recalled all too well how angry her father’s stonewalling had always made her, but there was no help for it. Fortunately, Rickon assumed Father was giving all of them the same silent treatment on the issue of the strange cold that bothered the direwolves in Mother’s room, so he hadn’t asked any of them questions yet.

“So there must be worse storms to the north of us then,” Mother had said quickly, “If Jon’s letters were lost.” 

Arya had wondered when she’d become used to Mother using Jon’s name without any change at all in her voice.

“To the north and south, it would appear,” Father had said. “Fairly small, brief storms, but violent. Isn’t that what you told me, Bran?”

Everyone had looked to her brother then because being able to see through the eyes of weirwoods and animals all over the North was quite useful for monitoring weather as Bran continued to improve his ability to see when and where he chose. He hadn’t wanted to use his greensight at all after whatever had happened to him in the godswood. He still refused to tell Arya anything about that day, but she suspected he’d spoken to Shireen because Shireen had been the one to get him to look into the trees again, at first only in very small ways. Since Shireen had gone, Bran spent hours at it every day and would frequently meet with Father or Father and Mother both to discuss something he’d seen. He never spoke of his visions to anyone else that Arya knew of.

Bran had nodded at Father. “Almost since Shireen left,” he’d said, and Arya had realized why he’d become so interested in being able to see things more clearly. He was trying to look out for Shireen. “Not so many to the east toward White Harbor, but from the Wall to the Moat, these crazy storms with lots of wind and lots of snow are popping up pretty much anywhere, lasting two to three days and dying out. No single storm covers much ground, but they keep coming. Some areas have been hit multiple times and, others, like Winterfell, barely touched at all.”

“Which is a fortunate cirmcumstance as I’d rather have as few delays as possible on the construction of our monument,” Father had said almost grimly.

“Read them the good parts, Ned,” Mother had encouraged, and Father had run his fingers along the parchment until he came to the personal messages Jon had included for each of them. He’d read all of those with a smile on his face, and then told them they were excused to lessons or wherever they were supposed to be this morning.

“Wait,” Arya had suddenly, rising from her chair. “Did Jon say anything about Others or wights?”

Her parents had looked at each other, and her mother actually laughed. “I didn’t mean to skip that part,” her father had said. “Yes, he said that not one sighting of any of them has occurred from any watchpoint on the Wall.”

“Do you think they’re really gone?” Arya had asked.

“No,” her father had said without hesitation. “They never were gone, Arya. We only thought they were because they’d remained hidden so long. We let down our guard. The Night’s Watch fell into decay. The Wall itself failed somehow at Eastwatch, and that is something that must be studied. I’ve spoken with Sam about traveling to Castle Black at some point to procure the old books and manuscripts he tells me are hidden away there. The loss of so many ancient volumes in our own library causes me to wish I could set Summer upon that villain who burned it all over again.” He’d shaken his head. “But the most important thing I shall do, my children, is to never let down my guard. Never. I am the Lord of Winterfell, and the North is mine to protect. I will not forget that, and neither will Bran after me. And all of you will teach your children so that they may teach their children, and the threat of the Others will be kept real in the minds of people of the North, and indeed all the realm. I cannot fail again.”

“You didn’t fail!” Arya had protested. “The Others are defeated!”

“Are they?” her father had asked. “We know almost nothing about them still. We do not know what they wanted. Or what they still may want. Obviously, they fear the dragons, but I do not know how long that will keep them back. The dragons are the only reasons they retreated at all, and the dragons’ being here was no doing of mine.”

“But it was.”

Her sister’s voice had been very quiet, and Arya had realized it was the first time Sansa had spoken. “You put a dragon on the Wall, Father,” she continued in a quiet, thoughtful voice. “And that made all the difference.”

“I did not put Jon on the Wall,” Father had protested. “That was his choice.”

“You brought him to the North. All those years ago you made the one move that allowed the pieces to fall into place.”

Father had looked frustrated with Sansa. In truth, something had been off with Sansa for at least the past fortnight, and there seemed to be some strain between her and their parents, but she wouldn’t speak about it. At least not to Arya. Mayhap she confided in Jeyne Poole.

“I thought nothing of Others, Sansa,” Father had said in an irritated voice. “I sought only to save my sister’s son from death. Everything that occurred after that was beyond my control. I would not leave the North dependent upon fortunate accidents for its future security. I would learn all I can about these creatures and endeavor to discover what truth lies in thousands of years of legends. And I will remain vigilant and see that the North is prepared when those things attempt to cross once more.”

“They’re coming back?” Rickon, who’d lost interest in the conversation after hearing Jon’s encouragement to him to make and hide stashes of snowballs whenever he had free time because they would never melt now and he would always be prepared for battle, had suddenly picked up on the meaning of Father’s words and looked at him with wide frightened eyes. “I don’t want them to come back!”

“Nor do I, my son,” Father had said, softening his voice just a bit. “But they will try again some day, and it will fall to the Night’s Watch and the Starks of Winterfell to lead our people in stopping them at the Wall. I never intend to allow one of those foul beings to enter this castle again.”

Rickon had stood up. “And if they come here without your permission, they’ll have consequences!” he declared fiercely.

“Aye,” Father had said, almost laughing. “That they will. Now go on. The sun is well up now, and I would have you all outdoors while it shines. We are all safe enough from Others on this day, at least.”

“Arya, run ahead to the stairs and see if Tom is waiting for Bran there,” Mother had said. “Sansa, please stay a moment.”

Sansa had Mother’s fair skin, but Arya could have sworn she got even paler when Mother said that. She’d merely nodded and remained seated as Arya and Rickon jumped up. “You go get Tom,” Arya had told her little brother, “And I’ll push Bran’s chair.”

Rickon was happy for an excuse to run, and he’d taken off like an arrow from a bow which is likely why Mother had not asked him to fetch Tom in the first place, but Mother hadn’t scolded her for sending him. She’d simply sat in her chair, staring down at her hands and looking almost as pale as Sansa. Father had just looked grim.

Biting her lip, Arya had pushed Bran out into the corridor.

“What’s going on with Sansa?” she’d asked him as soon as the door shut behind them.

“I was going to ask you the same. She’s acting very strange. She never talks anymore, and she’d almost started to seem like herself again.”

So Bran had noticed it, too. “Father hasn’t said anything to you?” she pressed him. “You’re with him a great deal of the time now.”

“We don’t talk about Sansa, Arya. We talk about what I can see. And I don’t see Sansa. I don’t see any of us.”

“Truly?”

“I don’t want to see us,” he almost mumbled. “I mostly try to help Father by trying to see anything that might help him know more about all the creatures from north of the Wall.”

Knowing from experience that Bran would say no more to her of such things, she returned to the topic of Sansa. “I’m going to try to talk to her again,” Arya had declared. “After I go outside.”

The letter from Jon had caused her to miss him even more than usual, and she’d been drawn to the old First Keep because they’d had their last real conversation there. She and her siblings had been forbidden by Father from going near the place when the men were working, but Dak and Rickon had discovered that the castle wall gave an excellent view of the construction and came here often to watch. She was glad they weren’t here now.

She bit her lip thinking about that conversation with Jon. She hadn’t meant to tell him about the deserter. She’d never meant to tell anyone. But she’d been upset and it just sort of . . . slipped out. Jon had said he understood. And she knew he still loved her. But she’d heard the sadness and hurt in his voice. If it hadn’t been dark she would have seen it in his face, and she wondered if she would have seen shock and revulsion, too.

She kicked a loose pebble along the top of the wall and wished she could keep her mind from thinking about certain things. She wasn’t sorry she’d killed that man. He deserved death as sure as any deserter Father had ever killed. And a part of her felt some relief that someone now knew what she had done there. And that Jon still loved her. Just as Mother still loved her after learning of the boy she killed in King’s Landing.

There was a cost, though, to telling these things. Once someone knew, they couldn’t unknow it, and Arya knew they couldn’t look at her exactly the same way even if they did love her. They were sad and worried and maybe even disappointed that she’d done such things, even if they realized she had to. Sometimes her secrets burned her from inside so terribly, she thought she had to speak of them or perish in the fire, but still she worried that there was a limit to the amount of disappointment anyone could take. How many terrible truths could a person hear before they just couldn’t look at you at all anymore? She never wanted to know the answer to that. And she’d disappointed her parents often enough before any of terrible things happened. She wasn’t like Sansa.

Sansa. Something was definitely wrong with her perfect sister now. She didn’t smile, not even at Brien, and Brien made everyone smile. Mother was planning a celebration of sorts, albeit a small one as food was still tightly rationed, for the littlest Stark’s first nameday which was approaching faster than seemed possible. Sansa never even talked about it, and parties of any kind had always caused her to plan and imagine and go on and on about them without ever shutting up. But, now she didn’t talk about anything really, and she often went off by herself. Arya thought even Jeyne noticed the difference although Jeyne would never say anything bad about Sansa to anyone, especially her. And Arya was worried. For all the times she’d selfishly and angrily wished Sansa would just disappear, she did love her sister. And since they’d been back together, she’d thought they’d been closer than ever even if they did still irritate each other.

 _I miss her,_ Arya thought. _It’s almost like she’s somebody different, and I miss Sansa._

“Well, you said you were going to talk to her, stupid. So do it,” she said aloud. 

Sighing, she turned to go back to the stairs leading down from the wall. She wasn’t surprised to find Dak and Rickon in the practice yard when she passed it, and she had a momentary impulse to forget about Sansa and join them. But then she saw Jeyne Poole watching the two boys spar. That was surprising, and Arya walked over to her.

“Where’s Sansa?” she asked without preamble.

Jeyne turned to look at her at the sound of her voice, but then lowered her eyes slightly. “In our room,” she said softly.

Arya frowned. “Father wanted everyone to come outside.”

Jeyne nodded. “You told me that when you came to get your cloak. I waited for her.”

“So why did you leave her?”

Jeyne looked up at her then. “She told me to,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “When she came back from Lord Stark’s solar, she was . . . I don’t know. Quiet and far away, I guess.”

“She’s always like that now.”

Jeyne’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, and it occurred to Sansa that Jeyne may not have realized she had noticed how odd Sansa was acting. All three of them shared a room, but Jeyne was Sansa’s friend, and she and Arya rarely talked of anything significant. “I know,” Jeyne whispered. “She won’t tell me why. But now she’s . . . I don’t know. She wanted to be left alone so I came here. Dak told me it was okay if I watched.”

“I’m going to talk to her.”

“She doesn’t want to talk.”

“I don’t care.” Arya turned and began walking toward the Great Keep.

“She won’t talk to you, Arya!” Jeyne called after her. “I’ve tried! And if she won’t talk to me . . .”

Jeyne didn’t finish the sentence, but Arya could complete it in her mind. If Sansa wouldn’t talk to her best friend, she certainly wouldn’t talk to Arya Horseface. Only, even Jeyne never called her that anymore. And Sansa . . . well Sansa was her sister. And she was going to talk to her. And make her talk back. She didn’t answer Jeyne or stop walking.

Sansa’s head snapped up to look at her when she opened the door to their room. Her eyes were red and her cheeks were wet. She’d been sitting on her bed with her face in her hands. But within an instant those tearful eyes flashed angrily and she said, “It is considered courteous to knock, you know,” in Mother’s voice.

Arya shrugged. “It’s my room, too.” She flopped down on her own bed and looked across at Sansa as she undid the fastenings of her cloak. “What’s going on with you?”

Sansa looked at her, making her lips very thin and tightening her jaw the way Father did when he had no intention of answering a question. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Don’t call me names, Arya Stark.”

“Don’t call me names, Arya Stark,” she echoed, rolling her eyes as stood up to toss her cloak carelessly toward the corner of the room. “You’re crying, Sansa! You barely talk to anyone anymore, and everyone is worried about you!”

“I . . .” she paused as if she didn’t know how to respond to that. “I’ll be all right, Arya,” she said softly after a moment. “It’s only that I have to decide how to handle something and . . .” She shook her head, and her lovely auburn hair fell around her face with the movement. _She’s even pretty when she cries,_ Arya thought with a touch of resentment. “And I honestly don’t know what’s best . . . and . . . I’m afraid,” Sansa whispered after a pause.

Immediately, Arya felt guilty for her petty jealousy. Sansa looked truly desolate, and impulsively, Arya moved to sit beside her on the bed and put her arms around her older sister. “It will be all right, San. Whatever it is! Mother and Father won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

Sansa actually laughed then, but it sounded harsh and bitter, and Arya looked up at her face. The despair evident before had been replaced by a cold, resigned, almost calculating expression. “Mother and Father will do what they can, Arya. For all of us. But they aren’t all powerful, you know. Sometimes we have to make our own choices and consider those very carefully because there are far more players in this game than we even know.”

Arya stared at her. She’d heard her sister speak in a somewhat similar manner on occasion since finding her again, but now voice was cool and her face looked almost like a mask. It was a little bit frightening. “Sansa,” she said slowly. “Tell me what this is about.”

“Marriage, of course, little sister,” Sansa said almost flippantly. “A maiden’s highest purpose. Wed well and bring heirs to your lord husband and honor upon your father’s house.”

“What?” Arya nearly shouted, stunned at this response. “They’re trying to marry you off and send you away?”

“No,” Sansa said quickly. “Not Mother and Father. Queen Daenerys has proposed a match between myself and Willas Tyrell—the Lord of Highgarden since she lopped off his father’s head.”

Arya stared at her sister in disbelieving silence for a moment. “No,” she finally said, shaking her head back and forth. “No. She has no right, and Father will not stand . . .”

“She has every right, Arya!” Sansa interrupted as she stood up from the bed. “And Father can’t do anything about it!” She tightened her jaw again for a moment. “Do you think he wanted to betrothe me to Joffrey? Do you? Gods be good, Arya, even you saw what Joffrey was, and you were nine! Do you think Father didn’t see? But Robert was king, and kings get what they want.”

“No,” Arya said, still shaking her head. “Father will never agree now. Not after . . .He just wouldn’t, Sansa!”

“He doesn’t want to,” Sansa admitted. “But Arya, he once threw away everything for our sakes. He accepted imprisonment and made himself a traitor and faced the Wall or execution to free us from the Lannisters! I cannot allow him to do that again. He’s too important. To too many people. There is far more to consider than whose cloak gets placed on my shoulders. It will have to be somebody’s after all.”

“No!” Arya did shout then. “Not like this! Highgarden is in the Reach, Sansa! We’d never see you! And the Tyrells . . . the Tyrells were always with the Lannisters. You know that!”

“Lord Tyrell has bent the knee to Queen Daenerys now, Arya.”

“So you’ll just marry him then? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No. I mean . . .I don’t know. I don’t want to go south, Arya. I swear I don’t.” Sansa turned away from her and walked toward the window. She stood there looking out silently for a moment, and when she spoke again, she didn’t turn around. “Do you remember,” she asked softly. “How much I wanted to go to King’s Landing? How much I wanted to wed Joffrey? Do you?”

Arya nodded, but realizing that Sansa couldn’t see her with her eyes fixed firmly out the window, she said, “Yes. I remember.”

“And once we were there, even after Lady . . .” Her voice caught as she said ‘Lady,’ but then she pushed on. “Even then, I closed my eyes to everything I didn’t want to see because I still wanted it so badly.” She turned around then, and while her face still had that hard expression, Arya could see tears shining in her eyes. “I was a fool, Arya,” she said bitterly. “And I was a pawn. I cannot count the people who used me to further their plans. King Robert, Cersei, Joffrey, Tywin Lannister, Margaery Tyrell and her grandmother. Even Mother and Father, albeit reluctantly.”

“No,” Arya whispered.

“Yes,” Sansa said firmly. “I don’t blame them. I . . . haven’t spoken of it specifically with them at any length, but having learned some of what they were facing then, I believe they felt that accepting the betrothal to Joffrey was the only way to keep all of us safe. I’m sure they hoped to free me from actually marrying the little bastard if they could.”

“That’s still a terrible thing to do to anybody,” Arya said.

“Of course it is,” Sansa snapped. “But people do it all the time! From the moment my betrothal to Joffrey ended, any number of people began speculating how best to make use of me then! Father was dead, for all we knew, and Mother unreachable. I belonged to anyone the Lannisters chose to give me to, and looking back I can be grateful they gave me to the Imp. Lord Tyrion at least sought nothing from me, and he was the only one I can say that of.” She swallowed. “That’s what it is to be a woman, Arya. Your value is in your marriage. The minute you are born with nothing dangling between your legs, you become a piece in someone else’s game. Something to be used for advantage, bartered with, sold for gain.”

“Stop it! Mother and Father don’t think like that! Not about you! Not about us!”

“They don’t want to,” Sansa sighed. “But why do you think they wed in the first place? Father needed Grandfather Hoster’s armies and Grandfather Hoster wanted his grandsons to be Lords in the North as well as Lords over the Riverlands. So the Lord of Riverrun offered up his swords to the Lord of Winterfell along with his maiden daughter, and the Lord of Winterfell accepted them both.”

“Mother loves Father,” Arya insisted. “And Father loves her.”

“Yes. Now. But not then. They didn’t even know each other, Arya! Mother was supposed to marry Uncle Brandon. You know that!”

Arya couldn’t do anything but sit there and shake her head. She felt stupid. She felt like crying, but she wasn’t sure why. She was angry at Sansa and her parents and Queen Daenerys and even her dead grandfather whom she barely remembered.

Sansa sat down again beside her and took her hands. “Mother had no choice then, Arya,” she said softly. “But look at her now.”

Arya looked up at her sister. “You mean her face? All the terrible things that happened to her?”

“No. I don’t mean that at all.” Sansa took a deep breath. “Just as a maiden’s value lies in the marriage she can make, her potential power does, too. Mother belonged to Grandfather Hoster, and she did as he bid her. After that, she belonged to Father. She still does, I suppose, but she has power of her own. Father may be the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, but who has the most power and influence over Father?”

“Daenerys Targaryen, apparently,” Arya said between clenched teeth.

“Well, she certainly has a lot, of course. She’s the queen. But I mean here. In Winterfell.”

“You mean Mother. I know what you mean.”

Sansa nodded. “Who rules the North whenever Father is away? Who sits with him in his solar and has a say in almost anything he does? Marriage can be a way for a woman to go from piece to player.”

“What are you talking about? This isn’t a game!”

“It is, though,” Sansa insisted. “Petyr showed me. Ruling and reigning and warring aren’t so different from cyvasse, Arya. Different players take different approaches and want different things. Some want to win it all whatever the cost. Some want to protect themselves, and some want to protect other pieces even if they must sacrifice themselves. You have to know what you want, figure out what other players want from you, and then do what it takes to achieve your goals.” She swallowed. “Even if that does involve sacrifice.”

“You are not a gamepiece, Sansa,” Arya insisted. “And that stupid dragon queen doesn’t get to sacrifice you up to anybody. Jon has a dragon, too, and he won’t . . .”

“The Night’s Watch takes no part,” Sansa intoned.

“Stop it! Stop talking like that!” Arya insisted, pulling her hands from her sister’s. “This is stupid. I know you don’t want to marry some old man in Highgarden, and Mother and Father can just tell that to the queen. This is your home! You belong here—in Winterfell!”

Finally, Sansa’s controlled demeanor cracked. “Do you think I want to leave?” she almost sobbed. “I asked if you remembered how badly I wanted to go before, but what you can’t know is how much more I wanted to come home once I was alone and so far from here. I dreamed of Winterfell, Arya. I longed for it, even after I knew it to be burned. Even after I thought all of you dead. Petyr promised me Winterfell some day. He promised we could have lots of things, but I only cared about Winterfell. And when I first saw Mother that day in the Eyrie . . .” Sansa stopped speaking and did begin crying then. “I felt as if I’d been dead, Arya,” she choked out between sobs. “I’d been dead a long time and only that moment came back to life.”

Arya threw her arms around her sister then, and the two of them just held on to each other. After a moment, Arya said, “It was a little like that for me . . . when I saw you and Rickon on that beach.”

Sansa straightened up and wiped her eyes. “And when we came to Winterfell, and Mother came running out and grabbed you and . . .”

“And Father came behind her, and we were all . . . home. . .”

Sansa nodded with a sad smile. “Home,” she echoed. “Winterfell will always be the home of my heart, Arya, but I won’t always live here. It won’t be the home of my children. Some day, I will marry. I know that. You will, too. It’s our duty. And it’s our chance to make our own place somewhere, creating our own influence. I don’t want to marry anyone right now, and I have even more reasons than the distance between here and Highgarden to keep me from wishing to wed the Tyrells. But I can’t simply reject the proposal out of hand.” She made a wry face. “We already ignored the first letter. Ravens get lost all the time, you know. Mother and Father showed me that one just after Shireen left. I think they’d received it sooner, but they didn’t want to upset me in the midst of her departure. A second one came yesterday.”

“Surely, Mother and Father can come up with reasons to tell her no.”

“They have been. Some of which would likely be more palatable to her than others. But, Arya, that isn’t the only thing to consider. The Reach is far to the south, and its fields are some of the most fertile in all the world. Think of what that could mean to the North during a long winter. And to have my son as Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South? Think of it, Arya--a Reach lord with the blood of the First Men in his veins whom I would raise as Mother and Father raised us. That would be a very fine thing for House Stark.”

“A fine thing for House Stark? Sansa, you sound like Mother going on about the Honor of our House! Don’t listen to her! Don’t go someplace that will make you miserable no matter what she says about it! I know she won’t force you so don’t let her convince you!”

Sansa actually made a sound like a tiny laugh. “No, Arya, that’s just the thing. Mother actually . . .”

“Mother cares too much about being the perfect lady. And about your getting all the honor you deserve!” Arya stood up. “I know she means well, Sansa, but she’s wrong about this! She was wrong about stupid Joffrey and she’s wrong about this, and I’m going to tell her! I don’t care how much power or food the Reach has. I don’t care how long the winter lasts! We’re Starks, Sansa, and the Starks will endure. Father says it all the time! You aren’t going anywhere!”

“Arya, wait!” Sansa called as she turned and ran from the room. “You’re wrong about . . .”

Arya didn’t wait. She was going to find her parents and tell them that her sister was not marrying Lord Tyrell of Highgarden.

She was so agitated that she nearly burst into her mother’s chambers without knocking just as she had done to her sister, but stopped herself and put a hand to the door and rapped. “It’s Arya, Mother. May I come in?” She managed to sound passably courteous.

She could hear laughter in her mother’s voice as she called for her to enter, and that made her angry. Sansa had been sent to her room to cry while Mother laughed? When she opened the door however, she was tempted to laugh herself, in spite of her anger. Her father lay on the floor on his back tossing Brien into the air and then catching him and bringing him down to his chest. Mother sat on the floor nearby, a smile on her face.

Brien gave a loud squeal and a laugh as Father tossed him particularly high one last time before setting him down beside him and sitting up to look at Arya. Brien toddled over to Mother with his arms outstretched and nearly tackled her where she sat as he flung himself into her.

“He’s almost running now, isn’t he?” Arya said. 

Mother smiled. “He reminds me of you. You were running before your first name day. I swear it!”

“Aye,” her father agreed. “And falling. You were forever chasing after the others and you stayed covered in bruises.”

Their words ordinarily would have made her smile, but now they only reminded her of why she’d come. “You remember all of us when we were babies, don’t you?”

“Of course,” her mother said as she released Brien from her arms, and he began toddling back toward Father. “I don’t think we’ll ever look at any of you and not see our little babes even as we see you as you are now.”

Arya looked down at her mother’s face. “Doesn’t that make it difficult when you sell us off? Or were you not that attached to us when we were Brien’s age, either?”

“Arya!” Her father said severely just as Brien reached him and gleefully shouted “Up!”

Not realizing that Father’s rebuke was aimed at her, Brien’s face immediately crumbled at the sound of his harsh voice, and he began crying when he looked at his hard face. Father continued glaring at her silently as Mother stood and came to swoop Brien up into her arms.

“There, there, sweetling. No one is fussing at you,” she said, bouncing up and down with him on her hip. She bit her lip, glancing at Arya as she walked past her to the still open door. “Letty?” she called out into the corridor. Then she stepped out of the room with the still crying boy leaving Arya and Father looking at each other.

“How dare you speak to your lady mother so?” Father asked her through gritted teeth.

“How dare you and my lady mother sell my sister south to please the dragon queen?” she retorted.

Her father got his feet far more quickly than she would have believed possible. He would always have an obvious limp, but he’d recovered remarkably well under Mother’s and Sam’s diligent care. He walked toward her now and did not stop until he towered over her. “I am your father, Arya Stark. Remember that when you speak to me.”

“Remember that I am your daughter then. And that Sansa is!”

The muscle in her father’s jaw clenched tightly, and for a moment she thought he was going to shout at her, but her mother’s voice came from behind her.

“Ned,” her mother breathed in an urgent sounding whisper. “Stop.”

Arya turned to see her mother standing in the doorway without Brien. 

“Do you want everyone in the castle to hear you?” Mother implored Father, never taking her eyes from his even as she closed the door behind her.

“Oh we wouldn’t want that, would we?” Arya said, feeling a rage building up from somewhere inside that surprised even her. “It would be terrible if anyone knew your daughters object to being bartered like livestock. Or traded for grain!”

Her mother didn’t rebuke her. She only sighed. “Sansa told you about the queen’s letter.”

“Was she not supposed to?” Arya snapped. “Were you going to wait until she’d packed for the Reach?”

“Sit down, Arya. And Sansa isn’t going to Highgarden.”

“Catelyn,” Father said in a low voice.

“She isn’t,” Mother repeated. “Sit down, Arya. Please.”

Arya couldn’t quite understand what was going on between her parents. Surely, Father wasn’t insisting upon Sansa going. He’d tried to get them out of King’s Landing after all. He’d been there and seen how terrible Joffrey truly was. He’d planned on breaking that betrothal. Mayhap, he only wanted Mother not to lie to her now.

Slowly, Arya made her way to a chair. Mother sat down in a chair close by while Father remained where he was as if rooted to the ground. 

“Ned,” Mother said again, and she turned her eyes meaningfully toward a chair.

Father nodded once and sat down.

“What did Sansa tell you, sweetling?” Mother asked as Father took his seat.

“That the queen wants her to marry some old Tyrell. That you aren’t necessarily going to stop it. And that it might even be some sort of good thing! But it’s not!! And she hates the idea, I know she does! She’ll just always do whatever she thinks will please you!” She looked straight at Mother as she said the last.

“You think that I . . .” Her mother had initially looked at her in some disbelief, but then she laughed bitterly. “Of course you do! Why would you not?”

“Catelyn . . .” her father started.

“Don’t ‘Catelyn’ me, Ned,” her mother snapped getting up and walking away from them after she’d been the one to inist they all sit. “Who pushed for Sansa’s betrothal to Joffrey, after all? Who bound our first born son to the daughter of the man who had him murdered?” Mother flung those questions at Father as she whirled back around to face him.

“We both agreed that Robert’s offer for Sansa to wed the prince could not be turned down,” Father said calmly. “And Robb agreed to that marriage pact. He’s also the one who broke it, Cat. Not you. He made his choices. You know that to be true.”

“And what of Arya? Did she make a choice? She wasn’t even there, Ned!”

Now Arya was confused. She couldn’t imagine what her mother was talking about now. “What about me?” she said loudly, before her father could answer her mother.

Both of her parents looked at her and her mother’s hand flew to her mouth. “Gods be good,” she whispered. “You don’t know, do you? You wouldn’t, unless someone told you.” Tears filled her mother’s eyes as she walked back to take her seat. “I made a deal with Walder Frey,” she said softly once she was seated, never taking her eyes off Arya’s. "Your father was held by the Lannisters and Robb’s army was trapped on this side of the Green Fork.”

“And Robb had to promise to wed some Frey girl, but he married someone else instead,” Arya said. She had been told about that.

Her mother nodded. “That was only part of the deal. There were several other things, but one of them was you.”

“Me?”

“As part of our agreement, you were betrothed to Lord Walder’s youngest son,” her mother said flatly, and Arya felt cold. 

“For a bridge, Mother?” she whispered. “You would have made me a Frey for the sake of a bridge?”

“No,” her mother said. “For the sake of us all. For your father. For your life and Sansa’s. You were all trapped in King’s Landing, and there was no hope for any of us unless Robb could prove victorious against the Lannisters in the field. We had to cross that river.” 

She should be furious. A part of her was. A part of her wanted to throw something, to scream at her mother until she knew how it felt to be nothing but a bargaining chip. Until her mother hurt.

But looking at her mother now, she could see that Mother did hurt. And whatever happiness Mother and Father had found in each other, Mother had once been used the same way. Sansa had said as much, and it was true. She remembered some of Sansa’s other words. _The Reach is far to the south, and its fields are some of the most fertile in all the world. Think of what that could mean to the North during a long winter. And to have my son as Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South? Think of it, Arya--a Reach lord with the blood of the First Men in his veins whom I would raise as Mother and Father raised us. That would be a very fine thing for House Stark._

She must have been silent for too long because Mother’s voice came again softly. “Arya?”

“For the sake of all of us, you said.” Arya looked at her mother. “You did what you did for the sake of all of us. That’s why Sansa’s thinking about marrying this Tyrell, isn’t it? She thinks it may be the best thing for all of us.”

“She wishes to consider all her choices.” It was Father who answered. His voice once again calm and reasonable. Somehow that made Arya angrier now than learning that her mother had offered her up to the Freys. “And we must allow her to do that.”

“No!” she insisted. “Because she’s wrong. She looks at this like it’s some kind of . . . game or something. Like it’s her duty to make the best play for every Stark that will ever be! And that’s stupid! It’s about Sansa, and she needs to be here!”

“You’re right,” her mother said, and Arya turned from her father to look at her in some surprise. “You are right, Arya,” Mother repeated. “It is too high a price. And I would not ask her to pay it. Nor you. Never again.”

“Nor would I, Arya,” her father said quietly. “But I would not make her choice for her. She is five and ten. I would not see her wed for at least two if not three years, but if she wishes to pursue this betrothal, I will not prevent it. If she wishes me to tell the queen no, then that is what I shall do.”

“But that scares her,” Arya protested. “She’s afraid because of . . .what happened in King’s Landing. She says she can’t allow you to sacrifice everything again like you did there!”

An expression passed briefly over her father’s face that she couldn’t read, but she thought her mother could because she whispered, “Oh, Ned,” and again left her chair, this time to put her hands on Father’s shoulders as he sat.

“She said that, did she?” Father asked slowly. “What else did your sister say, Arya?”

Arya shook her head. “I don’t know. A lot of things. She talked about how Mother had to wed you and how she was happy and had gained power of her own in marriage.”

“Power?” Mother asked, a slightly bemused look upon her face.

“Uh huh. Like how Father listens to you when he doesn’t listen to anyone else. Something about how marriage is a way for a woman to go from a piece to a player.”

“What?” Her father’s one word question was growled rather than spoken, his voice sounding low and dangerous.

“I don’t know. It was part of all that game talk. About making the proper moves and sacrifices, and knowing the other players. I told her this wasn’t a game, but . . .”

“Gods damn Littlefinger to the deepest hell there is!” her father shouted, shaking off Mother’s hands and rising to stand. He walked to Mother’s dressing table and slammed his fist down upon it hard enough to rattle everything laid upon it and cause both Mother and herself to jump. “And gods damn me for ever allowing her to fall into his hands,” he said more quietly bowing his head.

“Ned . . .” Mother whispered, but Father held up his hand and shook his head, and she fell silent. 

The three of them remained motionless for a moment, Arya seated in her chair, Mother standing behind Father’s vacated chair, and Father standing with head bowed and fist resting on Mother’s dressing table. After what seemed a very long time to Arya, Father raised his eyes to meet Mother’s.

“Is there no end to it, Cat? Is there no end to the harm I caused my children with my folly?”

Mother didn’t say anything. She only reached out a hand, and Father took it and held it tightly, but only briefly before letting it go and striding briskly from the room.

“Aren’t you going after him?” Arya asked her mother in a small voice after a moment.

Her mother shook her head, looking toward the door which her father hadn’t closed when he went out.

“Do you think he’s going after Sansa?”

Mother shook her head again, and this time turned to face her. “He’s going to the godswood. If he’s too long, I’ll go to him, but he needs to be alone there just now.”

Arya bit her lip hard. “I didn’t mean to . . .” She wasn’t sure what she meant and didn’t mean so she simply quit talking and bit her lip once more.

“Come here, sweetling,” Mother said, opening her arms, and Arya stood and went into her embrace willingly.

For a moment Mother just held onto her and pressed kisses to the top of her head. Then she said, “It will be all right, Arya. Truly. And your sister will not wed Lord Tyrell. I promise you that.”

“But Father said that . . .”

“Your father wishes it no more than I, child, but he knows your sister spent far too long having all her future decided without her consent. He is reluctant to order her in either direction.” She exhaled loudly in a sound that was not quite a laugh. “Having heard your words today, however, I am quite certain he will attempt to persuade her even more strongly that this betrothal should not take place.”

Arya held her mother more tightly, burying her face in the fabric of her dress. “I didn’t mean to make him angry.”

“He isn’t angry at you, Arya,” her mother said with a sigh. “He’s angry at himself.” She put a hand beneath Arya’s chin to tilt her face upward. “Look at me. I know you carry a great many secrets, hurts, and regrets. I told you once I would never ask you to tell me what you did not wish to tell, and I meant that. But, sweetling, you know how those burdens make you feel. Do not imagine that the rest of us do not carry our own.” 

“But . . .Father never . . .Father . . .”

“Your father is the Lord of Winterfell. He is my husband and father to all of you children. As such, he takes responsibility for every hurt we’ve ever suffered, as well as the suffering of the people in the North. He has his own sins to answer for, of course, like every man.” Mother gave a little snort and raised a brow. “And every woman.” She stepped back a bit, holding Arya at arms’ length so that she could look at her more directly. “But your father would answer for more than he should. I cannot change that about him. I can only love him. And you know as well as I that he is strong and good. He will continue to care for us all, and I promise I will take care of him.”

“But what Sansa said about him sacrificing . . .”

“Queen Daenerys will not be pleased at having her _suggestion_ refused. But no lasting harm shall come of it. To your father or your sister or anyone. I promise.”

Arya nodded. Her mother had made her angry many times over the years, but she had never broken a promise. Neither of her parents made promises lightly. 

Mother bent slightly to kiss her forehead like she had so often when she was small. “There is still light left,” she said. “It is likely you could find a partner in the practice yard.”

“Dak and Rickon were there earlier. And some others.”

“Why don’t you go then. You know your father wants you out in the light.”

Arya smiled at her mother. She honestly didn’t know how she felt about everything she’d learned today, from Sansa’s being bartered about by the queen to her own mother having once offered her up to the Freys to cross a river. Likely, her mother knew that, but Mother also knew that talking wouldn’t help her any more at this point. Just as she knew Father needed the godswood, she knew Arya would want to hit someone with a sword.

As she was leaving Mother’s chambers, her mother called after her. “I love you, Arya. And I thank the gods that you did not have to fulfill that bargain I made at the Twins. I will never make such a bargain again. I promise you that as well.”

“I know,” Arya said. “I believe you.” Then she stepped out into the corridors. Mother wouldn’t apologize for the deal she’d struck all those years ago. Mother believed then that she had done what she had to do, and she wouldn’t take that back. Rather like what Father had done with his lie about Jon. But both of them were sorry for any hurt they caused. She knew that, too. And she didn’t have to marry the stupid Frey after all.

She didn’t want to run into Sansa again just now so she ran to the boys’ room which was empty and grabbed Bran’s extra cloak. It wasn’t as long on her as Dak’s. As she stepped out into the sunshine, she gave another brief thought to the fact that she had been betrothed once and never even knew it. She wondered what the boy’s name was.

Even as the question formed, a memory from Harrenhal struck her quite clearly, and Arya Stark began to laugh. It wasn’t funny, really, and she was still angry and sad and too many other things she couldn’t name, but she couldn’t help but laugh as she recalled Elmar Frey crying over not getting to wed his princess after all. She’d been Nan then, and when she’d told him she thought her brothers were dead, he’d told her that no one cared about the brothers of a serving girl. In her anger, she’d told him she hoped his princess died.

So now she laughed, looking up at the sky over Winterfell, thinking that it was probably some sort of sin to wish death upon yourself. _I’m still here, Elmar,_ she thought. _But I’m nobody’s princess. And definitely not yours!_

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Catelyn Stark sank into a chair and sat for a good long while after Arya left. There were any number of things she could be doing, should be doing, but she simply didn’t have the will do them. Her heart was in the godswood with Ned, the practice yard with Arya, and with Sansa wherever she might be. She simply had not heart left for household tasks.

 _This will pass,_ she told herself. _I shall help Sansa see her way clear to refusing this match, and Ned will allow me to write to the queen._ The young woman had suffered two political marriages herself, and while it seemed she had found at least some measure of joy with the barbarian, her second marriage had been disastrous from what little Catelyn knew of it. 

As for this strange dance between Ned and Sansa ever since they had told her about the letter, Catelyn couldn’t quite put a finger on its source. It went to back to King’s Landing, she was certain of that much—back to that accursed place and all the horrors that had befallen her husband and daughters there. Sansa looked like her, almost eerily like her at times, but she was very much her father’s daughter. Whatever had occurred between them in King’s Landing, both felt responsible for it, and it would seem each felt responsible for much of the suffering that had befallen their family as well. Catelyn knew the reasons for Ned’s burden of guilt, but she couldn’t imagine why Sansa seemed to carry so much as well. In any event, they both seemed dead set on protecting each other now and, for whatever reason, Ned was also determined not to treat Sansa like a child. 

That particular insistence of his had been the source of all their arguments about the wretched proposal. While Catelyn had been in favor of telling her about it as she’d not wanted her to be waylaid by Daenerys at some future date, she had not anticipated her daughter’s initial look of abject terror being quickly covered over by a mask of calm as she began asking what potential benefits could come from this marriage. She’d been further stunned when Ned had sat there and discussed it with her as if this marriage had any chance of happening!

She’d finally put an end to that first discussion by suggesting they simply pretend the letter had never been received. It was entirely plausible and would buy them time to think. Since then, however, Ned had steadfastly refused her pleas to simply inform Sansa he was rejecting the match on her behalf. He’d insisted that she would eventually realize on her own that she would be miserable so far from Winterfell, and he’d refused to listen to her concerns that Sansa’s own happiness did not seem to be motivating her.

She sighed. As painful as this conversation with Arya had been for all of them for many reasons, at least her stubborn husband had his eyes opened to that fact now. She prayed that he was finding some solace from his gods for all his faults—real and imagined. As for Arya, she prayed the child could forgive her for a betrothal she’d never known existed. Every time she thought that she and Arya had put old hurts behind them, something else came between them. That was why she’d had to tell her daughter the entirety of the betrothal agreement with the Freys as soon as she realized that she didn’t know. She’d rather have her daughter angry at her for the act only than for keeping the truth from her as well.

She felt her an ache beginning in her temples and she put her hands to them just as a knock sounded at her door.

“Yes?” she said tiredly.

“Lady Stark?” Sam’s hesitant voice. “Is . . . is . . .um . . . Lord Stark with you?”

“No, Sam, he is not, and yes you may come in,” she called in some exasperation. The young man had misunderstood “Yes?” to mean “Enter” one afternoon about a fortnight ago and had opened the door to find Ned and herself somewhat less than fully clothed. He’d apologized profusely for days once he recovered the power of speech in front of the two of them even though Ned told him he was hardly to blame for their forgetting to bar the door. It now seemed he believed that they spent every moment together in this room engaged in carnal acts and would scarcely open the door to any verbal response at all. Today appeared to be no exception as the door remained closed.

Huffing, Catelyn rose from her chair and walked to the door. As she flung it open, she frowned at him and said rather irritably. “I told you to come in. Ned isn’t here, Sam. What do you need?”

“Do you know where he is?” Sam stammered. 

“Yes. What do you need, Sam?”

“I need Lord Stark. I mean . . . Lord Stark will want to know that . . .”

“Gods be good, Sam, just tell me what it is. Lord Stark does not need to be disturbed at the moment, so perhaps I can help you.”

He hesitated only a moment. “Riders, Lady Stark. Coming from the south.”

Catelyn closed her eyes and put her face in her hands momentarily before looking up. “Targaryen banners?” she asked.

“Yes, my lady.” 

“Damn,” she muttered. “Harrion Karstark.”

They’d been expecting the man forever, but likely his escort had been delayed by the storms which had been plaguing many areas including some south of here. He was the last thing Ned needed now, but she supposed there was no help for it.

“I’ll get Lord Stark, Sam. He’s in the godswood.” She shook her head.”When do you expect them here?”

“Within the hour, my lady,” Sam said.

She sighed. “Lord Karstark’s been a prisoner a very long time, and I know not how he’s been treated by the men bringing him here. Have Derek ride out with an Honor Guard to meet them. This man was imprisoned while fighting for my son. I’d have him know that he will receive the respect due him for that before he ever enters our walls.”

“Yes, Lady Stark. Anything else?”

“Have food and drink sent to Ned’s solar. However he was treated during his captivity, I hope the queen’s men have at least been feeding him. Still, he’ll likely be hungry after his travels. Have food prepared in the Great Hall for whatever men are with him. How many do you think there are?

“Doesn’t appear to be more than a score, my lady.”

“Hopefully, they’re Northmen. If any of them need to speak with my lord husband, they shall have to wait until he has spoken with Lord Karstark. That is only right. Ned and I shall await him in the courtyard and bring him up to the solar.”

Sam looked at her carefully. “I could ask Derek to escort them back here slowly, Lady Catelyn.”

She smiled tiredly at him. “I would appreciate that, Sam,” she said. Then she hurried to find cloak, scarf, and gloves so that she could interrupt her husband at his prayers.

She knew precisely where he’d be, of course, and so she crept as silently as she could into the dark glade where the enormous weirwood with its red face stood. It wasnot nearly as cold here as most places outdoors. The trees grew so thickly together they blocked all but the fiercest of winds, and the canopy of their branches kept out most of the snow. Only a few inches lay upon the ground here while the uncleared areas of the courtyard were blanketed with snow that came well above her knees. The ground just before the heart tree, the ground upon which her husband knelt, had almost no snow at all upon it, and she stood silently for a moment, just watching him there.

The same trees which blocked the snow and wind also blocked a great deal of the pale winter sunlight, and while Catelyn thought there was likely at least an hour until the sun truly set, she would not know that from looking at the dim, shadowed world in which she stood now. She shivered slightly. This place might not be as frigid as the open yard, but no place outdoors felt truly warm in a Northern winter. She looked at the face on the heart tree and knew that she shivered from more than the cold. She no longer felt truly an outsider here. She’d lived too long as a Stark and a mother of wolves for that. And she knew now at least one pair of eyes that looked out of such terrible faces belonged to her own sweet boy. Still, she couldn’t ever shake the sense of being watched here by forces much older than anything she knew. Older than Winterfell itself. And while she now accepted that they knew her, she wasn’t certain she’d ever truly know them, and so she would likely shiver here even when summer finally returned.

Her husband didn’t shiver. Even in the semi-darkness of the shadows, she could see he was perfectly still, his bare head bowed. He always removed his hood here. Once she’d thought it merely his unnerving tendency to be overwarm in even the coolest of places, but she’d come to view it as more the same sort of thing that some people did when they uncovered their heads upon entering a sept—a way of truly and humbly baring himself before his gods. 

_Gods, I love him,_ she thought, the feeling piercing her heart as it did sometimes, catching her almost unawares with enough force to nearly steal her breath. After all these years, she still marveled at it. It had come as a shock to her when she’d first realized the depth of her feelings for the solemn and taciturn man she’d wed. She’d dreamed of love as a girl in Riverrun, but she hadn’t known what it was then. Not truly. Even when she’d wed Eddard Stark and dutifully offered up her body, she had only some vague notion of what love might be. The child in her thought that her chance for it had been lost with Brandon, but the young woman had carefully observed the serious grey-eyed young man who seemed, if possible, more ill at ease than she when he took her maidenhead and began to hope that his quiet manner spoke only of reserve and not coldness. When Robb had quickened within her, she’d begun to pray that upon her lord husband’s safe return the child they had made might help them learn to love each other. When she’d arrived at Winterfell to be greeted by Ned’s obvious delight in his newborn son and seemingly in her as well, she’d thought her prayers had been answered, but soon she’d discovered that another son already lay in the nursery where her son, Ned’s trueborn heir, would sleep. And something very cold had come into her heart, and she’d feared she’d never feel warm again. She still couldn’t say precisely how or even when it happened—how Eddard Stark had made a home in her heart. But he had. And to her great surprise, she’d discovered that she’d found a home in his heart as well. With all that lay between them, they had discovered they could love each other anyway, and both had chosen to do so. And now, after they both had suffered too many hurts to number, too many losses to name, she loved him more than she had in those heady days when their love had been new and they’d been so caught up in the sheer miraculous revelry of it. From behind, most of his hair was still its youthful brown, and what grey strands there were did not show much here in the halflight. His shoulders were as broad and strong as they had always been, and as he knelt down so that he sat upon the heels of his feet, the injured leg was not discernible. Catelyn knew he would put a hand down on the ground to that side to help himself rise, not wishing her to help him even when it had stiffened from the cold. At this moment, though, she could easily imagine that winter was waning, and she had come here light of heart to tell him she carried Arya. He looked to her now just as he had then. She had known she loved him then. She loved him far more now, and so she stood silently a moment longer, not wishing to speak the words that would bring to his face not the exultant joy of a new child, but the fatigue and worry over yet another problem he must solve.

“Why so quiet, my love?” He hadn’t turned around or even moved, and so the sound of his deep voice, quiet as it was, startled her.

She smiled. “How did you know it was me?”

He put his hand down to push up himself up, and while she could see the worry etched in his face when he turned to face her, he returned her smile as he rose slowly and stiffly from the ground. 

“I always know you, Catelyn.”

His grey eyes looked straight into hers, and she wanted nothing more than to fall into his arms and stay here in this place, his place, with him until night truly fell, but instead she took a deep breath. “I am sorry to disturb you so soon, my love,” she said.

He exhaled a tiny laugh. “Is it as short a time as it feels then? I feared you’d come to tell me I’d lost track of time and been hours away already.”

“Well,” she said, coming to take his hands. “You have been known to do that.”

He took a step toward her as she reached for his hands and grimaced. “I’m afraid the damned leg will let me know now if I pass too much time upon my knees.” He shook his head. “And don’t tell me how much better it is. I know it’s better. I also know it isn’t good.” 

“It continues to improve, Ned. Simply not as quickly as you’d wish.” She paused and bit her lip. “I hadn’t meant to come so soon. I’d hoped to give you until sunset at least, but . . .”

He’d been studying her face, and before she could continue, he interrupted. “What’s wrong, Cat? Is it one of the children?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head quickly. “Nothing is wrong, Ned. Truly. It’s only . . . Lord Harrion Karstark and his . . . escorts . . . are approaching our gates.”

“Damnation,” Ned swore softly. “It would be now, wouldn’t it? We’ve looked for the man for a moon’s turn or more, but of course it’s now.”

“You are prepared, my love. We’ve been prepared.” 

“But we’ll need food sent up to the solar, and I’d like a proper welcome for the man in the courtyard, and . . .”

“Food has been sent. Also, food will be readied in the Great Hall for the men who accompany Lord Karstark, and Deryk rides out to greet him and bring him through the gates as a welcomed guest. I told Sam you and I would meet him in the courtyard, and if I know Sam, he’s rounding up however many of our wolf pups he can find to greet the man as well. And I don’t mean the four-legged ones.”

Ned laughed and kissed her quickly on the lips. “You are a marvel, Cat! I suppose it is too much to hope that I might have time to make myself look less a refugee and more a high lord?”

“I do not know how quickly he’ll arrive, in truth. Sam thought within the hour, but told me he’d have Deryk ride back slowly.”

Ned laughed and released her hands to hold out an arm to her. They walked back through the godswood at a much more rapid pace than Ned could have managed even a fortnight ago, especially after being down on his knees on the cold ground.

“Have you spoken with Sansa?” he asked as they approached the gate of the godswood. 

“No.” She shook her head. “I simply sat there, Ned, thinking on all Arya had said. And then Sam came before I had a chance to seek out anyone.”

“I never seem to get it right with her, Cat,” Ned said, stopping suddenly and shaking his own head slowly. “I’ve only ever wanted her safe and happy, but always I stayed silent when I should have spoken out.”

“Ned . . .”

“She’s like you, Cat. She has a sharp mind and a talent for observation, but I never wanted her to worry. I never wanted . . .” He shook his head. “I didn’t tell her things she needed to know. I never taught her as I did the boys.”

“Ned, the girls were mine to teach. Any deficiencies in their education must be laid at . . .”

“Not in King’s Landing!” Ned almost roared. “Not during that godsdamned, hellish journey to get there. You weren't there, and I left them largely to their own devices, Cat. Oh, they had Septa Mordane, yes, but what could the septa teach them of the lies and plots and dangers I led them into. I should have prepared them better.” He swallowed. “Instead, I killed her wolf.”

“That was Cersei Lannister’s doing!”

“It was my hand. Do you think she forgot that? And when we reached the Red Keep, I all but abandoned her for meetings and Robert’s whims, and my own attempts to discover what had happened to Jon.” He shook his head again. “Arya forced me to pay her some attention with her constant disobedience to the septa, but Sansa . . . Sansa just cried over her wolf, fought with her sister, and did all she could to be gracious to a monstrous boy who never deserved her. And I let her be. She didn’t want to be near me after I killed Lady, and truth be told, I could hardly stand to see that look in her eyes. The only time I truly acted like her father was the day the raven came from Robb telling us Bran had awakened. I took them to the godswood that night and we prayed just as we would if there had been a weirwood, and remained there through the night. The girls slept close together like the sisters they are, and I stood watch over them all night.” He had looked away as he spoke, but now he met her eyes once more. “All night, Catelyn. Why did I not watch over them as I should have for more than one night?”

“You were alone there, Ned,” she said hoarsely. “So alone. You had to do too much.”

“I didn’t do enough. Not for our girls. Especially not for Sansa. I shouldn’t have treated her like a child even as I thrust her into the midst of men and women of the cruelest sort. I should have talked to her, Cat. I should have taught her. I should have trusted her to learn.”

“You have taught her more than you know, my love. She is so like you. I see it all the . . .”

“He was willing to teach her!” Ned interrupted her bitterly. “Gods damn the man! He took her and he kept her by him and he taught her what he wanted her to learn. And she listened well, Cat. She listened and she learned from that man who made her call him father. Because her own father had abandoned her to her fate.”

She hadn’t meant to do it. She hadn’t realized her hand had even moved until she felt the sting on her palm as it struck Ned’s cheek. 

“Don’t ever say such a thing again, Eddard Stark. Do you understand me? No one speaks of my lord husband in such a manner to me. Not even you.”

He didn’t grab her hand or rebuke her for striking him. He simply continued to stare at her with guilt and bitterness etched upon his face and a desperate kind of sorrow in his eyes.

“No one could know what awaited you in King’s Landing, Ned,” Catelyn hissed. “Everyone there was against you. And the lies upon lies that were spun all around you caught you so tightly that you had no escape. You did all you could. And as for Petyr Baelish,” she spat the name like the foulest of curses. “What he did to Sansa was despicable. He deserved death, and he got it. And if Sansa learned to be strong and smart while he held her prisoner, then good for her! Good for our daughter, for it was her doing, not his. Her mind is her own, Ned. You have told me that repeatedly for the past fortnight, and you are right. That foul man may have explained to her the way this twisted game of thrones is played, but he couldn’t twist her. Even now, with whatever knowledge or strategy she believes she has learned, she thinks only of us. Only of her brothers and sister. Because she is our daughter. Your daughter, Ned. She is a Stark of Winterfell, and she has all of your honor when Petyr Baelish had no honor at all!”

He kept looking at her, not speaking, and Catelyn wondered if he’d heard her at all. She’d never struck him. Not in all the years they’d been wed, regardless of how angry he’d made her. Until that terrible argument after Bran had nearly killed himself in the godswood trying to find Jon Snow. And while she had shocked herself, he had reacted as if he deserved it. Now he looked stunned. But to hear him say he’d abandoned their daughter. To hear in his voice his belief that he’d done such a thing. It was the most hurtful lie he’d ever told, even if he didn’t see it for the lie it was. 

She wasn’t certain how long they stood there simply looking at each other when she heard a boy’s voice call out, “Milord! Milady! Sansa says you must hurry! They’ve opened the gates and the men will be riding through!”

Catelyn looked up to see Dak running toward them through the gate which led into the courtyard. He was panting when he reached them. “Arya said you’d be here, milady,” he said, addressing her because Ned still stood as if made of stone.

Catelyn bit her lip. “Dak,” she said. “Run to Lord Stark’s chamber—his, not mine. His big grey cloak should be hanging there. Bring it to us. We’ll walk along toward the Great Keep behind you. Do you know the one I mean?”

Dak nodded. “The thick one made of wolf’s fur. The one that makes him look like one of those old Stark kings in the books Sam gives us.”

Catelyn smiled at the boy in spite of the turmoil still inside her. “That’s the one. Run quickly now!”

“Yes, milady!” He turned toward Ned who finally looked toward him and nodded once. “I’ll get it right to you, milord!” He then sprinted back out the gate.

“We need to follow him, Ned,” Catelyn said softly.

He nodded without looking at her and offered her his arm almost mechanically. As she took it, she thought she should likely ask his forgiveness, but she wasn’t certain how. And there was no time for her to say nearly all that she wanted even if she could find the words, so they simply walked silently toward the Great Keep together, and by the time they’d covered just over half the distance, Dak was running back toward them, slowed only slightly by the enormous, heavy cloak her carried. 

“Milord,” he panted. “I can take that one you’re wearing and put it back in Lady Stark’s room. That is the one you keep there, right? I don’t need to meet Lord Karstark. I’m nobody, really.”

Ned swallowed. “Thank you, Dak,” he said, speaking for the first time since Catelyn had slapped his face. “You needn’t rush back to meet Lord Karstark if you do not wish, but do not ever say you are nobody. You are a member of our household, and a damned important one. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Dak looked rather taken aback by the ferocity with which Ned spoke, but he simply nodded and took the cloak Ned took off to hand him, exchanging it for the more formal one that Ned rarely wore except for ceremonial occasions, complaining it was both too heavy and too hot. “Yes, milord. Thank you, milord.”

Ned’s expression softened a bit, and he ruffled Dak’s hair with one hand as Catelyn reached out her own hands to fasten his cloak as she’d done so many times. “I wouldn’t have you forget how much you mean to us, Dak. That is all.” He’d looked at Catelyn then. “I wouldn’t have any of you doubt how much you mean,” he whispered.

“We don’t,” she replied firmly. “Not one of us. Not ever.”

Dak looked back and forth between them, obviously realizing he was missing something, but uncertain as to what or whether he was supposed to ask about it. He was spared the need to say anything when a shout went up from near the Kingsgate. Harrion Karstark and his escorts/jailers had arrived.

“We should hurry, Ned,” Catelyn said, and he nodded. 

But as soon as they’d gone ten paces from Dak, he stopped and pulled her close to him. “Cat . . .” he said hoarsely.

“I love you, Ned,” she said, trying to very hard not to cry. Tears were not needed now. “And I . . . I . . .”

“Don’t you dare ask me to forgive you,” he said almost angrily, causing her to fear only for a heartbeat before he added more softly. “For there is nothing to forgive.” His eyes softened as they lingered on her face. Then he nodded. “Now, let us go and greet this newly recovered bannerman and see what he has to say.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, releasing a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. _We shall get through this,_ she thought as they walked toward the knot of people gathered in front of the gate where men on horseback already streamed through. _We are together. We are strong enough to endure anything as long as we are together._

As they approached the people gathered before the gate, she felt a surge of pride as she spied her children all present and waiting to greet a man who had just dismounted from his horse beside Deryk. Those two had ridden in ahead of all the others so Catelyn knew the man must be Harrion Karstark. Yet, the painfully thin, cleanshaven man with grey at the temples of hair a few shades darker brown than Ned’s bore little resemblance to the fierce, broadshouldered young warrior with the full beard she recalled from Moat Cailin before he’d ridden off under Roose Bolton’s command.

He stood straight and proudly though, smiling in wonder as he looked up Sansa who stood beside Bran in his chair (which someone must have carried there). The other children were lined up on the other side of Sansa. Even Brien had been brought out--held securely in Letty’s arms, he was waving his little hands excitedly at the horses as they entered.

“Lady Stark!” Harrion Karstark called out as he walked briskly toward Sansa. “It is true then! You are . . .” He stopped suddenly as he got near enough to realize that he addressed a maiden far too young to be Catelyn. “Forgive me, my lady, but you are the image of Lady Stark,” he said, bowing to her courteously.”

“I am Lady Sansa Stark,” Sansa replied, smiling, with an emphasis on her given name. “And I thank you, my lord, for my lady mother is a beautiful woman.” As the man continued to stare at her, she gestured to Bran. “And this my brother, Brandon Stark, Heir to Winterfell.”

At that, the young man seemed to forget all courtesy. He looked back and forth between Bran and Sansa. “Heir,” he stammered. “Not lord, but heir? It’s all true then? Lord and Lady Stark are . . .”

“Are right here, Lord Karstark,” Ned called out, his deep voice easily heard over the general commotion as he and Catelyn walked the last few paces to where he and the children stood. 

They young man’s head shot up at the sound of that voice, and when he spied them, he gave a strangled sort of cry and then fell to his knees. “My lord,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I scarcely dared to believe it.” 

“I sometimes find all of it hard to believe myself,” Ned said, extending a hand to help him rise. “Forgive my tardiness, Lord Karstark. I fear my lady wife and I had to attend to a matter that could not wait, but I am pleased that my children, at least have greeted you with proper courtesy.”

“Please don’t apologize, Lord Stark. And Lady Stark, I am so very pleased . . .” Catelyn heard the hesitation in his voice and saw the shock and dismay in his eyes. He had truly looked at her for the first time and taken note of the scars on her face. They weren’t easily seen with her fur hood pulled up. “pleased to see that . . . you are . . .”

“Alive,” she finished for him. “Yes, I am pleased to be alive as well, my lord.” She smiled at him. “And we were overjoyed to hear that you lived as well.”

He nodded. “But . . . King Robb? He . . .”

“Was murdered,” she said flatly. “By Roose Bolton. Bolton is now dead as well.”

He nodded slowly as if trying to make sense of what she said. “And my lord father?” he asked hesitantly. “I was told . . .”

“Your father is dead as well,” Ned said shortly. “And you are Lord of the Karhold. Let me introduce you to the rest of the children, and we shall retire to my solar. There is food and drink and a warm hearth there. And we shall tell you all you wish to know, my lord.”

Karstark seemed rather lost as Ned introduced him to Arya, Rickon, and even Brien, who continued to be far more interested in the horses than any of the men, but he spoke to each of them courteously enough, even the babe and Letty. The men Daenerys had sent with Lord Karstark were not Northmen but Riverlanders, and Catelyn knew her husband would be irritated that the girl had not sent him back any of his own soldiers. Still, he greeted Edmure’s men warmly enough and bid them make themselves welcome in the Great Hall. As Ned spoke briefly with them, the newly restored Lord of the Karhold stood slightly off to himself, as if uncertain what was expected of him.

Catelyn felt a light touch on her arm. “He doesn’t know what is true,” Sansa whispered in her ear.

Catelyn looked around to see her daughter leaning into her. “I just spoke briefly with Deryk,” she said quietly. “Lord Karstark wasn’t bound, but he and the men who brought him here had all been told he was coming here as your prisoner. Apparently, whoever’s been holding him had been telling him only enough of events outside his cell to keep him uncertain of anything. Since he was brought to Darry, he’s been given truthful answers to any questions as far as anyone knew them, but the Darry men say he didn’t always seem to believe them. And now he’s gone from prisoner to lord in the space of a quarter hour. I can’t imagine he truly believes that, either.”

“He thinks we lie to him?” Catelyn asked him. “To what purpose?”

Sansa smiled sadly. “He isn’t certain of the difference between a truth and a lie anymore, Mother. It’s been two years since Duskendale. He’s been completely in someone else’s power for all that time. He knows only what they’ve told him. Whether it’s true or not, it’s all he knows.”

“And believing anything else?”

“Doesn’t come easily,” Sansa said with a certainty in her voice that made Catelyn want to kill the Lannisters and Petyr Baelish all over again.

“I understand, sweetling,” she said softly, kissing her daughter on the cheek.

“My lady,” Ned said almost simultaneously with Brien shouting, “Mama!”

Apparently, her youngest had lost interest in the horses and realized that his mother was there just beyond his reach. He now struggled in Letty’s arms, shrieking “Mama” repeatedly.

Ned looked from the screaming baby to her. He was standing with Harrion Karstark and had obviously been inviting her to accompany them to his solar. “I am sorry, my lord,” she said. “I cannot leave him like this.”

Ned looked like he wanted to argue, but he only walked to retrieve Brien from Letty and hand him into her arms where the child stopped screaming almost instantly. “I will not take you from our children, my lady.”

“I am sorry, Ned,” she said as Rickon, who had not seen her since they’d broken their fast before it got light began tugging on her skirt. 

“I did very well at swords today, Mother!” he piped up. “You can ask Dak! Even Arya said I did good.”

“That’s excellent, Rickon. Give me a moment with your father, please.”

“Mama!” Brien, irritated that she was speaking to Rickon instead of him cried out again and began clawing at her chest as if to seek out a teat from beneath the layers of clothing she wore.

“Take them to your chambers, my love,” Ned said softly. “They need you.”

 _You need me, too,_ she wanted to say, but then she thought of something. “Take Sansa with you,” she said.

He looked uncertain, and after all that had been said today, she understood his hesitation, but he had to get past that. “She can help, my love. Trust me in this.”

She watched Ned turn to look for Sansa and nod his head slightly in approval as he noted she had taken Lord Karstark by the arm and walked slightly away with him to converse in order to give the two of them whatever privacy they might need. Then he looked back to her. “I trust you in everything, my lady,” he said simply. 

He then turned to walk toward Sansa and the young man from the Karhold. “Lord Karstark,” he said pleasantly. “As it seems my youngest children have laid claim to my wife’s attention, I would ask my daughter to join us in my solar if you agree. Her company, like her mother’s, is far more pleasant than mine.”

Sansa looked surprised, but pleased, Catelyn noted, and that made her smile as she turned to see what had become of the rest of her children. Dak had appeared from somewhere, and he and Arya stood beside Bran’s chair as the the three of them discussed something which made all of them smile. Tom stood not far away, waiting to carry Bran as his chair would not go in all this snow. No path adequate for the chair’s use had been cleared between the Great Keep and the Kingsgate since the last snowfall. 

“The sun will set soon,” she called out to them. “Do not stay out past then for the air will cool quickly.” 

“Yes, Mother,” Arya and Bran said obediently as Dak said, “Yes, milady.” 

Catelyn smiled at them and then down at Rickon. “I need to get your little brother inside. Come with me and tell me all about sword practice?”

Rickon grinned and bobbed his head up and down. “I think he’s hungry, Mother,” he said,nodding toward Brien who still intently clawed at the front of her cloak as if sheer determination could make it disappear.

“I think you’re right,” she laughed, turning to take her youngest two into the Great Keep.

“Is Nymeria in your room?” Rickon asked sharply. “She’s not with Shaggy and Summer.”

“Yes,” Catelyn said, “But I’m sending her out as soon as we get there,” she added before the boy asked if Shaggy could come in, too. The less time Shaggydog spent in her chambers, the better for all concerned at the moment. “She can’t lie by the hearth and be lazy all day! Wolves need their exercise, too.”

Rickon looked at her strangely, but asked no more questions. He reached for her hand, and after adjusting Brien so that he could be comfortably balanced on her hip with one arm, she reached down to take it. As she began walking with her two youngest toward the Great Keep, she saw that Ned, Sansa and Lord Karstark were already well ahead of her. She did feel guilty about not being with Ned during this meeting, but the boys needed her, too, so she tried very hard to ignore the feeling of being torn in two and simply concentrate on her children.

As it happened, they required a lot of concentration. Brien, it seemed, was getting the first of his back teeth, and was fretful and out of sorts for the next several hours, wanting no one but her. Rickon had seemingly a million things to tell her, and every time she would get the babe quieted enough to put down, her fierce little boy would claim her lap to tell her tales and demand stories or songs from her. Had it not been for the irritable babe and her intense desire to know how Ned’s conversation went with Harrion Karstark, she would have been thrilled by this. Rickon so seldom wanted in her lap anymore. He was far more often interested in playing with his training sword and chasing after Dak, Arya, and other older boys about the castle. His behavior now simply proved once more that her fifth pup was still little more than a babe himself—a babe who’d spent far too much of his short life without her, and she couldn’t imagine anything in the world more important than assuring him of her presence and her love. She only hoped that Ned fared well and was not too disappointed by the lack of her presence with him. When she finally parted from the children, she hurried to the kitchens to be certain all was being prepared for the evening meal. With new guests in the castle, it would be a somewhat larger affair than usual.

She didn’t see Ned again until she gathered up her little boys and took them to the Great Hall for the evening meal. He arrived sometime after her, looking somewhat tired, but greeting her with a smile. She hoped that meant his meetings had gone well. She’d heard from Sam that he’d spent some time with the leaders of the men who’d come to Darry after his time Karstark, and most of those men were in the Great Hall now along with many Winterfell men. Shortly after Ned arrived to take his place beside her, Lord Karstark came in with Sansa upon his arm. When Catelyn looked toward her husband with a raised brow, Ned said only, “It was not an easy conversation but it was a good thought on your part to have Sansa there.”

There was much loud talk during the meal along with much laughter and more ale than had been served at table in Winterfell for some time, so there was little chance for Catelyn and Ned to have any real conversation. She noticed that Harrion Karstark took almost no part in the talk or laughter, sitting silently between Sansa and Bran as he ate his meal. Catelyn had scarcely eaten her food when Brien began to wail loudly with his tooth again. Sighing, she made her apologies and took the babe back to the nursery where, after what seemed an eternity, she got him down to sleep and bid Letty stay with him. 

On her way to her own chambers, she stopped by the other children’s rooms, discovering them all back from the Hall and preparing to sleep. She kissed them all good night and hurried to her own room, hoping to find Ned there, but her room was empty. Sighing, she sat before her dressing table to take down her braid and brush out her hair as she waited for him.

She didn’t have to wait long before his always recognizable knock came at her door.

“Come in, my love,” she called.

He opened the door and smiled at her with his brow cocked. “Do you greet everyone with endearments, my lady? Or did you somehow know who was on the other side of the door?”

“I always know you, Eddard Stark,” she replied, and his smile widened as he heard the echo of his words from earlier.

“Brien is well?” he asked.

“Brien is asleep,” she answered with a sigh. “And gods willing, he will remain that way through the night, for I confess he has exhausted me.”

“Poor Cat,” Ned said, walking over to kiss the top of her head. “I am sorry I was not much help to you today.”

“I was about to say the same to you,” she answered, rising from her stool to turn and face him. “Tell me of your conversation with young Harrion.”

Ned sighed. “I told you it was difficult. The man has been told any number of things by a great many people, many of whom had no love for the Starks. And he has lost everything, Cat. Everything! He has not one living family member. Not one soul alive in his castle.” Ned shook his head slowly. “He had not truly heard the extent of the tragedy at the Karhold. I showed him Perwyn’s letter.”

“Oh gods, Ned. I know what that letter did to me. I cannot imagine reading it of my home.”

Ned nodded. “I needed him to see it, though. He needed to have someone’s words other than mine. I’d told him of his father’s actions at Riverrun and of his execution at Robb’s hand. He’d heard it before, of course, but I wanted him to hear it from me, although I am not entirely certain he believes my telling.”

“I should have been there to tell it. I was there, Ned. I know what happened.”

He nodded tiredly. “Aye. I told him to ask you of it. That seemed to surprise him, and I don’t know if he will. Mayhap you should speak of it to him when you get the chance. He doesn’t trust me, I could see that. What I couldn’t tell is whether or not the man truly hates me.”

He looked and sounded unbelievably tired, and Catelyn reached up and began removing his doublet. “I want to hear it all, my love. But I needn’t hear it with us both on our feet.” When she’d gotten his doublet off, she spun around. “Here. Help me with my laces.”

Without speaking further, they both undressed for bed, and only after she sat beside him on the edge of her bed in her shift did she encourage him to tell her more.

“I told him all I knew of his sister Alys—what Jon had told me of her ride to the Wall to escape forced marriage to her cousin Cregan, and her subsequent marriage to the wildling lord.”

“I hope you didn’t call him that!”

He laughed briefly. “No, you’ve taught me better than that. I called him Sigorn, Magnar of Thenn.” He paused before continuing. “And I spoke of his great uncle Arnolf’s betrayal of Stannis Baratheon.” He sighed heavily. “Other than brave Lady Alys, I fear I had nothing good to say to the man of his family, my love. I cannot imagine that endeared me to him.”

“His brothers, Torrhen and Eddard, died protecting Robb, Ned. They were valiant boys who deserve our gratitude and our honor.”

“Aye. I said something of that. Although not so well as you do.” He sighed. “I wasn’t certain how to speak to the man at all, Cat. Thank the gods you send Sansa with me. She seemed to reach him better than I did. She is so like you.”

Catelyn laughed. “She looks like me. I look at her and see you more often than not.”

He shook his head. “I have no skill for putting a man at ease. Or a woman,” he added, scowling slightly, and she knew he thought of Daenerys Targaryen.

She leaned into him and touched her lips to his in the briefest of kisses. “I assure you that I am quite at ease, my lord,” she whispered.

He snorted and put his arms around him to pull her close to him. “A fact that speaks more to your tolerance than my charm, I am certain.” He sighed heavily then, obviously still thinking of his meeting with Harrion Karstark as he absently stroked her hair. “I did tell him I intend to recognize his lordship of the Karhold. It is his by rights. I asked that he remain in Winterfell long enough for us to make adequate plans for his return as the place is deserted. Or at least it was. Gods only know what manner of men may have taken up residence there in the aftermath of all that happened.”

“What did he say?”

“Oh, he said all the right words. Told me House Karstark remains as always sworn to House Stark. Whether or not he meant it . . .” He released her and sat straight up, shaking his head once more. “I think he might have called me liar to my face on more than one occasion had Sansa not been there easing the way between us.”

“So you cannot trust him?”

“Sansa says he cannot trust himself. He certainly doesn’t trust me. Mayhap, he trusts no one. It is not an easy thing to be held prisoner with no reliable word of all you hold dear. I lived that way for more more moons than I care to remember and thought myself going mad more than once. Harrion Karstark has been captive even longer, and I don’t think he was treated as kindly by his jailers as I was by Dak and his mother.”

“It will take time, Ned. He answered Robb’s call without hesitation along with his father and brothers. Surely there is honor in him. His father was not an evil man. Lord Rickard was . . . heartsick. Grief can do terrible things to a person’s soul, my love. I know that better than I would wish.” 

He nodded. “Sansa said something similar—about the man needing time.” He looked at her then. “I have no wish to speak more of Harrion Karstark this night, if you wouldn’t mind. I’ve honestly no wish to speak of anything at all for today has been full of words, and I am tired of them.”

“Then speak no more,” she said before pressing her lips to his once again, this time with no intention of pulling away. She was exhausted, and she knew he was, too, but physical fatigue did not ail him nearly so much as the cares and worries of this day and the long winter still ahead of them. She couldn’t remove those cares, but she could comfort her husband, and as his mouth opened to hers and his arms went around her once more, she knew that he wanted and needed such comfort.

They sat there together, arms wrapped around each other with lips pressed close as they breathed each other in. At first, there was merely the warmth and comfort of being held and touched by the one person in all the world whose arms could hold her like this, but slowly that warmth became a spark and then a flame of desire that she felt thoughout her body. She knew it was the same for Ned as his hands were now reaching for the hem of her shift, endeavoring to push it up and off her so that he could touch more of her bare skin even as she grabbed at the loose shirt he still wore, wanting it gone from him.

As soon as they were naked, he laid her back on the bed and stretched himself out half beside and half atop her, kissing her almost continuously—upon lips, cheeks, earlobes, necks, and on down to her nipples. One of his arms wound around her back, gripping her to him, and with the other he reached down between them to stroke her sex, and her hips began to move in response to his familiar, but always pleasurable touch.

With one hand she gripped the back of his head, curling her fingers in his hair as she encouraged him to continue kissing her. Her other other hand wrapped around his cock and stroked him, and she took pleasure in the way it hardened more with each stroke of her fingers until he began thrusting into her palm and his breathing became more ragged.

Wordlessly (for he’d had his fill of words, he’d said), she pulled him completely atop her and moved her hand down from his head to grip his arse and encourage him to do what his body so obviously desired now. He raised his face from where it was buried in her neck to look at her a moment, and then he captured her lips with his own again and answered her summons by sheathing himself inside her, joining the two of them where they fit so well together. 

As he began moving within her, she moved as well, raising her hips to meet his thrusts until they both found more than comfort, more than pleasure as they brought each other over the edge of that precipice of delicious sensation again, more than a physical release from the day’s tension. They found the clearest expression of a bond that could not be broken, a bond that made them always better together than either could be alone.When at last they lay sated and panting in each other’s arms, she didn’t need words to know that neither Harrion Karstark nor any other problem thrown their way could defeat them as long as they held on to each other.


	82. Escaping the Echoes of the Past

It was warm in the glass gardens, so warm that Sansa had removed her cloak and laid it aside. She now walked beside a large bed of leeks. They were growing well, and the expanse of green formed by their tops struck Sansa as unbelievably beautiful in a world gone almost entirely white and grey. Snow had a charm of its own, of course. There was something reassuring about its absoluteness—a clean, pure, sparkling blanket that covered everything ugly and made the world look new. But it covered up the colors as well, and she did miss the colors.

“Lady Stark! I did not know you were in here. I hope I do not intrude.”

She turned around to see Lord Karstark standing some distance behind her, having apparently just come in from outdoors. She recognized the cloak he was wearing as one of her father’s, and she smiled to see it. The clothes he’d arrived in had been woefully unsuited to the climate here—not nearly thick enough to be warm. While he and her father were of similar height, Harrion Karstark was thin almost to the point of emaciation, and the thick cloak appeared to nearly swallow the man, but at least he’d not freeze.

“Of course not, Lord Karstark,” she said courteously. “I only came in to see how our plants are faring. Mother generally speaks with the head gardener frequently, and she intended to come today. But Father had need of her in his solar for something, and my youngest brother will scarcely let her out of his sight today, so I told her I’d come.”

The man looked around, taking note of the fact that they were obviously the only two people in the gardens. When he looked back at her with a questioning expression on his face, Sansa laughed. “All of the gardeners left a few moments ago to take what they harvested today to the kitchens to be sorted, marked down, and properly stored.” She sighed. “I’m afraid we keep track of every turnip. This winter will last years, and we don’t intend to starve.”

“An admirable goal, my lady,” Lord Karstark said. “But why do you tarry here?”

He looked at her with that same thoughtful, wary expression upon his face that she had seen so frequently there in her father’s solar the day before—as if he couldn’t accept anything she said at face value and had to remain ever on his guard.

“I like the plants, my lord,” she said simply. “I miss the green of summer. Even the green of the sentinel pines is mostly obscured by snow now, and it will be for a long time.” She sighed. “I am a Stark of Winterfell, but I fear I do not remember the winter of my birth. I lived all my childhood in summer, and I miss the flowers.”

He nodded once. “I came in to get warm, Lady Stark. I recalled this place from the past when I came here with my father. It seems smaller now, though.”

“It is, my lord.” He had frowned when he mentioned his father, and she moved quickly past that. “The glass gardens were completely destroyed when Roose Bolton’s bastard sacked Winterfell. My lord father has had them rebuilt since our return and continues to expand them as glass is available, but it is a slow and difficult task in winter.”

“Lord Stark is very industrious,” he said, his frown deepening. “I saw men working very diligently at contructing something near your lichyard. A keep once stood there, didn’t it? I seem to recall something of the sort. Is he rebuilding that?”

“The First Keep,” Sansa said. “It was the oldest building in the castle and hadn’t been used in some time, my lord. It was finally destroyed completely by Bolton’s bastard. My lord father has commanded a monument erected there.”

“A monument? To his victories?” Harrion Karstark did not succeed in keeping the bitterness out of his voice then.

“No,” Sansa said almost coldly. “To our people who’ve died. To good Northmen like your brothers who gave their lives for justice and to all the men, women, and children killed by monsters both human and inhuman in these years of trouble.” She regarded him coolly. “There is not a soul in all the North who has not suffered in the coming of this winter, my lord. My father would have that remembered.”

He did not look away from her. He had rather blue-grey eyes, and very dark brown hair that was greying at the temples which made him look older than he was. Likely, he felt older than he was. Sansa knew that she did sometimes. If it weren’t for her parents’ return to her life, treating her as a daughter in need of protection, she thought she might have forgotten how to feel young entirely. After a long moment of silence, he nodded once. “That is a good thing,” he almost whispered.

“You are free, Lord Karstark. And returned to the North. That is a good thing,” she responded.

“Is it, Lady Stark?” he asked, and she couldn’t tell whether he was challenging her or honestly asking the question of her or himself.

“It is,” she said firmly. “And no one here calls me Lady Stark, you know,” she said, attempting to lighten the conversation. “That’s my mother.”

“Are you not a lady of House Stark?” he asked in all seriousness, and Sansa wondered if he ever smiled. If he remembered how. She’d met him at least once before, but she’d been a little girl then and remembered almost nothing about him. He’d been a man already, and she recalled his younger sister far better. She and Lady Alys had played together although the Karstark girl had been a year or two older. Lady Alys was dead now.

“I am,” she answered him. “But in Winterfell, I have always been Lady Sansa, and I confess I like to hear it better. It feels like home.” She hesitated, wondering how much she should share with this man who kept everything so closed up inside himself. “I was a prisoner, too, you know,” she whispered. “In King’s Landing, I was called Lady Stark by many people. And it was rarely spoken with true respect. And I was alone. I thought all my family lost. My parents were dead.” She shook her head as if the movement could shake the memories of that time from her mind. “Now, in Winterfell, to stand beside my mother and hear our people call her Lady Stark with all the respect she deserves . . . it is her title, and I am content to be Sansa, her daughter.”

To her great surprise, the man began to laugh. It was an ugly, bitter sound, and likely would have frightened her once upon a time. “Is that so, my lady?” he asked when his laughter had stopped. “Lady Sansa,” he said, stretching out the pronunciation of both words in a decidedly mocking fashion. “And what do you call me, Lady Sansa? Does it not enter your pretty little head that when I hear ‘Lord Karstark,’ I look for my father? You speak of your despair when your family was lost, and yet now you stand beside your parents again. And your brothers and sister. Will I stand beside my father again, my lady? I fear your brother’s blade left me no hope of that! And where are my brothers and sister? They will not be restored to me. No. I have nothing but this title—and an empty castle your lord father seems loath to let me claim.”

Sansa wanted to bite her tongue in two for her thoughtless words. Of course, he had no desire to hear of her joy in her reunion with her family. Why should he be glad in her joy over something he could never have. “Forgive me, my lord!” she said earnestly. “I spoke thoughtlessly, and I should know better.”

“What do you know of me at all, little girl?”

He spoke those words without any of the bitterness or anger that had infused his previous speech, but somehow that sentence made Sansa angrier than anything he’d said.

“I am not a child!” she spat at him. “I am five and ten, and I know well how it feels to have lost everything and everyone you love. I know what it is to trust no one and to fear that even your own thoughts are suspect. To wake every morning with survival as your goal even as you wonder why you wish to survive at all. I know what you feel, Lord Karstark. But you will never know what I feel now—the joy of recovering so much of what was lost. And for that, I am truly sorry, my lord. And I have no right to expect you to smile at my own good fortune. Because I do know how you feel.”

He simply stood there staring at her with an unreadable expression on his face, and she nodded at him as courteously as she could before walking past him to retrieve her cloak to leave.

“Lady Sansa!” he called out, and she turned to look at him.

He looked at her a moment before speaking. “You said you missed flowers. Are there none here? I seem to recall seeing some when I was here before—there were blue roses, were there not?”

Sansa nodded. “There were several different flowers, and always the blue winter roses. Now, we cannot spare the room, though. With the glass gardens so reduced in size, we must use all the space for growing food.”

“A loss,” he said softly. “A small one, to be sure. But a loss, nonetheless.”

She smiled in acknowledgement of his statement.

“You were not here the last time I was in Winterfell. When I came with my father and brothers to march south because your brother had called the banners,” he said, walking toward her. “We were all ready to fight for House Stark then. We were determined to see our liege lord freed. So many brave men. All of us in accord. My brothers were not yet twenty, you know. Older than your brother, to be sure, but still too young to die.”

“They were all too young,” Sansa whispered.

He looked at her a moment. “Lord Robb’s name day,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“That was the occasion for the visit to Winterfell during which I recall seeing you.”

She nodded. “Robb’s tenth name day,” she said. “Father and Mother had a large feast for the occasion. The castle was full of people for days. I had never been so excited for anything in my life. I was only a little girl. I’m surprised you took any notice of me.”

“I didn’t,” he said honestly. “Save to notice that you had the same remarkable hair color as your mother and brother and better manners than Alys even though you were younger. What were you? Eight or nine?”

“Seven,” she laughed.

“Ah. Alys loved you. Went on and on about you. I hoped your manners would rub off on her. She was always obstinate.”

“She was brave,” Sansa said. “My brother Jon told us he wished all of his men had the courage and honor of Alys Karstark.”

“For all the good it did her,” he said bitterly, looking away a moment. “But I do thank you, Lady Sansa. Now, I need to find your lady mother. I would speak to her if she has time.”

Sansa nodded. She and her father had both encouraged the man yesterday to seek out Mother as she had been present at the Whispering Wood when Torrhen and Eddard Karstark were killed defending Robb from the Kingslayer, and she had seen Robb take Lord Rickard Karstark’s head. Whatever truths he still needed to hear of those things, Mother could give him. If he chose to believe her. “She will make time for you, my lord. I will help you find her, if you like.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, extending his arm to escort her from the glass gardens.

Sansa didn’t speak with Lord Karstark again for several days. He kept to himself much of the time, either in the room he’d been given in the Great Keep or wandering the grounds in his somewhat ill-fitting borrowed cloak. He and Mother had spoken for some time after she’d taken him to her, but she didn’t know what all had been said for he had courteously, but plainly , made it clear he wished her to leave him alone with Mother. For all that he kept his thoughts to himself and obviously chose his words with care in order to reveal no more than he wished, he struck her as an essentially forthright man with little use for pretty words or prevarication. He reminded her of her father in that, and she wondered if it was a Northern characteristic. She realized she’d spent little time in the company of Northern lords since she’d been old enough take note of such things. Harrion Karstark certainly didn’t remind her of any of the lords she known in King’s Landing or the Vale.

Her mother had been very closed lipped about her conversation with the man, and she seemed to get upset when Sansa tried to ask her about it. She’d said only that the man seemed to accept the truth of what she’d told him although he’d had little to say about it. Mother had gone very quiet, and Father had snapped at Sansa when she’d continued to ask questions, so she’d let it go. Mother had kept to her chambers most of the remainder of that day which was unlike her so Sansa had gone to her father.

“Sit down,” he’d told her with a sigh when she asked if her mother was all right.

When she had sat down, he’d looked at her. “Your mother will be fine, but I do not want you to pester her about Harrion Karstark. Do you understand?”

“But did Lord Karstark upset her?”

“I don’t believe so. The conversation itself upset her. Being your mother, she would not speak anything other than the entire truth, and that was not easy for her. She almost cannot bear returning to that place and time when I was dead and Robb’s hope of success began to wane.”  
He’d shaken his head. “And speaking of Rickard Karstark to his son . . . that was very difficult.”

“But Robb did rightly,” Sansa had insisted. “Lord Karstark, the old Lord Karstark I mean, murdered those boys. It didn’t matter that they were Lannisters. That was wrong.”

“Aye,” her father had said. “Lord Karstark committed a grave crime, and Robb did rightly. He did what he must.” He’d paused, tightening his jaw. “But, Sansa, this was after your mother released the Kingslayer into Lady Brienne’s care—hoping that the woman could get him to King’s Landing to exchange for you and Arya.”

“I know all this, Father. What does it have to . . .”

“Jaime Lannister was your brother’s most valuable prisoner. Lord Karstark wanted him dead for killing Torrhen and Eddard in battle. Robb refused. He needed to hold the man as a bargaining chip. Then your mother just let him go.”

“Mother didn’t simply . . .”

“In Lord Karstark’s eyes, Sansa,” her father had interrupted. “And in the eyes of many of Robb’s men, that’s precisely what she did. Her own brother confined her to her chambers, but upon Robb’s return, rather than punish her in some way, he forgave her and freed her from her confinement. Then, despairing in grief and anger, Lord Karstark and his men killed the two Lannister boys Robb’s forces still held. And Robb took his head for it.”

“Mother didn’t kill anyone!” Sansa protested. “She only wanted to save Arya and me!”

“I know, Sansa. I do not fault your mother for what she did at all. Would that your brother had agreed to do it sooner. But her actions did enrage Lord Karstark. She has always felt the burden of that concerning what happened to those boys, to Lord Karstark himself, and eventually to Robb.”

“Mother is not to blame for Robb’s death!”

“No, she isn’t. And she knows that. But that knowledge doesn’t keep her from reliving those days and wondering about every decision she made, every action she took. I do the same thing when I look to the past. And I know you do as well. You’ve told me as much.”

“But I did go to the queen and . . .”

“And your actions caused all that happened afterward no more or less than your mother’s did. Or mine. To dwell on such things drives a person mad. Your mother is stronger than I am in many ways, and she does not allow herself to dwell on those things. She prefers to move forward. Yet, she would not deny her part to Lord Karstark’s son. However young Harrion reacted to her words, she had to go back there, and now she must set aside that burden again. Can you understand that?”

Sansa had realized she could understand that very well. The next morning Mother had seemed entirely herself, but Sansa had not again attempted to ask her about her conversation with Harrion Karstark. She’d had plenty to keep her busy the past few days, helping Mother with Brien, sewing with Jeyne, and talking with Mother and Father about Queen Daenerys’s proposal that she wed Willas Tyrell.

She’d never told them that the queen was not the first to propose such a match. She’d been such a fool in King’s Landing, wanting to believe there was a rescue for her after all. She still recalled the desperation with which she’d clung to Margaery Tyrell’s descriptions of her brother and the life Sansa would have in Highgarden. _Eddard, Brandon, and Rickon,_ she thought. The sons she would have and name for her dead father and brothers. She laughed now as she walked out from the Great Keep and thought that she sounded almost as bitter as Harrion Karstark had sounded in the glass gardens. _As if the Lord of Highgarden would want an heir with a Northern name. What a foolish little girl I was!_

She no longer imagined Willas Tyrell as the answer to a prayer. He was simply a man who might make an acceptable husband. She wondered if he knew how his grandmother had used her. If he approved of it. She didn’t think she could stand to be wed to a man who sanctioned treating her, or treating anyone, like that. _Maybe he never knew._ Margaery had always spoken of his kindness, yet Sansa no longer knew what truth had been in any of Margaery’s words. She still hoped there had been at least something true in the friendship the girl had shown her. She’d needed a friend, and it had felt so good to believe she had found one. She prayed that Margaery remained safe in King’s Landing. Whether she had been entirely false or not, Sansa had once thought to have her as a sister, and she knew well enough what it was to be held in King’s Landing against her will after her father’s execution.

If only Highgarden weren’t so far away, she could see her way to this marriage more easily. As long as the man was not a monster, there were benefits for her family as well as for the Queen, but wedding the Reach meant essentially giving up her family. Mother felt sad about not having seen Uncle Edmure’s son, and Riverrun was much closer than Highgarden. She’d be lucky to see any of her family members two or three more times in all her life. She could not imagine her Father ever going very far south again now that he knew what monsters dwelt beyond the Wall. And her mother would not be easily parted from her father.

They didn’t want to be parted from her either. They wanted her to refuse this proposal. She suspected that her mother would actually forbid her to consider it if her father would go along with that, and while Harrion Karstark’s arrival had taken attention off the matter of her possible betrothal, it seemed in their most recent conversations that Father was coming more and more to agree with Mother’s view. She didn’t want to leave them now. And she didn’t want to go so far away. But the simple truth was that she did want to wed one day. She couldn’t simply live out her life at Winterfell, staying out of the way of her brothers’ wives or playing Old Nan to their children. She wanted children of her own. That’s the one girlhood dream she’d held onto. She may never have what Mother and Father did, but she could have children to love and care for as she had been loved. And in spite of her parents’ insistence otherwise, she wondered if anyone would want to wed her now—anyone whose hand was not forced by Daenerys Targaryen, that is. He marriage to Tyrion Lannister was well known, and annulment or not, many would likely refuse to believe she was still a maiden.

“Keep your arm up, lad! She’ll knock you down again if you don’t!”

Sansa was shocked from her reverie by the sound of someone shouting instructions and realized that she’d come almost to the practice yard as she wandered lost in her thoughts. Surprisingly, it was Harrion Karstark who had shouted. He leaned upon the fence and seemed to be watching intently as Arya and Dak sparred.

“That’s it!” he called then. “Now extend your reach. You’ve got much longer arms, but you aren’t using that to your advantage!”

Curious as to how a man who spent his time speaking to no one had suddenly become a sword instructor for her sister and Dak, Sansa walked up to him. Just as she reached him, she heard Arya cry out and turned to face the combatants just in time to see her sister hit the ground.

“Damnation!” Arya swore.

“Arya!” Sansa cried in dismay and disapproval.

Dak extended his hand to help Arya rise, and she got to her feet glaring at Sansa. “Run off and tell Mother I’m swearing if you like!” she shouted, “But don’t stand there looking at me with her face!” 

Sansa heard a man’s laughter beside her, and she turned to see Harrion Karstark looking at her with actual amusement in his eyes. “You do look rather like your lady mother at the moment, Lady Sansa,” he said. “The way she looks when your little brother throws food to his direwolf in the Great Hall.”

Before Sansa could reply, another voice called out, “You were brilliant, Dak!” and she turned around to see Jeyne standing some distance away. Apparently she had been watching Arya and Dak as well. That surprised Sansa as much as the smile that threatened to appear on Lord Karstark’s face. While Jeyne had gotten much better about being outdoors as long as it was light, she had never had the slightest interest in swordfighting.

“Well, I wouldn’t call it brilliant, but it was good. Very good,” Arya said, grinning at the Pentoshi boy before turning to look toward Lord Karstark. “The next time you decide to watch us, you can give me pointers,” she said, still smiling.

“I’ve watched you before, my lady,” Lord Karstark told her. “From a greater distance. And you almost never lose to your friend here. I thought he needed assistance more than you did.”

“True,” Arya said. “But now that you’ve told him how to use those arms of his, I’ll likely need help. It isn’t like I can grow arms to match. Dak grows every day now!”

That was true enough. He wasn’t quite three and ten yet, but he had begun growing at an alarming rate. He was much taller than Arya, possibly taller than Jeyne, and getting close in height to Sansa. If he continued to grow like this, he’d easily grow taller than Father, although he did remain whipcord thin.

“You’re quicker, my lady,” Lord Karstark responded without hesitation. “It is unlikely you would ever face an opponent smaller than yourself so you must use your quickness to negate the advantage of height and reach. I am helping you. Had I allowed this young man to continue to fight in such a lazy manner, you would have continued to think yourself better than you are.”

“Hey!” Dak and Arya both protested at the same time, but then Arya laughed. “Thank you for the lesson, my lord.” She looked around the yard. Several men were also there to practice. “If you would like to spar, Lord Karstark, we could find you a worthy opponent. Certainly someone better than Dak or me.”

Sansa was watching Lord Karstark’s face as Arya spoke, and she did not miss the shadow that passed over it at her words. 

“I thank you, my lady, but I think not.” He turned to walk away, and Sansa followed him.

“Lord Karstark!” she called.

He stopped and turned back toward her, his face now wearing that same guarded expression she was used to seeing there.

“Where are you going, my lord?” she asked as pleasantly as she could.

He scowled though. “Are my movements subject to restriction, Lady Stark?” he asked her.

“Of course not. I thought mayhap you would like company. I see now how foolish that was.”

He looked at her and his scowl lessened. “I thought to walk in the godswood. You are welcome to accompany me. It is your godswood after all.”

She almost told him no. She had enough troubles on her mind and didn’t need to add Harrion Karstark’s angry outbursts to the tally. But she wondered about his sudden interest in Dak’s skill with a sword. And about what the shadow on his face had meant. She nodded and moved to walk beside him, and he offered his arm.

“It isn’t my godswood,” she said. “The woods here are older than Winterfell itself. I would say the Starks belong to the godswood more than the other way around.”

“You have an interesting way of looking at things.”

She shrugged. “I look at things as the are, or at least I try to. Once upon a time, I saw things only as I wanted them to be, but I learned very painfully what folly that is.”

He said nothing to that so after a moment she said, “You appear to be quite knowledgeable about sword fighting, my lord.”

He barked a laugh that resembled the bitter laughter from the other day more than the laughter she’d heard from him by the practice yard. “I was once a rather fair hand with a sword, believe it or not.”

“Why wouldn’t I believe it?” she asked.

“I did allow myself to be captured not once, but twice. That hardly speaks to battle prowess.”

“My father says that any man can fall in battle, and any man can be captured. It isn’t a matter of single combat where the best man wins. It’s any number of men doing whatever they can to stay alive and kill the men who want to kill them.”

“I’d have thought your father more likely to speak of battles with your warrior sister if he wished to instruct a daughter in warfare, my lady.”

Sansa frowned at him. “My lord father speaks with all of us about a great many things. Especially since we’ve all returned to Winterfell. He wants to protect us all. So many terrible things happened to everyone. I don’t think he believes we would be well served by remaining in ignorance of anything in this world now.”

He regarded her carefully. “You think highly of him, don’t you?”

“My father? He’s the best man I know.”

“I would call those simply the words of a loyal daughter, but I’ve heard them spoken of Eddard Stark by others as well.” He sighed. “Here is the godswood, my lady.”

He removed her hand from his arm in order to open the gate and wait for her to pass through ahead of him. 

“Would you like to go to the heart tree, my lord?” she asked him.

“I thought the glass gardens might be nice.”

“All right.” 

They walked through the godswood without speaking. When they reached the glass gardens, they found several gardeners there working. “They won’t mind us, my lord,” Sansa assured him. 

He nodded and followed her inside. She led him to a small stone bench near the back. It had once sat in the flower garden portion of the old structure and had survived the destruction of Ramsay Snow. Her father had promised her mother there would be flowers again and commanded that the bench remain here.

“You seem to have a fondness for the gardens, my lord,” she said. “I wish they were as worthy of admiration as they once were.”

“They are a miracle,” Lord Karstark said. “We have a small glass garden at the Karhold, but without the warmth from the ground which you have in abundance, we can grow but poor fare. It does help to stave off starvation. And the bounty of the sea is near enough that it helps feed us in winter, too.”

“Your castle is in the woods, is it not?”

“Aye,” he said, and she heard the echo of her father in both the Northern cadence of his speech and the slight softening of his voice when he spoke of home. “In deep woods at the headwaters of a stream too large to be creek, but too small to be proper river. We can sail very small boats on it in summer, but in winter it feezes over and makes a quick, flat roadway toward the sea for sleighs.” He smiled at her. “There are no hot springs to heat our crops and our walls, but every room has a hearth and we never lack for for firewood. It isn’t a cold place at all. Not to me.”

“It sounds lovely,” she said, and she meant it. “My father always said it was good land that had been given to Karlon Stark.”

His smile grew a bit wider. “You know your history. We are cousins after a fashion, my lady.” His eyes darkened then. “Which makes your brother a kinslayer.”

“Robb was not a kinslayer!” she shouted at him, standing up from the bench. “The Karstarks have been their own House for generations. We are no more related to you than to any other Northern House through marriages over the years!”

“Aye! Northern marriages were good enough for the Starks until Lord Rickard decided he needed Lord Hoster’s daughter. You’ve told me you admire your father. What of the woman who freed my brothers’ murderer?”

He’d nearly shouted his first word but the offensive words about her mother were spoken in his usual controlled voice. 

“Your brothers were not murdered!” she flung at him. “They were killed in battle defending their liege. They would have killed the Kingslayer if they had been able. Would they have been murderers if they succeeded?”

“They did die protecting Robb Stark,” the man still seated on the bench said quietly. “And your mother set the man who killed them free. Jaime Lannister was an enemy of the crown. Her actions were treason, my lady. There is no denying that.”

Sansa was trembling. “She never denied that. She confessed what she had done immediately and submitted herself to my brother’s judgment.”

Harrion laughed his ugly bitter laugh. “I doubt she feared her son would imprison her, much less take her lovely head.”

“She didn’t care,” Sansa said very softly.

“What?”

“She didn’t care,” she said again somewhat more loudly. “Her husband was dead. Her younger sons were dead. That’s right, my lord, all believed her sons were as dead as your father’s were, indisputedly murdered with their heads placed upon spikes on Winterfell’s walls.”

“My lady,” Lord Karstark said quickly, looking at her as if he were suddenly concerned for her, but she continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

“I was held in King’s Landing and my sister was missing. Do you think my mother grieved any less than your father, my lord? Do you think she felt less rage? Yet, in her rage, she did not kill children. No. Nor did she free the Kingslayer. She bid Brienne of Tarth take him to King’s Landing and offer him in trade for my sister and myself. She wanted us back.”

“She robbed my father of his vengeance,” he whispered.

“No,” Sansa said coldly. “My brother would never have stopped fighting, even if my mother had begged him to. He would have kept fighting, and had your father and the other men stayed true to him, he might have had victory against those who truly wronged the North. But your father decided his vengeance was better served by the death of two children. Do not lay his crime at my mother’s feet. Nor his death at my brother’s. Lord Rickard chose his own path.”

She turned and walked away from him then. “Lady Sansa!” he called after her, loudly enough that the gardeners working at the other side of the building looked up, and she wondered if she’d shouted loudly enough for them to hear her words before. She turned back to look at him, not wanting him to shout again. He was standing up now.

“Lady Sansa,” he repeated. “Please.” He motioned to the bench.

“I am hot,” she said, not wishing to remain in the gaze of other people. “If you would speak with me, walk with me.”

She turned again toward the door, and he followed her. The cold air hit her like a slap when she stepped outside, but she welcomed it. “What else have you to say to me?” she asked coldly. “I have several other family members if you wish to slander them as well.”

“I told you I was a fair swordsman,” he said, and she tried to think what that had to do with the topic at hand. “I told you truly. The second time I was captured—it was a hedge knight, a man with almost no skill, and I had him subdued. He’d surrendered to me, and I turned to get something to bind his hands when I heard him shout.”

Sansa still couldn’t imagine what this had to do with Robb, her mother, or his father, but he spoke with a quiet intensity and his eyes were far away, so she remained silent and waited.

“He shouted an order. An order to attack, and I couldn’t imagine who he called upon as we were somewhat separated from the main battle, but I heard a sound behind me and whirled around to see someone flying at me. I didn’t think. I only reacted. I put out my sword, and he ran straight upon it. And that’s when I saw that he was a boy. Not even an older boy. A small one. Dead by my hand. The hedge knight jumped up when he saw me standing as if struck senseless. He took my sword and hit me over the head with the hilt of it. I woke to find myself bound and tossed across the rump of a horse.” He swallowed. “That is the last time I ever held a sword, my lady.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

“I had hoped my father was a better man,” he said. “That he had better reason to kill boys who had no hope of escape. Your lady mother’s words . . .” He swallowed again. “How am I to be the lord of anything when I am afraid to hold a sword, my lady? I had no chance to hold one until I arrived here. Your father offered me steel almost at once, as if he had no fear I might attempt to run him through with it. I . . . I didn’t know what to make of that.”

“My father does not fear you, my lord. He truly wants you to have the Karhold. It is yours. He only wishes you to recover from your ordeal and to obtain enough men and household staff for you to make life in the Karhold feasible.” 

“Empty,” he said. “I cannot imagine it empty. It never was.”

She nodded. “I could not imagine Winterfell burned,” she said. “Until I saw the scorch marks on the walls, the First Keep in rubble, and my mother’s sept razed to the ground.” She looked at him. “It will not be easy for you to return there, my lord. But you must. It is your home, and I promise you will make it your home again.”

He looked at her and nodded slowly. “If I am to have a home, I must be able to defend it. I suppose I should ask your Captain of the Guard if I might spar with his men.”

“Deryk would be pleased to assist you with that, my lord.”

“And then I shall hope that I can become better than my father even if I do share his sin.”

“You committed no sin, my lord. No crime. The hedge knight who would use a child in such manner is to blame. You murdered no one. But if you feel you need absolution, the gods will surely give it.”

“I haven’t been before your heart tree,” he admitted. “I’ve been almost every other place in this castle for I fear I am restless. But I have found myself unable to pray before the weirwood’s face.” 

“The heart tree is always there, my lord.” She thought of something Bran had said. “Trees don’t see time the way people do, you know. They are hundreds and hundreds of years old. I cannot imagine the gods see time as we do, either. They will be there, my lord. When you are ready.”

He smiled at her then, a sad sort of smile, but a real one. “You do, indeed, have an interesting way of looking at things, my lady.”

“So you told me, my lord.”

“I am very glad to have met you, Lady Sansa Stark.”

She returned his smile. “I am glad of that.” She sighed. “I fear I must return to the Keep, my lord. Would you come with me?”

“I believe I shall remain in the godswood a bit longer, if you do not mind, my lady.”

She nodded and took her leave of him. As she walked back to the Great Keep, she wondered if he would go to the heart tree. 

He was as good as his word about the sword training. Sansa heard from Arya that he’d gone to Deryk and begun sparring with the men of Winterfell the very next day. Her sister’s assessment of him was ‘obviously rusty, but not without skill.’ 

He began spending more time with her father as well, actively taking part in the plans for making the Karhold habitable once more. With the Dreadfort manned by a very small number of men from Winterfell and Castle Cerwyn as the young Bolton heir remained with his mother at Barrowton, she knew her father worried that so much of his eastern lands were essentially without leadership, particularly as House Umber was so involved with the defense of the Wall to the north. He wanted Harrion back in his place as soon as it was feasible, but he wanted to know Harrion could be a good lord and a loyal bannerman. 

Interestingly, her father had begun to spar once more with the men—not daily and not for long periods, but it was more than he had done since the last injury to his leg. While he would never be the swordsman he once was on foot, Sansa thought he carried his sword with a bit more pride now that he knew he could at least swing it competently if faced with an enemy. Her mother still chewed upon her lip whenever she felt Father pushed his leg too far, but Sansa knew from the smile that played upon her face when she’d watch him at swords from a distance that Mother saw how good this was for Father, too.

Sansa didn’t spend too much time watching sword practice, and when she did, she tended to watch from a distance. Mother never went close when Father sparred because for whatever reason, Father was always more dissatisfied with his limitations when he knew she watched him. Sansa had discovered that Lord Karstark tended to berate himself more when she came out to watch with Jeyne, and so she stayed away, although his reaction to her presence stung a bit. She’d thought they’d become friends of a sort.

As more days passed, he did at least speak to people at meals in the Great Hall, and his smile, while still infrequent, was no longer non-existent. He appeared gradually to reach some level of ease with everyone except Mother. The two of them were not hostile to each other, but they spoke very little, and neither seemed particularly comfortable in the other’s presence. Perhaps there was simply too much in their past for them to overcome it, but Sansa hoped that wasn’t the case. They’d all overcome so much, after all. 

Other than Mother, the person Lord Karstark was most likely to avoid now was herself, and she didn’t understand that at all. He had told her plainly he was glad to have met her. Yet, now he seemed to want nothing to do with her. Of course, it could simply be that the man was busy now that he’d decided to be who he was. She had been busy as well. And anxious.

Her father had finally crafted a response to Queen Daenerys with her assistance. Her mother had fought them on it, but had been placated at least somewhat by the fact that nowhere in the letter did they actually agree to wedding her to Willas Tyrell. Instead, her father had written that he might consider such a match, but only if it were requested of him by the man himself. He did not know Lord Tyrell and would want to hear his own thoughts on the subject before even considering a match between him and Sansa.

“Among other matches we are considering,” her mother had insisted upon adding.

Sansa had laughed at that. She had received no other offers, and was uncertain if she ever would, but her mother had been insistent, and her father had included it.

Now, she could only wait. She honestly didn’t know if she hoped that Lord Willas would write that he was enthusiastic about wedding her or that he didn’t want her at all. For all that she was glad that no immediate danger faced any of her family and she certainly could find tasks enough to fill her days, she found herself feeling like all her life was a matter of waiting now. Waiting for Queen Daenerys to solidify her hold on the Iron Throne. Waiting to see if the White Walkers would return. Waiting for the monument in the lichyard to be completed and the ice dragon eggs to be removed from Mother’s chambers. Waiting to see if she would marry Willas Tyrell. Or anybody ever. Waiting for a summer that was likely years away.

Fortunately, she had the occasion of Brien’s name day feast to distract her. Her mother wished it to be a true celebration. Invitations had even been sent out, although with little expectation of most people actually making the journey. Her parents would never compel anyone to travel in winter. Wynafred Manderly was coming, though, all the way from White Harbor, and Sansa couldn’t wait to see her. She’d quite liked Lord Manderly’s granddaughter when she’d met her on that rocky beach so long ago. Supply trains came fairly regularly from White Harbor, and Wynafred had written of her intent to ride to Winterfell with one of them along with her younger sister Wylla. Lord Ronnel Stout had declared his intent to attend as had Lady Eddara Tallhart of Torrhen’s Square. She was only about Arya’s age, Sansa thought. Lady Jonella Cerwyn had sent her regrets in spite of being the closest to Winterfell. It seemed that she was finally with child. Over thirty and unwed when she’d inherited the seat upon the deaths of her father and brother, she’d finally wed Ser Kyle Condon, who’d been in service to her father, Lord Medger, for a long time. Father had sent him back with Lady Cerwyn to assist het, and Sansa supposed she had realized she needed an heir and decided just to marry the man. Brandon Tallhart, whom Father had made Lord of Hornwood was coming. He was of an age with Robb. Or he would be—if Robb still lived. All other Houses had sent their regrets. In truth, Sansa’s parents had been surprised that any lords and ladies intended to brave winter’s fury.

Skies over Winterfell were clear, and Sansa hoped they remained so for the guests should start arriving any day now. She had been helping her mother with preparations and enjoying it. As stressful as the proposed marriage with Highgarden was, once Father’s letter had been sent, there was at least nothing for she and Mother to argue about at the moment, and she was grateful for that. 

She’d also been busy with another project which she had finally completed, and that is why she sought Lord Karstark now. She’d caught him long enough at the midday meal to ask if she might speak with him, and he’d told her he needed to get to the practice yard while the light lasted as he’d spent the hours before the meal in Father’s solar. She’d scarcely been able to ask him to seek her out when he returned to the Great Keep before he’d turned and gone from the Hall.

He hadn’t sought her out, though, and it was nearly time for the evening meal. Thus, she found herself holding a large wrapped parcel and knocking on the door of the room he’d been given.

The door opened without any spoken response, and he drew in his breath sharply when he saw her standing there. “Lady Sansa,” he said. “I . . . did not expect to see you here.”

“I don’t know why, my lord. I did tell you I had need to speak with you.”

He swallowed. “I did not think you meant in my chambers, my lady,” he said with a hint of disapproval in his voice that reminded Sansa almost comically of the tone her mother took at times. 

“You left me no choice, did you?”

“I . . . forgive me, my lady. I knew I would see you in the Great Hall, and I thought . . .”

“I asked you to find me here,” she said with a slight frown. “It is much colder here once the sun sets, and I thought you might want this before going to the Hall tonight.” With that, she thrust the parcel into his hands and turned to go.

“My lady . . . wait!” he called after her. “What is this?”

“Open it and see,” she replied without turning around.

“No! I mean, wait! Please come back.”

She turned around to see him standing in the corridor holding the parcel and staring at her with some mixture of confusion and distress on his features. “Please stay while I open it,” he said softly.

“I’m not standing about in the corridor,” she replied.

“But . . . my lady . . . you are unchaperoned. To come into my chamber . . .”

“Do you intend to attack me, Lord Karstark?”

He looked rather offended, and she hurried on lest he begin to believe that was a serious question on her part. “We have been alone together any number of times, my lord. I trust in your honor, and I know you respect mine.” She smiled at him. “If my presence is such an affront to your sensibilities, leave the door open. I promise you no one here will think poorly of either of us.”

He hesitated, but moved out of the doorway to allow her into his room. It was a fairly large chamber with a decent bed. The guest chambers in the Great Keep had not yet been returned to the state they had been in before the castle had been burned, but progress had been made here and in the Guest House. This room was actually fairly nice, although what struck Sansa most strongly as she entered was that the man had been here for weeks now, and it looked almost exactly as it had the day she and Mother had selected it for him. There were no obviously personal items anywhere. He’d arrived with nothing and accumulated little.

“Sit down, my lady,” she heard him say as he came into the room behind her, and she seated herself on one of two chairs present. 

“Are you going to keep growing it?” she asked and then covered her mouth in embarrassment as she realized she’d asked a rather personal question, but when he’d turned toward her, she’d taken note that the whiskers which had been growing upon his chin lately had become a proper beard. Not a very long one yet, but as thick as Father’s. It was dark brown like his hair, with a few grey strands noticeable in the well lit room. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was rude of me.”

He looked at her as if confused, and then he laughed suddenly, bringing his fingers up to stroke his chin. “Oh, the beard! Aye. I thought I’d grow it again. It’s a lot warmer with a beard, I tell you. I’d worn one since I was old enough to grow it until . . .” He shook his head. “It isn’t a subject fit for ladies, but I wasn’t held in the best of places, Lady Sansa. Beard was crawling with lice when I was taken to Castle Darry. They at least let me shave it there.” He smiled a little. “First time I hadn’t itched in a long time.”

The thought of lice made Sansa shudder, but she kept her face expressionless. “I like it,” she said. “The beard, I mean. You look even more like a Northman than you already did, and that is saying something.”

He looked stronger, too. He was still thin, but unlike everyone else in the castle who seemed to be getting just a bit leaner on the rationed meals, Harrion must have been nearly starved in captivity for he had put on a bit of weight. Still not enough to make Father’s old cloak fit him properly.

“Open it,” she said, nodding at the parcel when he did not speak.

He looked at her a moment more in silence before loosening the twine that bound up the parcel. When the wrapping cloth fell away, he stared into his lap in silence running his hand over the white sunburst she had carefully stitched, and she held her breath.

“This . . . this is a beautiful thing, my lady,” he said finally.

“It’s a cloak,” she said stupidly. “Hold it up and see all of it. It’s black wool rather than fur because that’s what I had to hand, but it’s thick wool, and I lined it. I did find some black bear fur for around the hood.” She was talking very quickly, and she pressed her lips together to make herself be quiet.

He stood up and shook the cloak out to view its full length. It was simple in design, really, and once she’d discovered the wool was available and received her mother’s approval, it hadn’t taken much time to sew it. The only time consuming part had been embroidering the sunbursts with white thread—a large one on the back of the cloak and two smaller ones at the front of each shoulder.

He looked at the cloak for what seemed to Sansa a very long time. Then he looked up at her and whispered a single word in a rather hoarse voice. “Why?”

She’d expected him to thank her. Or possibly to protest that she shouldn’t have gone to such trouble for him. She hadn’t expected that question or the almost pained look on his face. She swallowed. “Because my father’s cloak doesn’t really suit you. Because you are Lord Karstark. You deserve to wear the sigil of your House.”

He looked at her a long while. “You humble me, my lady,” he said finally. “I thank you for this, but I am not worthy of it.”

“What do you mean? Of course, you are. That’s why I made it for you.”

He laughed then, and while his old bitterness wasn’t there, she heard something sad in his laugh. He walked to the bed and laid the cloak upon it with care bordering upon reverence, and then he walked toward the hearth. He stood there looking into the flames rather than at her as he began to speak.

“I am six and twenty, my lady—born the heir of a House which has lasted a thousand years. Yet I am unwed. Never even betrothed. Does that not surprise you?”

She supposed it should have. Most lords had children by that age in order to assure their succession. She honestly hadn’t thought about it. “My Uncle Edmure didn’t marry until well into his twenties,” she said because she could think of nothing else to say. She thought of the Manderly daughters and young Lady Eddara even now coming toward Winterfell. If Lord Karstark wanted a wife, her father would certainly help him find one. Lady of the Karhold was a noble title for a Northern maiden to gain.

“Do you wonder why I am unwed?” he said, turning to look at her.

“I . . . I hadn’t thought about it, my lord. It isn’t my place.”

He laughed again at that and looked again toward the fire. “I am unwed, Lady Sansa, because my father was an ambitious man. A brave man. A loyal man. A man who cared greatly for his children. But proud. And always ambitious.”

Sansa sat on her chair looking up at him, waiting for him to continue.

“I am unwed because when I was one and ten, my father came to me and told me he had splendid news. Lady Stark had borne our liege lord a daughter. And my father would see that daughter become my bride.”

Me. He means me, Sansa thought slowly. Her brain seemed to move slowly, as if his words came to her through some thick fog. 

He walked toward her then. “I heard about you frequently from my father after that. When I was three and ten and he found me kissing our steward’s daughter, he lectured me for nearly an hour about how Eddard Stark would never wed his daughter to a man without honor, and I could never allow myself to be accused of ill treating young ladies or serving girls.” He laughed. “It was only a kiss. I’d only just realized what girls were.” He shook his head slowly. “I lied when I said I didn’t take notice of you during your brother’s name day feast. You didn’t interest me, I confess. I looked at you and saw a child like Alys. But my father came into our room one night in a foul temper, railing that Lord Stark wouldn’t allow a betrothal. My mother told him to calm down. That you were far too young to be betrothed, and he should focus his efforts more on making a match between your brother Robb and my sister Alys for they were of an age. He laughed and told her he had mentioned it to Lord Stark, but so had every other lord with a daughter between the ages of one and twenty. Besides, he feared that Lord Stark’s southron wife would urge him to look to the South as Lord Rickard had. Then he looked at me and said, ‘Never you worry about it, though, my lad. You’ll give that girl a cloak. I promise you.”

He looked at the cloak lying on the bed. “My father was wrong. You have given me a cloak instead. Not because you want something from me, but because you would see me wear the sigil of my House. You honor me, Lady Sansa, but you shame my father’s pride and anger. And you shame the anger I’ve held onto toward your House.”

He bowed his head. 

“I never knew,” Sansa said softly. “Father never told me any of this.”

“You were a child,” he said. “You were still a child when you went south to wed Prince Joffrey. That displeased my father greatly, of course, but before he had a chance to find me another girl of high birth, your father was arrested and your brother called the banners. And we all came to fight for Eddard Stark and the North. An ambitious man, my father. And an angry one then. But loyal. Whatever else he was, he was that.”

“He was one of the first to declare my brother king,” Sansa whispered. “My mother told me that.”

Harrion nodded. “Lord Umber called for it, and then my father declared his allegiance immediately. Your mother told me that as well.”

Sansa didn’t know what else to say. “The cloak is yours, Lord Karstark,” she said. “Please accept it.”

“I have never been given anything I valued more,” he said. “I will treasure it, my lady.”

Sansa smiled at him, but his tale had left her feeling unsettled. “I will leave you now. I must go to my own room and prepare for the evening meal.”

“I shall see you there, my lady.”

She took the hand he offered to help her rise from the chair and wondered if she imagined that he held hers just slightly longer than was proper. She turned and walked to the door as soon as he released her.

“Lady Sansa,” he said when she had reached the door, and she turned to find his blue-grey eyes looking directly into hers. “My father repeatedly told me you were the greatest prize in the North. He didn’t know you at all, and his reasoning was fueled by his own ambition. But damned if he wasn’t right.”

Before she could think of any response to that, he turned his back on her and walked back to run his hand along the cloak she had made him. Sansa left the room, quietly closing the door behind her. As she walked back toward her own room, she wondered if her gift had been more kindness or cruelty. She wondered what precisely his last words to her had meant. And she wondered for the first time in a long time if there were more paths open to her than she had thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. So this was supposed to be the last chapter with the two final POVs--Sansa's and Ned's. But it turns out that Sansa had a great deal to say and Ned as even more, so they each get their own chapter. I can't imagine that anyone who's read this far is surprised by this fact. ;) 
> 
> The good news is that I have most of Ned's already written, so I should have it posted within a week instead of taking over three weeks! :D


	83. The Stark in Winterfell

Ned Stark watched his wife spinning to the music in Ronnel Stout’s arms and silently cursed his leg. While it pained him little enough to walk even long distances these days, it moved with barely enough agility for him to successfully challenge even a boy Rickon’s age with a sword. He’d been a poor enough dancer with two good legs, and he couldn’t imagine even making an attempt at it now. Yet, Catelyn moved with the same grace she had exhibited at their wedding feast when she’d steadfastly refused to grimace when he stepped heavily upon her feet, pushing away his apologies with a brave and courteous smile.

 _I found you remarkable then,_ he thought. _And I didn’t even know you. I didn’t love you then._ As he watched her now, laughing at something Stout had said, he could barely believe there had ever been a time he didn’t love Cat. She was as essential to him as air and water, and loving her was as effortless as breathing. Her eyes found him as she danced, and the smile she gave him warmed him more than his wine.

He returned her smile, the small twinge of jealousy and bitterness disappearing. He wanted his lady to dance and smile for she had suffered too much these past years. And he knew well enough whose arms would hold her when the dancing was over. His eyes moved over the floor, and he laughed at Rickon attempting to follow the instructions of Wyman Manderly’s younger daughter as they danced. The girl had rather shocking green hair, but a spirited laugh and rather infectious smile. She’d forced Dak into dancing as well, and Ned had laughed at the panic on that boy’s face when she’d led him out onto the floor. The younger Lady Manderly was roughly Sansa’s age, and while she certainly caught the eye of many of the young men in attendance, to Ned’s eyes she appeared more a laughing child, and he shuddered to recall how Wyman had once suggested to him that he actually wed this girl. That memory caused his eyes to go back to his wife as if to reassure himself that she truly did dance within his castle and would lie tonight within his arms.

“Ban!” 

The guest of honor began bouncing up and down in his lap, having spied one of his brothers seated in his wheeled chair not far away in cheerful conversation with Jeyne Poole, Dak, and the young Lady Tallhart.

“You want your brother, do you?” he asked the wiggling child with a smile. In truth, he’d thought Brien would be asleep long before now, but it seemed almost as if he realized this celebration was for him. He’d cried very little, and his bright blue eyes had sparkled all evening as he’d been passed from person to person and allowed to toddle about on sturdy little legs always in the care of a parent or sibling.

“Dak!” he shouted, and Ned laughed. It seemed the youngest Stark added a new word to his vocabulary daily, almost hourly sometimes. The other children had been rather annoyed when he’d said Bran’s name first, and Arya, in particular, had huffed and pouted when he’d begun saying ‘Dak’ as well. Catelyn’s pointing out that these two names were merely easier for him to pronounce did little to mollify her irritation that he did not yet say Arya, Sansa, or Rickon.

“All right, son,” he said, rising from his seat to carry Brien toward the group of young people. Brien squirmed to be put down, and Ned set him down to run the last little bit. Bran, Dak, and Jeyne all extended their arms to him, and the tot grabbed for Jeyne’s.

“Traitor,” Bran muttered, as Jeyne picked him up.

“He has good taste,” Dak said with a shrug. “Jeyne’s prettier than we are.”

Ned watched a slight blush come to the girl’s cheeks at Dak’s words. Vayon’s daughter had hesitated to come tonight. While she had gotten quite comfortable being most places in Winterfell during the brief daylight hours and even coming to the Great Hall through the darkened courtyard for morning and evening meals when accompanied by someone she trusted, she’d been a bit more fearful since the guests began arriving to the castle, and a large gathering taking place entirely after dark had given her pause. Recalling her fondness for such feasts as a child, Ned and Catelyn had supported their children in encouraging her to attend. Now, in spite of the fact that she would not dance or even leave Bran’s side for fear someone might ask her to, she did seem to be enjoying herself. Ned hoped that somehow his old faithful steward could see that his daughter was home now. That he knew she was healing.

“Where are your sisters?” Ned asked with a smile as Jeyne scooped little Brien up for Lady Eddara to coo over.

“I think Arya’s still dancing,” Bran said, craning his neck to look around. “Who’d have thought that!”

“Lady Arya is dancing with my cousin, my lord,” Eddara Tallhart volunteered, and Ned looked to see that indeed the Lord of Hornwood was spinning Arya around. Young Brandon Tallhart had danced with any number of girls, but Ned had noticed that he paid more attention to Sansa and Arya than any others. He wondered if the man thought to further secure his appointment as lord by a marriage pact. After all, Ned had given him Hornwood. If he gave him one of his daughters as well, he’d not likely be persuaded to go back on that decree. Of course, Ned had no intention to go back on it in any case, but he had to admit such thinking would be wise on Lord Brandon’s part.

Arya was indeed dancing with him, Ned saw. The two of them moved about the floor more than many of the other couples as they danced, and they were both laughing. Ned nearly laughed himself at the way his younger daughter seemed almost to attack the dance steps with the same energetic enthusiasm she brought to her sparring. Arya continued to laugh when a young guardsman of Winterfell came up to her as the song ended, although the smile fled from Tallhart’s face when she allowed the other young man to lead her away as the next song started. Within a few moments, however, the Lord of Hornwood took his eyes from Arya and the guardsman Ned now recognized as one of her more frequent sparring partners and began searching the assembly for someone. Likely for Sansa.

“Oh!” Bran said then. “Sansa’s still over there with Lady Wynafryd.”

Ned turned to find both Sansa and Wynafryd Manderly speaking with Harrion Karstark who was standing up, apparently having risen from his seat courteously at the girls’ approach. He didn’t look happy, however.

“Wylla’s sister’s been trying to get him dance all evening,” Dak piped up, and his informal use of the younger Manderly daughter’s name made Ned frown. Usually, the Pentoshi boy was very good about proper titles, and he wondered if the familiarity Dak had learned with the Stark children had caused him to slip in his use of courtesies.

“Don’t growl at him, Father,” Bran said, and Ned looked at his son to see him regarding him with a knowing smile. “Wylla’s almost as bad as Arya about titles. She told us we were friends now, and just to call her by her name.”

“I have no intention of growling at anyone, Bran,” Ned told him somewhat severely. “And if Lady Wylla asked you to address her by her given name only, then of course you may accede to the lady’s wishes. But when you speak of her to others, you will give her the courtesy and respect she is due. Do you both understand me?”

“Yes, Father.” “Yes, milord,” the two boys said simultaneously.

“Dak,” Jeyne said then, drawing out the short name as if it had more syllables. “Like we practiced.”

“Yes, my lord,” Dak said clearly, separating the two words. Then he looked up at Ned ruefully. “Jeyne says as that if I’m treated like a member of the Stark household, I should speak like one rather than like a stable boy.”

That caused Ned to laugh. “Well, if you wish to speak properly, I cannot imagine a better teacher than Jeyne,” he told him.

At that point, Wylla Manderly and Rickon joined them. Rickon yawned widely and flopped down into a vacant chair, but Lady Wylla asked Lady Eddara brightly, “Want to come see if we can convince Lord Dour Face to dance? My sister keeps failing miserably, and I’d love to do better.”

“Lord Stark has come to speak with us,” Lady Eddara told her, “and brought little Lord Brien for a visit.” She looked up at the other girl almost reproachfully as if she were the older one rather than three or so years younger.

Wylla Manderly looked up at Ned and dropped into a quick curtsy. “Forgive me, my lord. I meant no discourtesy. I only wish to have everyone enjoy your wonderful feast.”

“Including Lord Dour Face?” Ned asked raising a brow. He couldn’t help but wonder how often a similar moniker had been applied to him. He suspected it was fairly frequent.

The girl didn’t lower her eyes or blush. She did smile, though. “I mean no harm by it. But Lord Karstark hasn’t danced once. And you must admit he doesn’t smile.”

“He does,” Ned assured her with exaggerated gravity. “I’ve seen it—once. Or maybe twice.” Then he shocked her by smiling widely himself. “Why don’t you go and assist my daughter and your sister. Surely, the man will not be able to refuse so many charming ladies.”

The girl’s eyes sparkled then, and Ned thought she really was a pretty little thing when she smiled so brightly, even with that garish green hair. “Very well, my lord. I shall do my best.” With another quick curtsy, she turned and left them, nearly skipping toward Lord Karstark, Sansa, and Lady Wynafryd.

“She means well,” Lady Eddara said softly as she went. “Please don’t think ill of her, my lord.”

Ned looked at the young lady in surprise. “I do not, Lady Tallhart, I assure you. Do you know young Lady Wylla well?”

She smiled a bit sadly. “I’ve been told I met her when I was very small and Father took Benfred and me to White Harbor, but I don’t remember. I’ve spent a good bit of time with her and Lady Wynafryd here these past days, though, and I like them very much. Also, I correspond with their lord grandfather and father quite regularly regarding trade, and Lady Wylla often includes a note in their responses. She’s a bit older than I am, you know. I think she does recall the little girl she met years ago, and she is kind enough to offer me friendship.”

 _I correspond with their lord grandfather and father regularly regarding trade._ Ned tried to imagine Arya suddenly thrust into his seat at Winterfell with him, Catelyn, and all the family gone. He knew Eddara Tallhart had good men to assist her. He had chosen them himself. But she was the Lady of Torrhen Square, and even at her young age, she accepted all that the title meant. And while she would enjoy the friendship of the flamboyant Wylla Manderly and even defend her friend eloquently, she would not excuse herself from the presence of her liege lord to beg a man to dance. She may be barely flowered, but girlhood was only a memory for this young woman. As were all her family. Ned found himself both pitying and proud of his loyal bannerman’s daughter. There had been some grumbling that he hadn’t given Torrhen’s Square to her cousin Brandon and made Brandon’s younger brother Lord of Hornwood. But Torrhen’s Square had been Helman’s, and Helman’s children of either gender were his heirs before his nephews. Looking at the young lady before him, he thought he had likely made a very good choice.

“I knew your father well,” he told her. “He would be pleased by your friendship with young Lady Wylla and even more pleased with your leadership of Torrhen’s Square.”

The girl seemed almost to glow at those words. “Thank you, my lord,” she said.

“Lord Helman would be very proud of you, and you should be proud of yourself.”

“Lord Stark!”

Ned turned to see Derek approaching him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that Brandon Tallhart was now dancing with Catelyn. “Yes, Derek?”

“Maester Samwell sent me to find you,” the Captain of the Guard said. “He hates to interrupt you at the feast, but he had a raven that he felt you would wish to see right away.”

Ned sighed. _Dark wings, dark words._ “Very well, Derek. Is Sam in his rooms or my solar?”

“He said to ask you to meet him in your solar, my lord.”

Ned nodded. “Please tell Lady Catelyn where I have gone.”

“My lord,” Jeyne said quickly, and Ned turned to her, still unused to hearing her voice when other men, even Derek, stood so close by. “Brien is asleep, my lord. If I could walk with you, I would put him in his bed.”

Ned looked to see that Rickon, too, was more asleep than awake, head lolling back on his chair. “I would be grateful, Jeyne. And I shall carry Rickon back as well.” He gave both Jeyne and the boys a look that prevented them from giving voice to Catelyn’s objections to his carrying Rickon so great a distance, and then turned back to Derek.

“Let my lady wife know our youngest two have been seen to bed and that I do not know when I shall be able to return, but she should remain here with our guests.”

Derek nodded and turned toward the dancers.

“My lady,” Ned said, taking formal leave of Lady Tallhart after scooping Rickon up into his arms.

“Good night, my lord,” she said. 

Dak offered to carry Brien, but Jeyne assured him she was perfectly capable of doing so and ready to leave the Hall so Dak remained to keep Bran company as one of the Wintefell men came to ask Lady Tallhart to dance and Ned and Jeyne carried the sleeping children to get them into their cloaks. He saw Derek approaching Catelyn and Lord Brandon as they danced, and he quickened his step. He’d rather not have his wife see him carrying Rickon just now. As they exited the Hall, Ned also caught sight of Harrion Karstark on the dance floor. But as he wondered which of the Manderly sisters had prevailed, Lord Karstark turned just enough for Ned to catch sight of his partner’s lovely auburn hair, and he smiled to himself. Apparently, not even Lord Dour Face could resist Sansa’s entreaties to dance. Recalling the many times he’d been pulled out onto a dance floor over the years by a flame haired beauty who admonished him for looking too grim, he felt a sudden kinship with Rickard Karstark’s son, and his smile widened as he stepped out into the cold night, holding Rickon tightly against him.

Much later, Ned Stark stood naked in his wife’s dark and overly warm room wrestling with the desire to fling open all the windows. He knew the outside air was so frigid that the temperature in the room would drop rapidly if he did that, and so he hesitated. He never thought he’d miss the damn ice dragon eggs, but they had cooled the chamber. 

They’d only been removed to the monument a fortnight ago. While not all of the monument was finished, the underground chamber for the eggs was complete and secure. He and Catelyn had moved the eggs by themselves in the dark of night with only Bran’s direwolf about. Bran had known what they were about, of course, but they’d agreed not to speak of it even with the other children until after Brien’s nameday feast had come and gone. There was quite enough for everyone to be concerned about without that. As the Honor Guard would not be formally set up until construction was completed, Summer had taken to sleeping in the lichyard near the site of the monument. If anyone found this odd, they didn’t say. The other wolves frequently accompanied him, so Ned thought it likely that Arya knew the eggs had been moved. Certainly she knew Nymeria no longer frequented her mother’s chambers. As for what Shaggydog knew or Rickon understood of that knowledge, Ned couldn’t say.

He looked back at the bed where Catelyn lay sleeping, not that he could see her wrapped among the furs in the darkness. At the moment he wasn’t certain he could say or know anything. Just when he thought he had achieved some manner of security for his family and the North, these wretched ravens arrived to make him question himself once more. He envied his wife her sleep. Likely, she was exhausted. He didn’t think she’d sat down at all once the dancing started, and he had no idea what time she’d returned to her chambers. As he had not returned to the feast at all, he’d found her here asleep when he finally came in from walking along the castle wall after his lengthy discussion with Sam about the infernal letters.

He’d intended to let her sleep. He had. But the agitation and disquiet in his mind had not allowed him to sleep at all, and when she turned to him with a sleepy, questioning, “My love?” he’d pulled her to him and kissed her as if her lips held the only answers he knew. The touch of those lips to his had seemed to ignite something within him, and all his worry, desperation, and anger had somehow come together to create a need for her so desperate that he found himself atop her, kissing her hard enough to cause her to gasp as his hands moved over her skin in an almost frenzied manner as if he couldn’t possibly touch as much of her as he would like.

She hadn’t turned away or even questioned him. She’d opened her arms to him and her legs as well, and he’d pushed himself into her with none of his usual care, almost brutally, he thought now, feeling ashamed of himself. Yet she’d held him to her and pressed her lips to his neck as he’d thrust into her again and again until he’d spent himself inside her and collapsed onto her, panting.

She’d held him when he tried to roll off her, whispering his name as if it were a prayer and running those long fingers through his hair and down his back. After a few moments, he’d gently pulled her arms from around him and rolled onto his back, feeling spent but not any more settled in his mind. If anything, his agitation had been increased by his treatment of her.

“Ned?” she had murmured rolling to her side to lay her head upon his chest. “Do you wish to speak of it? I know you received a letter. Derek told me that you . . .”

“Not tonight. Not now,” he had said tersely and he’d felt the slight tensing of her body against his. He’d raised his head to kiss the top of hers where it lay and wound the fingers of his hand in her hair. “Forgive me, my love,” he’d whispered softly, meaning all of it—his harsh voice, his rough treatment of her, his inability to speak of things he didn’t even want to think about. “I will share all the letters with you, Cat. I promise. But just now . . .”

“All the letters?” she had asked, but then she had raised her head to look at him. “No,” she said. “Don’t speak of it. Sleep, my love, and tell me what you would have me know tomorrow.” She’d pressed a kiss to his chest and laid her head back down upon it then.

She’d fallen asleep, but he hadn’t, and as time wore on, he’d grown warmer and more uncomfortable until he’d eased himself away from her and walked to where he stood now, trying to allow what cold air seeped in at the edges of the closed windows to cool his too warm flesh. 

“Open a window, Ned. Before you burn up.”

He nearly jumped at the sound of her voice. “I thought you were asleep,” he said.

“I was. I got cold when you left the bed.”

A soft laugh escaped him in spite of his distress. “And yet you would have me open a window?”

She sat up in bed. “I would have you return to my bed. If the air grows cold, you can warm me.”

He recalled how he’d taken her earlier and turned away toward the window, not that there was anything to look at in the darkness below. The feast was long over, the revelers all abed, and the outdoor lanterns extinguished. There was a half moon, but it was largely obscured by clouds.

“Ned?” she asked, and he heard concern in her voice and something that sounded very close to fear.

“I would not have you fear me, my lady,” he said softly. “I am sorry.”

“Fear you?” she said, sounding stunned. “I would never fear you, my love. Not after all we’ve shared.”

He turned to look toward her then. He couldn’t really see her face clearly but he’d heard the honesty in her voice. “But you are afraid, Cat. I heard it when you said my name.”

“I . . .” She hesitated which was unlike her. “I woke alone in my bed, and as I lay here . . . recalling how urgently you made love to me . . . I looked up to see you standing there at the window and I recalled another night. Another time.”

Her final two words were almost whispered, and at first he wasn’t certain what she spoke of, but then the memory struck him clearly. Another night when he’d clung to her as if he might never see her again, seeking to say with his body what he could never say with his words. Words had come so much more difficult to him then even than they did now. He’d loved her with abandon and need only to walk away from her immediately because he had to choose. And he hadn’t known how to.

He laughed bitterly. “I remember,” he said simply. “And I fear this night is more like that one than you know.”

“That was an evil night,” she said. “The first of many evil days and nights to follow. Please, Ned. Tell me what troubles you.”

“Daenerys Targaryen has asked me to come to King’s Landing and serve on her council.”

“What?!?” The shock and absolute terror in Catelyn’s voice stabbed at his heart.

“And I do not know what I should do. What I can do,” he said helplessly.

He started to turn back toward the window, but in what seemed like no time at all, his wife was in his arms. His warm blooded wife who would scarcely slip from beneath the furs without reaching for her robe first had run from her bed and stood naked and shivering in his arms.

“Cat! What are you doing?” he said, pulling her against him and moving both of them away from the windows.

“What I should have done more than four years ago,” she said in a broken voice. “You were in pain then, too. I could see your pain, and I wanted to comfort you, but . . . I was so certain that you needed to become Hand of the King. I was so certain of what needed to be done that I held myself back from you. I cared more about having you see the choice before you the same way I did than about caring for you.” She caught her breath. “I was wrong then, Ned, and I will not make that mistake again. It was the first of so many. And it cost us so much!”

She’d had her hands on his face as she spoke to him urgently, and now she pressed her lips quickly to his before throwing her arms around him and burying her face in his chest. He held her silently a moment before he replied, “There were too many many mistakes by too many people. Do not give yourself more blame than you deserve. In the end, my decisions were my own, Cat. You know that.”

She looked up at him again. Standing close together still closer to the window than the bed, he could see her face with reasonable clarity even in the dim moonlight. “I do know that. But I also know that you felt alone that night, Ned. And I chose to allow it. I will never do that again, my love. Whatever else I may do rightly or wrongly.”

“I take it you do not wish me to go,” he said softly.

“Of course, I do not wish you to go!” she exclaimed, sounding almost irritated with him. She bit her lip. “But I have no idea what the queen said or what may be in any other letters you received. So I will not tell you to stay. Not now. When you share with me all of what you’ve learned, I will tell you what I think. And I will listen to your thoughts as well. Now, I only want you to know you are not alone. As long as I draw breath, you will never be alone.”

He pulled her tightly to him once more and whispered into her ear, “I love you, my lady.” He didn’t know what else to say, and those words which never came easily to his lips seemed in that moment to be the only words he had.

She had not stopped shivering, so he took his arms from around her then and walked quickly to get her thick robe and wrap it around her. “I do not think I can sleep, my love,” he said softly. 

“I am not sleepy now, either,” she assured him. “Would you like to speak of the letters you received, Ned?”

“Like to speak of them?” he asked with a rather mirthless laugh. “Not at all. But I fear I must. I had hoped to spare you these tidings on the night of Brien’s feast. It was a wonderful celebration, my love. And you were beautiful. So beautiful, Cat. Watching you smile, watching our children smile and laugh . . . I wish I could keep you all that happy always.”

“It was a good night,” she said. “I wish you had gotten to stay longer, but it was a good night. And whatever happens from here cannot change that.”

He sighed. “Very well. Sit down, my love.”

She went to the bed rather than to a chair, though, and he raised a brow when she sat on the edge of it and patted the space beside her.

“I would have us sit together,” she said. “Do you remember that night at Riverrun? After Tom of Sevenstreams had told us what he knew of Arya and Sansa. You came to our room there and found me . . .”

“I remember,” he said quickly. He didn’t like to think of how he’d found her there. Desolate. Alone. Lost in the nightmares of the past. He sat down beside her and put an arm around her.

She leaned her head against him, and he heard a kind of smile in her voice when she spoke again. “This is what you did that night, too,” she said. “You sat beside me on the bed, and we spoke of painful things. It was easier sitting where we could touch.”

“Aye,” he said softly. Then he sighed. “I suppose I should start with the letter from Tyrion Lannister.”

“Tyrion Lannister?”

He nodded. “That one came earliest today. A few hours before the feast began. Sam didn’t even open it because he couldn’t imagine any news from Casterly Rock being of more importance to us than our son’s name day celebration.”

“I would agree with him,” Catelyn said dryly. Ned didn’t believe she truly hated Tyrion Lannister. Not anymore. But whatever understanding they’d come to, she would likely never allow herself true concern for any Lannister.

Ned felt the same and sort of grunted in a noncommittal way. “I think Sam would have given me his letter along with Daenerys’s had the queen’s not arrived just as the feast was starting. He did read hers, though, and despite its rather more pressing contents . . .”

“Like a summons to King’s Landing?” Catelyn asked sharply.

“An invitation, at any rate,” Ned said carefully. “Yes. Even so, he thought there was nothing to be done about it right away, and he’d let me enjoy my son’s feast. As it was all over except for the dancing when the third raven came, and he knows you wouldn’t allow me to dance anyway . . .”

“You don’t like dancing!” She objected.

“I like dancing with you,” he said evenly. “Or holding you at least,” he admitted when she raised a brow. “But I’m getting ahead of myself,” he said quickly. If he told her the origin of the third letter, she would want to hear it first and it was better to do it this way. “Lord Tyrion wrote with various tidings, but most importantly he wished to inform us he has taken a wife.”

“A wife?” Catelyn asked, obviously having not expected that particular news.

“Yes,” Ned said carefully. “He has wed Jeyne Westerling.”

Her eyes widened and he held her tightly with the arm he had around her. “That man . . . that . . . Lannister dwarf has wed Robb’s wife?”

“Robb’s widow,” Ned said softly. It was painful to say out loud, but true.

“He wed Sansa and now Jeyne? What is he playing at?” Catelyn said, her voice rising in pitch.

“He is not playing at anything this time, my love. This marriage is a true one. The Westerling girl carries his child.”

Catelyn closed her eyes and trembled slightly. “Robb prayed for a babe,” she said softly. “Jeyne did, too. It was Robb’s babe she wanted, Ned. I know it was. Whatever plot my brother and uncle suspected, I cannot believe she was a party to it. She . . . she loved him.”

Ned looked at the wife that he loved so much and found himself praying that Catelyn was indeed correct about that. That his son, in his folly, had still found in his too brief marriage something of the joy Ned had found with Cat. “Lord Tyrion says the same,” he said gently. “The plot was real enough. The Imp took the Westerlings from Riverrun just as he had written that he wished to do. Mistakenly thinking that proving her family’s loyalty to his father would ingratiate herself with him, Lady Westerling told Lord Tyrion quite clearly that she had acted on Tywin Lannister’s instructions in the matter of our son’s marriage. She had apparently noticed the affection between them as Robb recovered from his injury at the Crag and written Lord Tywin. Her daughter was easily manipulated considering that she did want Robb and was never made aware of the true goal behind the marriage, and Robb . . . well, Robb was a young man in love and then a young man in despair over Winterfell’s loss and his brothers’ deaths, and . . . well you know what happened between the two of them as well as I.”

Catelyn nodded silently.

“The Imp writes that the poor girl is still in love with Robb. Insisted upon bringing her crown from Riverrun—because he had given it to her.”

“Then why would she wed that vile little man?” Catelyn hissed. 

Ned sighed. “What choice does she have, Cat? She could live out her life as Robb’s widow. Widow to a king who successfully raided in the Westerlands, killing and plundering. Living in the home of parents who are quite terrible to her over her insistence upon proclaiming her loyalty to Robb in spite of their objections, according to Tyrion. And what marriage options are open to her as the widow of a murdered king who was never recognized a such in the land she calls home? If the Imp promised to at least treat her kindly, there are far worse fates than becoming the Lady of Casterly Rock. Mother of the future Lord of Casterly Rock. She may find joy in the children she births at least, even if they cannot be Robb’s.”

“She will love her children,” Catelyn whispered. “Of course, she will.” He watched her bite her lip a moment and knew she was considering something. “I can see the advantages to Jeyne. And even her scheming parents were probably cheered by such a match if it gives their daughter Casterly Rock, although I wish they would choke on any joy they might find. But how does this match benefit Lannister?”

He smiled at her as he watched her put away her grief and anger on Robb’s behalf and begin thinking strategically once more. “He wrote that he knows well how many of the western lords will feel about having a dwarf as a lord, particularly after his own father made no secret of his contempt for him. Most western lords haven’t declared for Queen Daenerys so her appointment of him means little to them. No doubt many of them see him as merely her creature rather than a true Lannister of the Rock, and while the Westerlings are not a powerful House, they are an old name in the West. A western wife and heir may help him gain some small amount of favor with them in spite of the widespread belief he murdered Lord Tywin.”

“Oh, he did murder his father,” Catelyn said grimly. “I don’t doubt that for an instant.”

“I imagine you’re right,” Ned agreed. “But he isn’t foolish enough to admit that to anyone near Casterly Rock.”

“And Daenerys? She approved this match?”

“She didn’t know of it until it was accomplished. And she’s furious. It seems our daughter and Lord Tyrell are not the only people she intended to use for marriage alliances.”

“She had a bride selected for Lannister?”

“No,” he said. “At least not one Lannister was made aware of. But she apparently intended to choose one of her liking. He admitted that she’d spoken to him while here of maintaining the marriage to Sansa in order to bind Winterfell even more tightly to her cause. He refused to go back on his word to us, however.”

“Thank the gods,” Catelyn whispered. “But, Ned, that means the dragon queen has now considered two marriages for our daughter to achieve her own goals. I fear she will not stop.”

“No,” Ned said grimly. “She won’t. We may have to follow Lord Tyrion’s example and arrange a marriage for her ourselves if we wish to have any say in our daughter’s future.”

Catelyn chewed her lip. “What did Daenerys do in her fury? To Lord Tyrion, I mean?”

“She informed him she had considered making him her Hand upon completion of her conquest, but that as he obviously considered his own endeavors in the West to be paramount, he should simply remain there and she will find someone more worthy for the position.”

“But she sent him there!” Catelyn protested. “It is by her word that he seeks to rule the West.”

Had he not been so distressed by all the tidings the day had brought, Ned might have laughed at the indignation in his wife’s voice at the unfair treatment of Lannister, but he supposed it resulted more from her frustration with the queen’s inconsistent judgment than sympathy with the dwarf in any event. “Lannister seems frustrated by that as well. He asked that we remind the queen of his loyalty to her should she ask us about him.”

“Why would Daenerys Targaryen ask us . . . Oh, gods, Ned! She doesn’t mean to make you Hand, does she?”

Ned felt his jaw tighten. “I do not believe so. She wants me to serve on her council, but did not name a post in her letter. I cannot imagine she would ask me to be Hand. She knows me far less than she knows the dwarf. And she doesn’t listen to me.”

“Robert never listened to you either,” Catelyn snapped. “Didn’t stop him from forcing that onerous title upon you.”

“No,” he said, amusement at his wife’s lingering irritation with the long dead Robert Baratheon causing his face to relax slightly. “But Robert trusted me. And loved me as a brother. Daenerys Targaryen does neither.” He leaned over to kiss the slight frown which remained upon her face. “No, she wishes to have me in King’s Landing where I can be watched. Where the rest of the realm can be shown that I am truly her leal man. Gods only know what title she intends to give me, but it surely won’t be that one.”

Catelyn shuddered. “So what precisely did she say in her letter, Ned? Or is there more of import in Lannister’s first?”

Ned sighed. “Only that Lady Lefford is being troublesome.”

“Lady Lefford?”

“Leo Lefford’s heir—the Lady Alysanne. Apparently, she became Lady of Golden Tooth after Lord Leo died in the war.”

“I know who she is, Ned,” Cat said rather sharply, and Ned realized both exhaustion and worry were taking a toll on her. He needed to tell her everything more quickly and get her to sleep. If she could sleep when she had heard it all.

“Lord Lefford died during the Battle of the Fords,” she continued. “I was at Riverrun at the time. That was Edmure’s great victory, the one Robb wished he had never fought.” She shook her head sadly. “So much was going wrong then.” 

She looked away and sat very still so Ned pulled her more closely to him. She rarely disappeared into herself anymore—into the past. But speaking of those days were never easy for her, and he thought her mind had been more occupied by the days of Robb’s brief reign as king than it had in a long while since her conversation with Harrion Karstark some time ago. He’d noticed her watching the man at times with a distant, pained expression on her face.

“Cat?” he said softly. He needed her here now. He needed her with him.

She turned slowly to face him and brought up a hand to touch his face briefly. “I am here,” she whispered almost as if she meant to answer his unspoken fears for her. “How is Lady Lefford being troublesome?”

“She has sent several ravens to Casterly Rock complaining that Lord Piper is sending refugees from the Stormlands down the River Road to Golden Tooth. It is her contention that he seeks to infect the West with Greyscale.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Catelyn said at once, her voice firm once more. “Clement Piper would not do such a vile thing! And . . . there is no greyscale in the Riverlands, is there?” She hesitated slightly on the question.

He took her hand. “I am afraid there is. The queen’s letter confirmed it.” _And Edmure’s,_ he thought. _But I don’t wish to speak of that letter yet._

“Oh gods, Ned,” she breathed. “Edmure . . .”

“The only victims in the Riverlands have been among refugees from the Stormlands and Crownlands, and only much further south along the course of the Kingsroad according to Queen Daenerys. There is no plague near Riverrun and I cannot see how there would be any as far west as Pinkmaiden.” He’d spoken quickly in an attempt to reassure her, but now he frowned. “There is little love between many of the western lords and your brother’s bannermen, Cat. Riverrun’s backing of Robb’s invasion of the West during the war did not endear House Tully to those lords, and no doubt Lady Alysanne holds your brother personally responsible for old Lord Leo’s death.”

“Robb’s invasion!” Catelyn said indignantly. “The Riverlands were bleeding! Tywin Lannister sent men to rape and pillage, Ned. Our son acted only in retaliation for the Lannisters’ crimes, and you know it!”

“I know it,” he said soothingly. “I only speak of how events were likely viewed in the West.” He sighed heavily. “And now Riverrun has bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen as has the North, and Daenerys has sent them the Imp to rule over them. You can see how the Western Houses might fear for their futures.”

“They brought their fate upon themselves,” she said harshly. 

“They followed their liege lord,” Ned countered.

At that, she only made a snorting type of sound as if anyone who followed Tywin Lannister as liege did not deserve any credit for it. Then she bit her lip. “It will come to bloodshed, Ned,” she said softly. “This trouble along Edmure’s border with the West. If the Imp cannot control his bannermen, fighting will break out there. Wars have been started over less.”

“Aye,” Ned said, nodding, the contents of Edmure’s letter lying heavy and unspoken yet in his throat. “And Lannister hesitates to take action against Lady Lefford. Whatever good will his marriage to the Westerling girl may have fostered, he’ll lose it quickly enough if he appears to favor a river lord over one of his own. He has written the queen of his difficulties. What she shall do to aid him, however, remains to be seen.”

After sitting silently for a moment, she asked. “Did she speak of these things in her letter? The one to you, I mean?”

Ned sighed. “She wrote of her displeasure that we do not give our blessing to the betrothal of Sansa and Lord Willas Tyrell immediately, but states that she will discuss that matter further at a later date. Her trip to the Vale was successful, and Lord Andar Royce has given her his full support. He sends men and ships toward the Stormlands to aid her efforts there now.”

“Has the fighting started in the Stormlands then?”

Ned frowned. “Not with her forces, it seems. But fighting within the Stormlands has picked up once more. It would seem that a growing number of men there are putting up resistance to Aegon’s forces—battling to retain and even regain territory rather than hiding from greyscale in fortified keeps with barred doors.”

“Shireen,” Catelyn whispered.

Ned nodded. “It would seem so, although I’ve had no letters from Lady Baratheon herself. The queen certainly believes Stannis’s daughter is the rallying point, and she is less than pleased that no battles seem to be fought in her own name. She wants the Stormlands declared for her.”

“Which Shireen will do once the queen actually arrives. You know her plan, Ned.”

“Aye. And I think she has the right of it. If Shireen’s efforts mean that Daenerys has to expend less of her own soldiers in retaking the Riverlands and not unleash her dragon, she’ll likely be grateful to the girl as long as she bends the knee once she arrives.Of course, she’ll no doubt thunder at her for a bit over not following her instructions to the letter. Hopefully, she doesn’t frighten the child.”

“Shireen’s no child, my love. Not anymore, if she ever was one. And she’s the Lady of Storm’s End. Thunder won’t frighten her.” Catelyn smiled at him, and he returned her smile, recalling the affection that had sprung up between his wife and Stannis Baratheon’s daughter. “So, she intends to concentrate her efforts on Aegon and the Stormlands now, and leave my brother to deal with the Western lords on his own—in spite of the fact that a great portion of her army is made up of my brother’s men.”

Ned’s smile grew a bit wider briefly at her indignation on her brother’s behalf. “She must defeat Aegon to secure her claim, my love. She stated that Tyrion and Edmure must deal with any petty squabbles on their borders. Until the Stormlands is securely in her control, there will be no aid for them from her.”

“And that is all she had to say?”

“More or less.”

She bit her lip. “There is some good news among the bad, I suppose. I fear we can do little about the greyscale in the Riverlands and this strife along Edmure’s borders. Hopefully, things in the Stormlands will be settled quickly enough that the Queen can see to the West. The only response we can make to her ridiculous summons of you is to refuse it—remind her again why you must remain in the North. She saw those creatures, Ned! She fought them. And we know from Bran that they are still a threat even if we’ve stopped them for the present. She made no mention of Dorne?”

He shook his head, marveling as usual at his wife’s ability to put aside her own fears and think strategically, even in the middle of the night.

“The Dornish are stubborn and proud,” she declared. “The Martells will not easily abandon this Aegon if they truly believe him to be Elia’s child. But we cannot do anything about that, either. We must think upon a betrothal for Sansa, then. That is one thing we can do, and I fear you are correct in that following the Imp’s example is the only way to remove the threat of Daenerys using her as she sees fit. Although I would prefer to keep it only a betrothal and not a wedding yet if we can do that. She has not been home long enough to heal. I would not send her away until she is as strong as we can make her.”

“What sort of match would you make her, my love?”

“A Northern one. There is chaos to our south and almost no one I completely trust. White Walkers be damned, I would still keep our girl north of the Neck if I have to send her from Winterfell.”

“I agree,” he said. He recalled Brandon Tallhart’s obvious interest in their daughters and the way that Harrion Karstark had refused to dance except with Sansa. It could be done. But he would not make such a choice without speaking with their daughter first. “But we needn’t decide upon it tonight.” He sighed heavily.

“Would you sleep then, my love?” she asked him. “We can speak more of these things on the morrow.”

He swallowed and took her hands again. “There was one more letter, Cat. From Edmure.”

“Edmure!” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell me of it at once?”

He smiled sadly at her. “Because it will grieve you, my love. Edmure and all your family are well,” he said hurriedly as the panic flashed on her face. “I swear it. But . . . the trouble between the Pipers and Leffords has already come to violence.”

“Ned! You should have told me at once! Edmure will have to defend any attack on Pinkmaiden whether Daenerys likes it or not!”

“He will. He is. Forgive me, my love, but I needed you to hear all of the tidings, and I knew if I told you Edmure’s news first . . .” He exhaled heavily. “The Lefford men were the aggressors. Marq Piper had been ignoring Lady Lefford’s accusations and insults at Edmure’s instruction although he did not like it.”

“Marq? What of Lord Clement?”

“Lord Clement is one of those who marched with the men your brother gave the Queen. He left Marq to tend to his seat.”

“I doubt that pleased Mark any more than insults from Lady Lefford,” Catelyn said, shaking her head. “He hated being a prisoner so long at the Twins and hated that his father ever bent the knee to the Lannisters for his sake. He is a rather brash young man and eager to prove himself.”

“Aye,” Ned said softly. “He was.”

“Was?” Catelyn asked, her voice trembling on the single word.

Ned took another deep breath. “As I said, the Lefford men were the aggressors. Marq didn’t much care for your brother’s orders, but he obeyed them. The Leffords closed the the River Road to all traffic from the Riverlands. Lord Vance objected strenuously as trade with the coast and custom from the traders who travel the road provide a great deal of the income to Wayfarer’s Rest and the people around it. He sent men to ask the Leffords to stand down. They refused and actually advanced toward Wayfarer’s Rest, threatening Lord Vance’s men with violence if they did not turn back. A minor skirmish took place before both sides retreated. No deaths, but some injuries. Word reached Marq at Pinkmaiden, and he led a fairly sizable company of men up the River Road to the border of the Westerlands, declaring his intent to offer safe conduct to any traveler from any of the Seven Kingdoms who wished to traverse the road. The leader of the Lefford men accused him of planning to send more plague-ridden refugees into the West and crossed the border with his men to attack. Unlike the Vance men, Marq did not retreat. He and his men met them sword for sword, and it was the Leffords who were driven far into their own territory. But there were numerous losses on both sides. Marq himself received grievous injuries, and he died as he was being taken back to Pinkmaiden.”

“Oh, Ned. That poor, brave boy. Does Lord Clement know?”

“Word has been sent to him. Whether or not he has received it, I cannot say. He will want to send Lewys home at least. The boy is squiring with the army, but he is now heir to Pinkmaiden and Lord Clement’s only remaining son. He’ll have no wish to risk him needlessly.”

“Oh, gods! Edmure has no choice now, Ned! He cannot let an attack on one of his bannermen go unpunished. He cannot let the Leffords close roads at will and murder his lords!”

“No,” Ned said sadly. “He cannot. He was preparing to ride for the Golden Tooth as he wrote the letter.”

“He’s going himself? No, Ned. He cannot risk himself. He cannot . . .”

“Your uncle is leading the Riverlanders who ride with Queen Daenerys. There is no one else, Cat. And he has a son. He feels that . . .”

“Is that what sons are to you men? A license to throw your own life away with greater ease because you know your line will continue?” She nearly shrieked the words at him as she stood up and walked across the room. She stood there with her back to him, wrapping her robe tightly around her and looking very small. “Edmure cannot die!” she said thickly. “He can’t. I’ve lost Mother, Father, Lysa . . . he’s the only one left and I can’t . . . I can’t stand it, Ned. It’s too much.”

He walked to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “I know, Cat,” he said softly. “I know it very well.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath then and she whirled around to face him, fear for her brother now replaced by concern for him and anger at herself in those eyes that he loved. “Oh, Ned,” she whispered. “Forgive me, my love. I spoke without thought and I . . . Of course, you know, and I am cruel to speak so selfishly.”

“No,” he assured her, drawing her into his arms. “You are not cruel, Catelyn. You are only frightened for your brother. And it is a terrible thing to lose all of the family you were born to. I still catch myself hoping that Ben may yet live when I know that cannot possibly be true.”

“But I should never have spoken so to you!”

He kissed the top of your head. “My hurts have long been there, Cat. Your words do not make them worse. And your brother lives still. Gods willing, he will continue to do so. He has much to live for, my love, and I tell you truly that a wife and child awaiting his return make a man more careful of his life, not less.”

“Thank the gods for that at least,” she said somewhat hoarsely. Then she sighed. “Edmure must do as he thinks best, I suppose. I will pray for him. There is nothing else to be done.” She rested her head against his chest for a moment, and then without raising it up, asked, “Did my brother say anything else? Anything about this greyscale in the Riverlands?”

“Only that he has heard of cases from lords along the Kingsroad. Most reports have come from House Wode which is just on the border with the Crownlands, of course. All victims are people who’ve come from the Stormlands or Crownlands as I told you earlier, and these people have been isolated as well as can be achieved. The lords near the borders with the Stormlands and Crownlands have armed men actively denying passage to any further refugees. He cannot blame them for wishing to prevent plague, but having the potential for armed conflict now on so many of his borders . . .” Ned shook his head. “Edmure has his hands quite full, I fear. I hope that Daenerys Targaryen can finish her business with this Aegon and turn her attentions toward the needs of these kingdoms she wants so much to rule.” 

“And she can bloody well rule them without you in King’s Landing,” Catelyn said emphatically, looking up at him then.

“I shall tell her you said so when I write her,” Ned said with a small smile. 

She ran her hands over his bare back. “I know you swear you aren’t ever cold in here, but you are making me cold, just to see you standing about naked like that. If there is no other news, come to bed with me, my love. You must sleep, Ned.”

“You tell me the sight of my naked body leaves you cold and then invite me to your bed, my lady?” Ned teased her softly, welcoming any reprieve from the fear and worry all the new tidings had caused for them both.

She smiled for him in spite of the tears he could still see on her cheeks. “Come to bed, Lord Stark, and you may discover for yourself what I think of your naked body.”

With that, she let go of him and stepped out of his arms, dropping her robe to the floor in a single fluid motion. Then she walked to the bed and lay down upon it. “Shall I get under the furs, my lord, or do you have any other suggestions for keeping me warm?”

He knew she was exhausted. He was, too. And tomorrow did not promise to be an easy day. They still had guests in their castle and now new problems to attend to as well. But for all he needed sleep, he thought he needed her more, and while he still felt half shamed by how he’d used her earlier, it would seem she needed him as well.

He lay down beside her and kissed her gently, moving his hand ever so slowly over her skin. She pressed herself against him, seeking his warmth, and he covered her with his body. They would love each other slowly this time, both because they were too tired to do otherwise and because he wanted to take his time. Sleep could wait a bit longer because having shared his worries with her, he needed once more to find solace in her arms, and then he knew sleep would come.

 

It took nearly a fortnight after that for the last of their guests to leave the castle, and while Ned had enjoyed the festive atmosphere, he found himself relieved to see the last of them go. He’d worried about the ice dragon eggs in the unfinished monument, about the fact that he’d had no letters from Jon or anyone else at the Wall in some time, about events taking place to the south far beyond his control, and about the matter of protecting Sansa from an unwanted Southron marriage and protecting himself from receiving any actual royal summons to King’s Landing. An invitation from a queen would prove difficult enough to decline. A summons, impossible.

He’d written to Edmure and to Tyrion Lannister. Cat had written Edmure as well. And Roslin. But he’d not yet responded to the Queen’s letter. She was likely somewhere in the Stormlands at any rate, and he had no idea where to send a raven to her. He was rather glad of the excuse as he hadn’t decided yet upon what to say to her. He’d received no letters from Highgarden, either, so if Queen Daenerys had informed Willas Tyrell that no match between him and Sansa would be considered unless he personally asked for it, the man hadn’t felt inclined to write. Mayhap he was as opposed to such a match as Ned and Catelyn were.

“Ned?”

He looked up from where he sat to see his wife in the doorway.

“I asked Sansa to join us here. Are you prepared to speak with her?” Catelyn asked him.

He sighed. “As ready as I can be, I suppose. Is she coming now.”

Cat nodded, coming around his desk to give him a quick kiss. “She was with Jeyne, sewing on something. She asked if she could finish it up, that it would only take a few moments. I told her that was fine.”

Ned nodded. He was not at all looking forward to this particular conversation. The idea of discussing with his daughter the notion that she could only free herself from bondage in an unwanted Southron marriage by voluntarily binding herself into a likely equally unwanted Northern marriage did not appeal to him. Regardless of his reluctance to speak with her about it, he could not decide her future without first consulting her. There was a time when he would have done so easily—confident both in his ability to make the best choices for her and in her willing acceptance that he should do so. The past four years had changed all of them, however. They’d all been caught up in terrible circumstances without any say in any of it, and he would prevent any of his children from ever feeling that trapped and powerless again as much as it was in his power.

“Come sit beside the hearth, Ned,” Catelyn said, taking his hand. “The fire’s low enough that you won’t burn up, and I’d rather not make Sansa sit down and face us across your desk. That feels a bit too much like a summons to judgment.”

He let her lead him to the chairs near the hearth, but he smiled. “What would you know of how that feels, my lady? You never sit anywhere but on my side of the desk.”

“I didn’t always,” she said as they both took seats. “When I first came to Winterfell, you’ll never know how I trembled inside when I was summoned to you here for whatever reason, and I’d sit down across that desk from you.”

“I never saw you tremble.”

“I never wanted you to.” She smiled. “I do have my pride, Ned. But it doesn’t mean I wasn’t frightened—or anxious, at least. You can be intimidating, my love. Especially behind that desk.”

Before he could argue, Sansa appeared in the doorway. “Mother said you wished to speak with me, Father?”

“I do,” Ned told her. “Close the door and come join us.”

She did as he asked, and came sit in the chair beside her mother’s, and the two of them regarded him with nearly identical expressions on their very similar faces which caused him to smile.

“Your mother and I have been further considering the matter of the betrothal Queen Daenerys proposed,” he began. “We’ve as of yet received no word from Willas Tyrell although Her Grace has written that she still wishes to discuss the matter with me further. At present, she is occupied with the Stormlands.”

“Did she write of Shireen, then?” Sansa asked eagerly.

“It would appear Lady Shireen has gathered support there,” he answered. “She and her supporters have been opposing Aegon.”

“Oh, good. The Queen will approve of that. I’m afraid she’ll be predisposed to dislike Shireen on account of her name, but if she helps Her Grace’s cause in the Stormlands . . .”

“Yes, that is a good thing,” Ned interrupted, somewhat surprised once again by his daughters grasp of such things although by now he knew he shouldn’t be. She was Catelyn’s daughter, after all, so it was natural that her mind should be as quick. And while he hated to even think upon it, Petyr Baelish’s tutelage had left an impact upon that mind. “But Sansa, we must speak of the fact that Daenerys Targaryen seems determined to see you make an advantageous match. I would prefer that we not allow her sole control of your future.”

“I would prefer that as well,” Sansa said simply. “I’ve considered all the possible benefits of this Tyrell match—to us as well as to the Queen, and I’ve decided I do not wish to go so far away from home to be given to a stranger. Even if he is a kind stranger.”

She sounded more certain of herself on this subject than she ever had before, and Ned wondered what had brought the change.

“Sansa, we are very pleased to hear you say that, sweetling,” Catelyn said, the relief evident in her voice. While they had been prepared to counter any arguments Sansa still wanted to present in favor of the Highgarden match, this would be far easier knowing that she had realized on her own that no advantage could possibly be more important than her own wellbeing. 

“But I still must wed,” Sansa continued bluntly. “Arya must wed as well, I fear, although mayhap not so quickly. She won’t like it, but it’s true. She is flowered now, and if you wed me to someone not of the Queen’s choosing, what’s to keep her from demanding Arya in my place?”

Ned quickly met Catelyn’s eyes. They’d had this same discussion. “I am,” he said firmly. “I will entertain no betrothals for your sister until she is five and ten, same age as you are now. And as the elder sister, I would see you wed first. So, even once you are both betrothed, your sister will not wed, or leave Winterfell, until after you.” He realized that he had sanctioned Sansa’s betrothal to Joffrey at age twelve and that Catelyn had agreed to bind Arya to the Freys at age nine, but that was in another time.

Sansa smiled a bit. “And you think our dragon queen will heed you in this?”

“I think that you and Arya are my daughters and not hers,” Ned said grimly. “I will do what I can to show fealty and respect to Queen Daenerys, but I will not simply hand over my children to the whims of the crown. Not again.” The last two words were scarcely voiced, and he looked once more to Catelyn as he said them. “But if you are already promised to someone, it does make a stronger case for my refusals of her interventions.”

Sansa nodded. “Lord Karstark tells me you have consented to allow his return to the Karhold,” she said, rather abruptly changing the topic.

“I have,” Ned told her. “We’ve gathered a good number of people willing to make a home there, and the men I sent have confirmed it is structurally sound. Even the glass garden there is intact, although the crops had all died from lack of care. The man is anxious to see his home, and I would not keep him from it. It will likely take close to a moon’s turn to prepare all that he and those who go with him will need for the journey and to make the place habitable when they get there.”

“That’s good,” Sansa said.

Ned saw Catelyn looking at her carefully. “You want him gone?” she asked their daughter.

“I want him home,” Sansa said resolutely. “I know what it is to want home, even when you believe that your home is a ruin and that all you loved there is gone.” She looked at him and Catelyn in turn. “I never stopped wanting Winterfell, you know. Even when I believed I was the only Stark left alive. Lord Karstark wants to go home, and I understand that.”

Catelyn reached out then and took their daughter’s hands in her own. “Oh, my sweet, sweet girl. You are correct, of course. But how I wish you didn’t understand that so well.”

Sansa leaned forward and kissed her mother’s cheek. “I’m all right, Mother. None of us can change the past. But I truly am all right now.” She turned back to Ned. “You said that your position in refusing to give me to the Tyrells would be strengthened if I were already betrothed. I do not want to leave the North.”

Ned smiled at her. “We feel the same. I noticed that young Brandon Tallhart took quite an interest in you these past weeks. You are of similar ages, and he seems a good and kind young man.”

“He is,” Sansa said. “I like Lord Brandon quite a lot. We all do.” A shadow crossed her face. “I remember him with Robb, you know. From before . . . everything.”

Ned nodded sadly. “They were friends. Almost precisely the same age, and Torrhen Square is not so very far away. Those two saw a good bit of each other growing up.”

Sansa nodded. “Hornwood is a bit further,” she said pensively. “Father, did Lord Brandon’s father ever ask you about his wedding me?”

“What?” Ned asked, thrown by her sudden question. “No, Sansa. His father was a second son. He knew that you were destined to be the lady of a great house one day, and he did not have even a title to pass to Brandon.” He looked at her carefully. “Why do you ask?”

“The lady of a great house,” Sansa repeated slowly. “Do you mean like the Tyrells or Baratheons or Arryns then? A house like that? Or would you have considered a Northern house—one of your bannermen—for me. Before now, I mean?”

Ned looked at Catelyn once more, and his wife answered their daughter’s question without hesitation. “I would not,” she said simply. “I wanted you to have the world, Sansa, or as close to it as I could give you. My father had been adamant about making Lysa and myself the ladies of great houses, and I was determined you should be the same.” She chewed her lip briefly. “The Northern lords saw that as Southron snobbery, I’m afraid. But it wasn’t that. I wanted no more to betrothe you to one my father’s bannermen than to any of your own father’s bannermen. I wanted a High Lord for you. And I thought it a marvelous thing when I realized we could make you a queen.” She bit her lip and shook her head with tears glistening in the blue eyes that looked exactly like the eyes of the girl who looked back at her. “Forgive me, sweetling.”

Sansa grasped her mother’s hands this time. “There is nothing to forgive. You only wanted what was best for me. None of us knew what Joffrey . . . what Joffrey was or what would happen.” She kept hold of her mother’s hands, but looked back at Ned. “But some of your bannermen asked for me, didn’t they?”

Ned nodded, sadly realizing that too many of the young men whose fathers had spoken to him about their heirs wedding Sansa were dead now. “Lord Cerwyn,” he said softly, “For Cley. Lord Umber for Smalljon, and Lord Hornwood for Daryn. All those boys are gone now.” He smiled at a sudden memory. “Rickard Karstark as well. He was never one to shy away from asking for what he wanted. He sought to betrothe Alys to Robb and you to Harrion when you were little more than a babe and young Harrion already old enough to train in the yard. He finally agreed to a match for Alys with Daryn Hornwood, I believe, although Daryn was killed, of course.”

“And what of Harrion?” Sansa pressed. “Did he not arrange another match for him as well?”

Ned smiled again. “Rickard was a stubborn man, Sansa. A good man, for all that grief drove him to a terrible act at the end of his life. He was proud and prickly . . .”

“Ambitious?” Sansa interrupted.

“Yes,” Ned said with a brief laugh. “Certainly that. But he was a Northman to the core. And always loyal to House Stark. He joined me in rebellion against the Targaryens without hesitation and fought fiercely throughout. He was older than I was, but we became friends of a sort. You do get to know a man when you fight alongside him. I am not surprised that he answered Robb’s call as quickly as he once answered mine. Nor that he came with all his strength at arms and all of his sons. That was Rickard.” He paused a moment. He’d looked down as he spoke and looked up to see both women simply waiting for him to continue. “But to answer your question, no. He never did betrothe his heir to anyone that I know of. He periodically brought it up to me throughout the years, calling upon the kinship of our Houses, your Northern heritage, our friendship . . .” Ned shook his head. “I doubt he ever gave up on the idea until word reached him that I had agreed to betrothe you Joffrey.”

Sansa sat very still when he finished speaking. She took her eyes from him and looked down at her hands which still held her mother’s.

“Sansa?” Catelyn asked quietly.

Sansa looked up at her mother. “Did you know all these things?” she asked softly.

“I knew that Lord Karstark wanted a match between you and his son,” Catelyn replied. “Your father spoke to me of it. But he agreed with me that matching you with the heir of a High Lord would be more advantageous to both you personally and to House Stark.”

“And now?” Sansa asked her mother. “After all that has happened, you no longer want me wed to a High Lord?”

“If I am to speak honestly, sweetling, I no longer want you ever to set foot outside Winterfell. But that is not possible, and in truth, not even desirable for you. You deserve your own life, but I confess I care more about the safety and security of that life now than about any prestige or advantage to be gained.”

Sansa nodded and looked down again, her jaw set as if she were thinking very hard about something. Ned wasn’t entirely certain how the conversation had drifted here into the past when he’d only meant to ask her if she could see herself possibly betrothed to Brandon Tallhart.

Catelyn, of course, saw what he did not. “Sansa,” she said softly. “Would you prefer that your father speak to Lord Karstark on your behalf rather than Lord Hornwood?” 

It took Ned a moment to realize that Catelyn was now speaking in the present tense and referring to Harrion Karstark and Brandon Tallhart. When Sansa looked up again, he was startled to see the determined expression she now wore. 

“Yes,” she said. “I would like to wed Lord Harrion Karstark, if he’ll have me.”

Ned was stunned into silence. He’d come to think rather highly of Rickard’s son since his arrival at Winterfell. He was serious to the point of solemnity, and his grief and loss made him silent and somewhat solitary, but Ned understood those things better than he wished. The man was proud, but then he’d never known a Karstark who wasn’t. He also seemed to share his father’s sense of honor and loyalty without quite so much of his self-righteousness. He was a good man, but more than a decade older than Sansa and hardly reminiscent of the charming young men she’d always favored. And the Karhold was remote—certainly not nearly as far away as Highgarden, but deep in the woods at the eastern extreme of the lands ruled by Winterfell with only Last Hearth further northward.

“If he’ll have you!” Catelyn was exclaiming. “Sansa, one has only to look at the man when you’re near him to know he’ll have you!”

“Robb killed his father,” Sansa said quietly. “I know it was just . . . but . . . can a man wed the sister of his father’s killer? I don’t know . . .”

“Sansa,” Catelyn said firmly. “Those were terrible days, and many wrongs were committed by many people. Your brother had no choice in what he did were Lord Karstark was concerned, and young Harrion knows that.”

“Young Harrion,” Ned finally managed to stammer. “He’s not nearly so young as you are, Sansa. Brandon Tallhart is much closer to your age. And while Castle Hornwood is a bit out of the way, the roads there are far more easily traversed than those to the Karhold. The Karhold is a far more isolated place than you have ever seen.”

“I will never feel more isolated than I did in King’s Landing, Father. And I was surrounded by people coming and going all the time there.”

“It’s cold,” Ned cautioned her. “Much colder than Winterfell.”

“Harrion said as much,” Sansa replied. “But he says that it isn’t cold to him.”

Ned’s eyes opened widely at that. “The man has spoken of taking you to the Karhold?” he demanded.

“No!” Sansa said. “He only spoke to me of his home. He likes to speak of his home.”

“Do you . . . care for him, Sansa?” Catelyn asked softly. “It’s certainly plain enough that he wants you.”

That was the second time Catelyn had said something like that, and Ned wondered what his wife had seen that he had not. Karstark had danced with Sansa after refusing others, but he hadn’t gone out of his way to spend time with her since his arrival here—at least not that Ned was aware of.

“Wanting me is not the same as wanting to wed me. I think Father should ask him if he would consider it before we think any more on it.”

“Wanting you is . . . what has the bloody man been doing with you, Sansa?” Ned demanded, a bit more loudly than he intended.

“Ned!” Catelyn admonished at the same time that Sansa said, “Nothing! He has been more honorable than any man I’ve known outside my family.”

A slight flush of color had come to his daughter’s cheeks as she defended the man, and Ned looked at her carefully. “I am glad to hear it,” he said. “But I would have you answer your mother’s question. It matters little to me what Harrion Karstark thinks about such a match unless you truly want it, Sansa. Do you care for this man?”

She looked down again. She’d finally let go of Catelyn’s hands when they’d both exclaimed in reply to his outburst,and now she regarded hers a moment, folded neatly in her lap. She looked up again before she spoke, though, and looked him in the eye in a manner that reminded him forcefully of her mother.

“I like him,” she said. “More than that, I respect him. I know him for a good man who wishes to be a still better one.” She paused. “He has suffered, and so have I, and I believe we can understand each other. And he’s a Northman.”

“There are other Northmen, Sansa. I agree that a Northern match is the best for you now, but it needn’t be Lord Karstark if . . .”

“You misunderstand me,” Sansa interrupted. “I mean he is . . . what did you call his father? A Northman to the core. Harrion is like that. I never understood how important that was before, Father, but I am of the North. I may look like a Tully of Riverrun, but I am a Stark of Winterfell. I belong in the North because it is my home and the home of my family, and I know the value of a true Northman.”

Ned smiled at her. “You are a Stark of Winterfell, indeed. But don’t ever doubt you’re a Tully as well. I’ve never heard anyone speak so firmly on the importance of her family and home other than your mother.”

“You think you could be happy with him, Sansa?” Catelyn asked.

“I like him,” Sansa said again. “We are alike in some ways, although we certainly have our differences. And I believe he respects me as much as I respect him. And . . .” she paused, and Ned watched her cheeks redden. “I think he does find me . . . pretty.”

“Is that enough for you?” Catelyn asked, looking at Sansa very intently and taking her hands once more.

Sansa smiled at her mother. “I know two people can start out with even less and end up with a great deal more,” she said. “So I think it is enough to start.”

Tears glistened in Catelyn’s eyes again, and she nodded without saying anything else.

“You will speak to him before he leaves then, Father?” Sansa asked Ned.

“If this is what you wish, Sansa. But you will not be going with him when he goes. The Karhold will be inhospitable for some time, I fear. You will remain at Winterfell with us. If Lord Karstark wishes to wed you, he may write to you and visit you here as you are able. Once he has established a real, secure home at the Karhold, we will begin to discuss a wedding date.” Sansa looked almost as if she might protest, and he added, “Your mother was eight and ten when we wed.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Catelyn press her lips together to hide a smile, and Sansa simply said, “Yes, Father.”

When their daughter had gone, he stood up and pulled his wife into his arms. “I do not think she found me intimidating in the slightest,” he said.

Catelyn laughed. “She is braver than her mother.”

“No one is braver than her mother,” Ned countered. “You suspected this, didn’t you?”

Catelyn shrugged. “I thought it possible. Did it truly come as a complete surprise to you?”

“It did,” Ned admitted. “I knew she didn’t want to go so far from home as Highgarden, but . . . Harrion Karstark is so solemn, Catelyn, and the Karhold so remote. Sansa has always loved beautiful things—songs and dance and pretty words and . . . What?” he demanded as his wife began laughing uncontrollably in his arms. “What, by the old gods and the new, is so funny, Cat?”

“You are,” she said through her giggles. Then she reached up to stroke his beard with her hand. “Don’t you realize you are describing me twenty years ago? I’d long ago made peace with coming north to live in a frozen place without the music and colors of my childhood, and then I was presented a grim and silent bridegroom whose grief was deeper than any I’d ever seen. Do you believe me unhappy in my marriage, my love?”

“I’ve watched you these past few weeks, Cat. You still like music and dancing. Don’t tell me you never miss it.”

“I have, sometimes, over the years. And you are right in that I enjoy such things when I have the chance. The same will always be true of Sansa as well, my love. But a love of ‘beautiful things’ does not prevent us from knowing what is important. Sansa is far more a woman at five and ten than I was, to be sure. And a great deal wiser. It’s wisdom and maturity gained through pain I would have spared her, but I am proud of her, Ned.”

“I am proud of her,” he sighed in to Catelyn’s hair. “I just want her to be happy.”

“I think she will be,” Catelyn whispered. “If she’s as much like me as everyone says she is, she will find herself unable to resist the charm of grim faced Northern lord who barely speaks.”

“Cat!” he protested, frowning at her, but she grinned and put a finger to his lips.

“Don’t speak,” she said in a teasing voice. “You have other ways to charm me.”

With that she replaced her finger with her lips, and he returned her kiss, praying that Harrion Karstark truly would come to love his daughter as much as Ned loved her mother. 

 

The next several weeks passed in a blur of activity. Harrion Karstark had been stunned when Ned approached him about a betrothal to Sansa, but once the man seemed to comprehend that this was something Sansa truly wanted and that Ned approved of it, he agreed with more enthusiasm than Ned had ever seen him display toward anything. After that, he began watching Karstark more carefully, and Catelyn was correct. The man looked at Sansa as if she were the most enchanting creature in the world. It bothered him at times to see the obvious desire in his gaze because Ned had a difficult time seeing Sansa as anything other than his little girl regardless of how plain it was that her childhood was well behind her.

They’d announced the betrothal with a feast. It was much smaller than Brien’s nameday feast as only Winterfell people were present, but it had been a delightful evening. Everyone appeared pleased by the match, even Arya. It seemed that his younger daughter had suspected something might be growing between her sister and Lord Karstark even before Catelyn had, and once she was assured by Sansa that this betrothal had been her idea and that she wasn’t wedding Harrion or leaving Winterfell anytime soon, Arya had been as ready to celebrate as everyone else.

Sansa had gotten very involved in the preparations for Lord Karstark’s departure, spending long hours with her mother discussing what would be needed in the castle and then seeing as much of that procured for her betrothed as possible. As Catelyn and Sansa took over more and more of that particular project, Ned had found himself with more time to spend with Bran.

Bran had assured him the eggs remained nestled safely in their hiding place. The monument was almost completed and a dedication would be held once it was. At that time, Ned would commission the honor guard and the wolves could cease their constant vigil in the lichyard. Ned thought the wolves, the children, and anyone wishing to simply walk through the lichyard would be relieved by that.

Bran had told him other things as well. While his son professed that he did not like specifically looking for people, he would confirm that Jon was safe at the Wall. He’d said no more about him, and Ned wondered how much the boy kept to himself still. He had seen Shireen Baratheon at Storm’s End. He hadn’t known it was Storm’s End, of course, having never been there, but Ned recognized it immediately from his description. That had been good news. Lady Shireen’s presence in Storm’s End could only mean that the man calling himself Aegon had been defeated or at least put on the run.

Asked about Daenerys Targaryen, Bran would only say that she was with her black dragon and that it was bigger than it had been at Winterfell. He had seen no one dying in its flames, however. Hopefully, the girl would write soon. Once Aegon was vanquished, she had number of pressing matters to attend to, and while Ned had no wish to go to King’s Landing, he did have words on some of those matters that he hoped she would heed. He’d written to Ser Barristan Selmy in King’s Landing concerning plague and other troubles in the Riverlands. If he could not reach the Queen, mayhap the old knight she’d given the unenviable task of ruling the capital in her absence would listen and act. Ser Barristan was a good man, but Ned didn’t know how much independence of action Daenerys Targaryen allowed him.

Bran had been most reticent in discussing the Others, even though Ned needed to hear of them most of all. His son always wished to state simply that there were none that he could see on this side of the Wall and leave it at that. But that wasn’t good enough. Where did they go? How many are there? What are they planning? He’d asked Bran these questions repeatedly, and finally gotten some more detailed answers although these had not been as helpful as Ned would have liked.

The Others had mostly retreated to the Land of Always Winter, far to the north where there was no light at all now, although many remained scattered throughout all the lands north of the Wall—some within a few leagues of it. The Children of the Forest remained hidden deep in their caverns and what few men remained of the wildlings barely managed to survive at all. Bran feared there would be no living men north of the Wall by the time summer finally came again. He also feared that if any of these ragged, remaining wildlings managed to reach Jon, that Jon would feel compelled to lead a rescue attempt north of the Wall. Bran was adamant that any such attempt was futile and would lead only to Jon’s death and dire consequences throughout the North and even the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. The fear in his son’s eyes as he spoke of those things had chilled Ned to the bone.

As to how many Others there were, Bran had only shaken his head and said there were far too many to count. Far too many to turn back forever without the Wall and dragons. Their minds were unknowable, he’d told Ned haltingly, but they did plan. And whatever their plans were, they had no concern for any creatures other than themselves. Beyond that, Bran would say very little—only that the Others could be kept back during all this winter as long as the ice dragon eggs were safely hidden here, the Wall was well guarded and any Others who did come were turned back, Jon and his men did not attempt to hunt them north of the Wall, and there was a Stark in Winterfell.

“A Stark in Winterfell?” Ned had asked his son, wondering how the presence of one person in a castle could possibly affect the demonic creatures to the north.

Bran had nodded. “Don’t ask me to explain it, Father. I’m not certain I can. Or if I should even if I could. But we’ve always said it, have we not? There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. I just sort of accepted that when Robb rode south and left Rickon and me here. I didn’t like it, but I knew it was true. I didn’t think to ask why. Other lords ride to war at times and take all their sons, but not the Starks. When your father told you there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, did you ask him why? Did you wonder who first said that?”

“Bran,” Ned had said reasonably. “Winterfell rules all the North. There must be a Stark here to do that. Our people need someone they can come to for aid to share grievances or . . .”

“Mother did that,” Bran had interrupted. “When you left Winterfell, you put Mother in charge. She’s not a Stark. I mean . . . she is a Stark, of course, but not by blood. And she could do all of those things well enough. It’s something else, Father. It’s something in our blood. The Starks and Winterfell are important and they are linked. I don’t understand it all, but it goes back to Brandon the Builder. And I do know the Others cannot be stopped if there is no Stark in Winterfell.”

Ned had stared at his son, trying to make sense of those words.

“I remember leaving Winterfell,” Bran said softly. “The castle was burned. You were dead. Mother, Robb, and the girls were all far away. Rickon and I were certain to be killed if we stayed here. And yet, it felt wrong to go somehow. I almost grasped it then, just as we were leaving. It came to me that Winterfell still lived, however battered it was. And I still lived, too, even though I was broken. What I didn’t understand was that Winterfell and I are the same in some way. Do you understand?”

“I’m trying to, Bran. Go on.”

Bran had swallowed, taking a long time to speak again, but Ned hadn’t pressed. Getting Bran to speak at all of such things was still difficult, and he hadn’t wanted to frighten him into silence and secrecy once more. 

“Terrible things happened in the North after that,” Bran had continued. “I mean, terrible things had already happened, but . . . during all that time that Winterfell stood empty and ruined and when the Boltons were here . . . the Others got stronger and stronger, and even though I was with Lord Brynden and learing about greensight, I felt . . . lost.” He’d been looking into the distance, but he’d turned to look directly at Ned then. “And then I heard Mother. I heard her as clearly as if she was in the room with me. And I saw her . . . by the heart tree. And I knew . . . I knew there was a Stark in Winterfell. I knew my place was in Winterfell. I was still frightened and I doubted myself. I doubted everything! But that . . . connection . . . that power was back, and I could feel it. It called to me and let me see.”

Ned had puzzled over his son’s words. The gods knew he’d been given reason to believe in all manner of mystical and magical powers he once would have scoffed at, but there was something in his words . . .

“Bran,” he’d said finally. “You said yourself that your mother is not a Stark . . . not by blood. So how could her return to Winterfell have done this?”

Bran had actually smiled then—smiled almost as brightly as he’d smiled during the feasting and celebrations when Ned had rejoiced in seeing glimpses of the happy boy he’d thought forever gone. “Because she didn’t return to Winterfell alone, Father. She brought Brien with her.”

Ned thought upon that conversation with Bran now as he looked down upon his youngest son squealing in delight and toddling after Rickon in the nursery as the older boy laughed and deftly dodged just out of the tot’s reach every time Brien got close to him. It was a game they played frequently, and Rickon always let his little brother catch him in the end.

 _Are all our lives so dependent upon such small things?_ Ned wondered. _Had Catelyn and I not both survived—had we not come together again to make this child—would so much else have been different? Would Bran have come home? Would Jon still live? Would any of us in the North?_

He was interrupted in his contemplation of such answerless questions by a solid thud against his legs, and he smiled to see his youngest grinning up at him with his arms around his legs.

“Got Papa!” Brien shouted with glee. Apparently, Rickon had not allowed himself to be captured quickly enough.

“Indeed, you have, my lad!” Ned said, scooping the boy up and tossing him into the air. _My gods, he’s getting heavy!_ Brien’s peals of laughter as Ned caught him were interrupted by a new voice.

“Father, I’ve seen Daenerys Targaryen.”

Ned turned to see Bran in his wheeled chair in the nursery doorway. He was out of breath, apparently having wheeled himself along the corridor, pushing the overlarge wheels Sam had devised for all of his chairs.

“In Storm’s End?” Ned asked him.

Bran shook his head, his blue eyes wide. “No. On her dragon. Flying here.”

 

“Gods be good,” Catelyn breathed, standing beside him on the castle wall an hour later. “It’s twice as big as it was.”

Ned’s arm had gone around his wife when he’d first seen the dragon and he tightened his grip on her at those words. The black monster had grown tremendously since they’d last seen it, and he almost laughed to think it had put him in mind of Balerion the Black Dread before. Now, he wondered if it could even still land upon a turret, and then he wondered absurdly if dragons ever stopped growing. He wasn’t certain he wished to know.

The entire household was assembled in the courtyard below. Catelyn had overseen that—an admirable effort on her part to arrange a suitable welcome for the Queen on very short notice. It had been Ned’s suggestion, however, that he meet Daenerys upon the walls once more to prevent the terror that would no doubt be inspired by all present at having the dragon land in the courtyard. Catelyn had agreed upon the condition that she come with him, and he hadn’t had the energy to fight a battle he doubted he’d win in any case. And as long as Daenerys had control of her beast, he did not fear that fire would be unleashed upon them.

“Your grace!” he called out loudly when she’d flown near enough for him to see her face clearly. “Winterfell is yours!”

She acknowledged him by raising her arm and then guided the dragon to the large turret nearby. Its bulk filled the entire space with its wings spread far out to each side, and as it lay down to allow her to dismount, Ned wondered how much it weighed, genuinely concerned for the integrity of the stone.

The slender girl climbed down from the beast’s back, and Ned noticed that her saddle had a ladder type thing hanging from it which hadn’t been there before. Apparently, the dragon’s growth had made mounting and dismounting more of a chore for her. As soon as her feet touched the stone, she tapped the beast’s side and spoke a word in Old Valyrian. It rose immediately and flew off in the direction of the Wolfswood, and Ned a momentary sensation of panic that the wind from its great wings would sweep the young woman over the side of the castle wall.

He felt a tug on his arm and realized Catelyn had knelt beside him and was pulling him down. Kneeling was not accomplished quickly with his bad leg, but he managed it, and he was in quite a respectful position when Daenerys Targaryen walked over to them.

“Rise, Lord Stark,” she said in her clear, bright voice. “And Lady Stark. It is good to see you both well.” Her tone wasn’t overly warm, but at least it wasn’t hostile.

Ned rose slowly, holding onto Catelyn’s arm. “We are honored to have you here, Your Grace,” he said. “Does this visit indicate you have been victorious in the Stormlands?”

“It does,” she said shortly. “The Seven Kingdoms are mine. As they should be.”

“Dorne, Your Grace?”

Daenerys scowled. “The Dornish are a stubborn lot. But Aegon has ordered that all his troops stand down, so while they have not exactly bent the knee, they do not fight me now.”

As Ned began to ask another question, Catelyn squeezed his arm. “Your Grace, my lord, mayhap we should greet the others in the courtyard and then come inside where it is warm to continue this discussion. There is food and drink in the lord’s solar. You have traveled a long way from the Stormlands, Your Grace.”

The little dragon queen almost smiled for the first time since she’d arrived. “I have come from King’s Landing, Lady Stark, but still a long way. And thank you. I would like that very much.”

The three of them descended into the courtyard with Catelyn courteously stepping back to allow Ned to take Daenerys’s arm while she followed the two of them down the stairs. Their children were lined up in the front row. Bran first, in a chair to which Sam had ordered running blades fastened like on sleds, and then the others lined up by age. Daenerys greeted each one.

“Lord Brandon, is it not?” she asked Bran who had respectfully bowed his head as he could not kneel. “It is good to see you.”

Bran smiled at being addressed as the heir to Winterfell and returned her greeting with respect.

“And Lady Sansa. You are the jewel of the North, my dear. You’ve grown even more lovely than I recall. Surely, your lord father is inundated by ravens from lords who seek your hand.” The words spoken lightly, but Ned did not miss the calculating look in the Queen’s eye.

By the set of her jaw, neither did Sansa. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said in a perfect imitation of her mother’s impeccably courteous tones. “Whatever proposals are offered for me, I am confident in my lord father’s wisdom. He will see to my future.”

If the Queen heard the steel beneath Sansa’s pretty words, she gave no indiction of it, turning instead to Arya. “And is this truly the little she-wolf? I see instead another lovely maiden of the North!”

Ned had the distinct urge to growl at the idea that Daenerys might already be considering bartering his second daughter off, but Catelyn squeezed his arm once more, and Arya herself answered. “I still practice with my sword every day, Your Grace.”

“But she likes _dancing_ now, too,” piped up Rickon from beside her. “And she can’t decide if Brandon Tallhart is more handsome than Caleb.”

“Shut up, stupid!” Arya snarled, elbowing Rickon hard as Dak howled with laughter from where he stood in the second row between Jeyne Poole and Derek. Ned heard a violent fit of coughing from someone and looked to see a furiously blushing young guardsman several rows back. _Caleb,_ he thought.

“Children!” Catelyn snapped. “Forgive them, Your Grace,” she started, but Daenerys was now laughing harder than Dak had, and the atmosphere was suddenly less tense than it had been since the Queen arrived. 

“Rickon, isn’t it?” she asked, turning to the instigator of the trouble, and the boy nodded vigorously.

“Do you still like dragons, young Rickon?”

Rickon twisted his mouth a moment. “From a distance,” he said finally. “Yours got a lot bigger! I wonder if my brother’s is bigger, too.”

Ned grimaced inwardly at Rickon’s referring to the green dragon as Jon’s, but the Queen did not seem to take offense. “Rhaegal is bigger,” she said simply. “But not as large as Drogon. And Drogon will not come into the castle, but he will come back to sleep in the snow just outside the walls once he has hunted. You may look upon him to your heart’s content from the safety of those walls.”

Rickon grinned at her. “I’d like that!”

“Your Grace,” Catelyn hissed at him.

“I’d like that, Your Grace!” he said promptly.

Daenerys smiled back at him before turning to face Osha who stood beside Rickon holding Brien in her arms. She’d gradually been taking over more of Brien’s care from Letty as the child no longer needed to nurse frequently and preferred Catelyn for that anyway. Osha was more soldier than nursemaid, Ned thought, but she had become rather fiercely protective of all the Stark children and he liked having her with them.

“Surely this is not that tiny babe?” Daenerys said with a bit of wonder in her voice.

“Our son, Brien, Your Grace,” Catelyn answered in a soft voice—pride mingled with something else in her tone.

“He has grown so much,” the Queen exclaimed. “It is difficult to believe he is the same child!”

“Children do that, Your Grace. Especially when they are very young. Sometimes, I swear he changes daily.” 

Ned recognized the emotion in her voice then. It was a sort of sympathy, although he wasn’t certain why. Brien seemed to realize that his mother was speaking about him though, because while he had been content in Osha’s arms, he now began squirming and reaching for Catelyn.

“Mama!” he cried. “Mama! Mama!”

“He talks!” Daenerys exclaimed as if this were an unexpected miracle.

“Yes,” Catelyn said, laughing as she reached to gather the child into her own arms. “And screams. When he doesn’t get his way.”

Ned left Catelyn to deal with their youngest as he led Daenerys through the remaining greetings, and finally they all managed to escape to his solar. Catelyn still had Brien who had become more and more irritable. She’d told him it was past time for him to nap, but that he likely wouldn’t sleep before she fed him from her. He ate everything he was offered these days, but when he was tired, he wanted only the teat.

The Queen had heard their conversation and declared that she wished to have Catelyn present in the solar for their discussions and that she could feed the babe there. With a brief look to Ned, who’d nodded, Catelyn had agreed, and now they all sat around Ned’s desk, a drowsy, but mercifully silent Brien, suckling contentedly.

“So, Your Grace,” Ned said when they were all settled. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit?”

“Honor, Lord Stark?” the Queen asked him with a raised brow. “Do you feel honored by my presence? Or alarmed?”

Ned carefully kept his face blank. “Surprised, to be sure. But honored, none the less. You are our Queen, Your Grace.”

“Well spoken, my lord,” she said with a half sort of smile upon her face. “I read the letter you sent to Ser Barristan. Why do you address your concerns to the Lord Commander of my Queensguard rather than to myself?”

“If you read my letter, you know the answer to that, Your Grace,” Ned replied, struggling to keep the irritation out of his voice. “You were fighting a war. I had no way to send a raven your way with any certainty of its reaching you. I could write Ser Barristan easily enough and had better hopes that he could reach you or act on your behalf it he felt it necessary.”

“Yes. Act on my behalf. Come to the aid of your wife’s brother, you mean.”

“Address a growing problem in one of your kingdoms,” Ned countered. “The actions of the Leffords were clearly unlawful.”

“And a problem to to be addressed by the Warden of the West, don’t you think?”

“I do think. And I have been in correspondence with Lord Lannister, as has Lord Tully. But your Warden of the West is scarcely recognized by his own bannermen and you put him in a very precarious position here. If you read my letter . . .”

“I already said I read your letter,” Daenerys snapped. “In any event, if it is unlawful for the western lords to stop traffic out of the Riverlands into the west, how is it lawful for the river lords to stop traffic from the Crownlands into the Riverlands?”

Ned resisted the urge to smile. She had read his letter, and she was now quizzing him upon its finer points. “It should be unlawful to willfully stop travelers anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms, Your Grace. As I stated to Ser Barristan. But greyscale is a real enough threat, and a deadly one. An acceptable and enforceable quarantine process must be set up with the blessing and assistance of the Crown anywhere there is a threat of this disease spreading in order to protect the both health of your people and the ability for trade and travel to continue as freely as possible.”

“You did not respond to my invitation.”

“What?” Ned asked, momentarily stunned by the abrupt change of subject.

“My invitation. I asked you to come to King’s Landing and serve on my small council.”

He heard Catelyn’s sharp intake of breath, and the Queen must have heard it to for she turned to look at his wife.

“Did your lord husband not receive my invitation, Lady Stark? Or did he simply neglect to share it with you?”

“He received it, Your Grace,” Catelyn said quietly, keeping her voice low as Brien was nearly asleep in her arms. “We discussed it, and while I am honored that you think so highly of my lord husband, I encouraged him to decline the invitation.”

Ned saw the anger flash in the Targaryen girl’s distinctive purple eyes. But she did not shout. “Why would you do that? And I have received no response at all.”

“Because I have continued to think on the matter, Your Grace,” Ned put in quickly. “It deserves a serious, well-considered response.”

“You mean you haven’t decided precisely how to tell me no,” she countered. “Don’t deny it. I knew when I sent it, you would not be pleased.”

“I won’t deny I have no desire to leave Winterfell,” Ned said. _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,_ he heard Bran say again. “There is much for me to do here, Your Grace—both in regard to the defense against the Others and in overseeing the healing of my people and lands even as we face a long, hard winter. The North has suffered much.”

“The Seven Kingdoms have suffered much,” Daenerys retorted. “Come have a look around them if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you, Your Grace. But the North is my responsibility, and I would not leave it willingly.” He paused. “This is my place,” he said softly, echoes of a past time haunting him again. 

“Yet you do not hesitate to send advice on how I should handle any number of problems outside the North,” the Queen countered. Then she sighed. “My conquest is all but complete. I will deal with Dorne and with Lord Tyrion’s troublesome bannermen. But then I must rule these kingdoms and I would do it as well as I can. I . . . I do not think I can do that without assistance from good men. Just and fair men. And whatever else you may be, Lord Stark, you are just. I cannot deny that.”

“I thank you, Your Grace,” Ned said. She was irritated with him, but he heard the honesty of the words she spoke.

“My lord husband will never withhold his opinion from you, Your Grace, if that is what you need from him.” Catelyn looked at the younger woman directly and spoke firmly. “But you do not require his presence in King’s Landing to have that. Ravens fly from Winterfell to King’s Landing and your dragon flies even more quickly should you have need to speak with him. We will ever welcome you here. You may have need of his advice, but the North needs him to rule.”

“I need a Hand of the Queen in order to rule effectively,” Daenerys said.

“No,” Catelyn gasped. The color drained from her face as a desolate expression of grief and rage appeared. “No!” she said more loudly, causing Brien to jump in her arms. “You will not take him. Not this time. Not again.”

She was shaking her head back and forth, and Ned left his seat to go to her. “Cat,” he said softly.

“No,” she repeated. Brien cried out, and he realized she was gripping him so tightly, the child was uncomfortable.

“Give me the babe, Cat,” he said, but she did not release her grip on their son.

“What is wrong with her?” Daenerys Targaryen insisted. “Is she ill? Is she . . .”

“I am not mad!” Catelyn shouted, standing up. “But I will not watch my husband ride south again at the whim of someone who wears a crown. Not in winter. Not when we need him so much here.”

Brien had begun crying in earnest now, but Catelyn did relax her hold on him and allow Ned to take him. She stood there looking a bit like a marble statue and staring down at Daenerys Targaryen who was the only one who remained seated. Daenerys looked back up at her in confusion, but then something like understanding lit her eyes.

“Lady Stark, I do not wish for Lord Eddard to serve as Hand. I have no doubt that he could do an admirable job of it, but he was the Usurper’s Hand, and I . . . I cannot give him that position again.” She looked at Catelyn with something remarkably like sympathy. “Not that I think you’d wish me to do so in any event.” She turned toward Ned who was soothing Brien. “I do, however, want to hear your thoughts on who might make a good Hand, my lord.”

Ned looked carefully at Catelyn. She hadn’t spoken again, but she looked much less distressed. Some color had returned to her face. He wished the Queen was not there so he could take her in his arms and simply hold onto her as long as she needed held. She was so strong, so brave. Sometimes he forgot how deeply she’d been scarred. The nightmares which caused her to scream and fight him in her sleep when he’d first recovered her from the Twins had gradually decreased in frequency until they were almost non-existent. But on rare nights, she still cried out. And in rare waking moments such as this one, she still went back.

“Cat,” he said softly again.

“Mama,” said Brien, calmer now that no one was shouting and reaching for her once more.

She reached her arms out to take the baby and looked at Ned. “I’m all right, Ned,” she whispered. Turning toward Daenerys Targaryen, she said, “Forgive me, Your Grace. That was inexcusable. Would you like me to leave?”

“No,” Daenerys said. “I want you here. Please sit down, Lady Stark.”

Catelyn nodded and took her seat once more.

“You sit, too, my lord,” Daenerys said to Ned, and he complied. “I had thought to make you Master of Laws,” she continued. “I see that relocating to King’s Landing on a permanent basis would be difficult for you.” She tried not to glance worriedly at Catelyn as she said that and almost succeeded. “But I would still like you to consider taking the position. Your lady wife is quite correct in that much of the assistance I would need from you could be done via correspondence. You will need to come to King’s Landing at some point, of course, but I can certainly make allowances for the winter, and I cannot imagine ever requiring your presence in the capital for more than two or three turns of the moon at a time.”

It was a more than fair offer, and she was earnestly seeking to set up a government to rule her large kingdoms as best she could. Having thrown his support behind Daenerys Targaryen, he did have a duty to see her succeed. For the benefit of everyone.

“This winter will last years, you know,” he said.

“So I have been told. I would not have you leave the North in Winter except in the most extreme need, my lord. Again, as Lady Stark pointed out, I do have a dragon.” She smiled at him.

He nodded and looked at Catelyn. She still looked too pale, but she gave him a tremulous smile and a tiny nod of her own. Looking back to his Queen, he said, “I accept. I am honored by your faith in me, Your Grace.”

She acknowledged his acceptance with brief, but more genuine smile, and then asked, “About the Hand?”

Ned sighed. “I have heard from Tyrion Lannister that you no longer are considering him for that position, and I think for the present that is wise. He is undoubtedly intelligent enough to do it, but fairly or not, he is intensely disliked by many throughout all Seven Kingdoms. Also, he needs to consolidate his rule of the Westerlands. That will require a show of strength on your part and a show of independence from you on his. It’s a delicate dance, but he has the skill for it, and in matters regarding the West, I would defer to his judgment. In the future, he may be an excellent candidate for a place on your council because there is no doubt the man has one of the sharpest minds in Westeros.

“And the sharpest tongue,” Catelyn added.”

Ned smiled. She was coming back to herself if she was making pointed remarks about the Imp.

“Who then? Someone from your wife’s House?” Daenerys asked.

 _This is some sort of test,_ Ned thought. _She knows the answer to that one._ “No,” he said. “Ser Brynden is a soldier—one of the best strategists I’ve ever known. But he is no politician.And Edmure will have his hands as full with the Riverlands as I will the North for the forseeable future. He doesn’t have the temperament to be Hand in any case.”

Daenerys nodded. “Who then?” she repeated.

It wasn’t an easy question. “Andar Royce, perhaps,” Ned said thoughtfully. “I do not know the young man well, but his father was intelligent and honorable—knowledgeable in both war and politics. And while it may have irritated you, Your Grace, his request to meet with you in the Vale before offering his support showed both courage and thoughtfulness on his part. He is Lord Protector in the Vale, however, as my nephew is far too young to rule, so he may decline for that reason. There are many good men in the Vale, however, and if Lord Royce recommended one of them, I’d consider him. Not a Tyrell or anyone from the Reach. You’ve killed their lord. However justified that may have been, they’ll bear a lot of ill will toward you and cannot be trusted for a long time. A Dornishman? That would depend upon how you handle Dorne now, Your Grace. The Stormlands can offer you nothing. Lady Shireen is young and needs all the best men there to rebuild what has been lost to plague and war.” He looked up at the Queen. “You have not told us of the war, Your Grace.”

Daenerys frowned. “I will. But what of your own lords? Would you recommend none of them as Hand?” 

“None would want it. And I wouldn’t force it upon them. And none are suited to such a position except possibly . . .”

“Wyman Manderly,” Catelyn said. “He could do it, Your Grace, and he just might enjoy it. His son Wylis is a man grown and capable of ruling in White Harbor in his absence as well. The Manderlys are a Northern House, but they’re of Andal blood and follow the Seven. It is an appointment that no one should find objectionable. Not for any good reason, anyway.”

“I don’t know Lord Manderly,” Daenerys said. 

“Get to know him,” Ned told her. “I will tell you this. He can be deceitful and vengeful toward his enemies, but his loyalty to House Stark is unshakable. I would stake my life upon that. And as long as House Stark is sworn to you, he shall be your leal man.”

“I shall consider it. Have you thoughts on a Master of Ships or Master of Coin?”

“Davos Seaworth,” Ned and Catelyn said together, and then they both laughed.

“Stannis Baratheon’s former Hand?” Daenerys asked. “His onion lord?”

“Aye,” Ned said. “It would be a boon to Shireen Baratheon as she asserts her control over the Stormlands to have her most trusted man named to your small council, Your Grace. And I defy you to find a better seaman anywhere. Or a man of more honor.”

“Would such a loyal Baratheon man serve a Targaryen?” Daenerys asked.

“If Shireen tells him to, he will,” Catelyn said with a smile. “Please, Your Grace, do you have news of young Lady Shireen?”

“She is well enough. Master of Coin?” Daenerys infuriatingly insisted upon keeping the conversation focused on her most pressing interests.

“Talk to Tyrion Lannister,” Ned said after a moment. “If there are any men in the West with a good head for finance, an appointment of that man to the position would help Lannister with his own position, I should think. But that man should be watched closely. Who are you considering for Master of Whispers?”

For the first time, Daenerys hesitated. “That position is filled.”

“By?” Ned asked.

Again, she hesitated.

“Your Grace, you cannot ask me to serve on your council, ask my advice upon appointments to various other positions and not tell me who serves on the council with me.”

“Lord Varys has returned to King’s Landing,” she said stiffly. “I have restored him to his position.”

“Varys!” Catelyn exclaimed. “But he is the one who removed Ned from the black cells! And had him imprisoned in Pentos for more than a year!”

Daenerys looked distinctly uncomfortable. 

“Your Grace,” Ned said. “What do you know of the eunuch and his actions from the time of your father’s reign? I do not pretend to know his motives in anything he has ever done, but I do not believe he can be trusted.”

Daenerys swallowed hard, but then met his gaze. “He cannot be trusted. Not by anyone who is not a Targaryen. His only loyalty is to my House, and even that loyalty is subject to his own judgment.”

“He worked to sabotage Robert from the start,” Ned muttered bitterly.

“Robert Baratheon was a usurper! He had no right to the Iron Throne!” Daenerys shouted. 

Brien, who’d fallen fast asleep in Catelyn’s arms made a small sound, and Daenerys looked at her almost guility.

“Why did he save my husband’s life?” Catelyn demanded. “And why did he imprison him?”

“I don’t know,” Daenerys said softly. “Truly. I don’t know why Lord Stark was kept alive, unless it had to do with Jon. But Varys denies knowledge of Jon, so . . .” She shook her head. “I have ordered the man to speak openly to me, and he swears that he tells me nothing but truth, but some things he will not speak of at all regardless of how I often I demand it. Illyrio is the same.”

“Illyrio?” Ned asked.

“Mopatis.” She sighed. “I will tell you this much, Lord Stark, and no more. Varys believes sincerely that Targaryen rule is best for the Seven Kingdoms although he does not believe that all Targaryens have been good rulers. Illyrio . . . I don’t know what Illyrio believes, but he kept Viserys and me safe and alive while plots we knew not of took place all around us. There were plots with Dorne and other plots that . . . I do not know of them all, and I will not speak of what I do know with you. It is past and unimportant.”

“My own life is unimportant?” Ned demanded rather angrily. “One of these plots changed everything for my family! Had Varys simply freed me from the black cells, I could have gone to Robb and Catelyn! I could have fought! My son might have lived! My wife might never have been . . .my gods, girl! How can you say this is unimportant?”

Ned didn’t recall standing up, but he was standing there, looming over Daenerys Targaryen and shaking.

“Ned!” Catelyn whispered urgently. “Ned, please!”

Vaguely, Ned became aware that he had just addressed his dragon-riding queen as “girl,” but he found it hard to care. All that had happened to his family since the time of his arrest—maybe even before it—had been at least in part engineered by that spider and she called it unimportant?

“And he could have let Joffrey the bastard cut off your head at the behest of your wife’s old playmate,” Daenerys said quietly. “Lord Varys bore you no personal malice ever, Lord Stark.”

“Littlefinger was never . . .”

“Your wife’s playmate? But he was. When they were children. I didn’t say lover, my lord, because I do not believe that, whatever may have been whispered otherwise.”

 

“It would appear you have spent some time in King’s Landing, Your Grace,” Catelyn said evenly from behind him. “And a good deal of time conversing with the spider.”

“Enough to learn much more history than Illyrio saw fit to have me taught as a child,” Daenerys acknowledged. She sighed. “My lord, my lady, I do not mean to belittle anything that has befallen you or family. Truly, I do not. I mean only that these things cannot be undone, and I wish only to move forward from here. I trust Lord Varys because I must. He knows things no one else does. And he is loyal to my House in his own fashion. But while I will trust him to uncover secrets I need to have knowledge of, I know far better than to ever trust him with secrets of my own. That is why I would fill the rest of my council with truly honest men. Capable and intelligent whose loyalty to me is for plain reasons—even if some of those reasons are simple self-interest.”

Ned merely nodded because he was afraid of what he might say if he attempted to speak. He could see her position on Varys, but the idea of that man living in King’s Landing, serving once more on the small council, knowing the answers to questions that kept Ned up at night and refusing to share them . . .Anger threatened to overwhelm him just thinking upon it, and he couldn’t imagine actually seeing him once more without demanding the answers he wanted.

“The question he cannot answer to my satisfaction is the legitimacy of the man called Aegon,” Daenerys said then.

“Did you kill him? Aegon, I mean?” Ned asked.

“No. He is in Storm’s End still.”

“I thought Lady Baratheon held Storm’s End now,” Ned said.

“She does,” Daenerys confirmed. “I suppose I have made you wait long enough. Lady Baratheon and her smuggler managed to reach the Stormlands with surprising ease. They used Seaworth’s keep as a starting point, and reached out to the nearest stormlords first. All were more fearful of greyscale than Aegon, it seemed. They were more than willing to fight if they thought they could avoid contagion. But men who showed early signs of greyscale had been hiding it so that they could continue to fight, and would not be driven from their homes. So, no one trusted anyone else.” Daenerys shook her head. “That little girl would go out among the men and show them her face. She told them that many who had greyscale would die, but not all. She was proof of that. And while they lived, why should they not fight. They could inflict their plague and their steel upon their enemies instead of their loved ones, and if battle or plague took them, they would die with honor, and if they somehow survived to be declared cured as she had been, they could live with their scars as a badge of honor. She had entire companies formed from men in quarantine. They would announce to all as they went that they carried the plague so that no one would be infected unawares, and they fell upon Aegon’s troops at will. What healthy men Aegon had left, fled in terror as often as not, for while a man can fight against a sword, what defense is there from plague except to run from it? It was brilliant. Truly.” She smiled grimly. “Aegon was largely finished before my men or the ships from the Vale ever offered battle. When I did meet with Lady Shireen, she asked that I keep the greater numbers of my forces only at her borders rather than expose them to greyscale unnecessarily.”

“And Aegon?” Ned asked, trying to imagine little black haired Shireen walking among a throng of plague-ridden soldiers, and finding he could do so more easily than he would have once believed. She was her father’s daughter. She lacked neither courage nor conviction.

“He was at Storm’s End. He wasn’t happy about it. He wanted to fight. He had fought in earlier battles—quite valiantly, from what I was told. But as plague became the more dangerous foe, he was kept to the castle for his own safety. He remains there as Lady Shireen’s prisoner.”

“Does she have him in a cell then?” Catelyn asked.

“No,” Daenerys answered. “He surrendered all his forces and his claim to the Iron Throne. He has nowhere to go. No supporters to speak of except perhaps in Dorne. Lady Baratheon allows him freedom within her walls. He even dines at her table. He was overwhelmed by the sight of Drogon and devastated when my dragon refused to allow him to touch him. I believe he thought he could ride Drogon as easily as I. And then I had to dash his remaining hope.”

“Which was?” Ned asked her.

“It seems we were to be married. That was one plot at least. He would bring an army to Westeros and I would bring the dragon eggs, and we would wed and restore House Targaryen. Of course, no one ever told me this. And it wasn’t the only plot to restore our House to the Iron Throne either. There were others. Some involved Viserys. Some involved House Martell. There may be plots I know nothing about.” She sighed. “But I cannot wed Aegon, whoever he is.”

“Why not?” Ned asked as Catelyn asked, “So you do not believe he is your nephew?”

Daenerys chose to address Catelyn first. “I do not know, Lady Stark,” she said. “And that is the truest answer I can give. There was indeed a plot to remove the infant Aegon, but Princess Elia opposed it. She had no wish to give up her son to the care of strangers. She held out hope that Rhaegar would be victorious, and even as hope of that dimmed, there is evidence she was conspiring on her own to smuggle herself and her children out of King’s Landing to Dorne. If Aegon truly was switched for another infant, it must have been done almost as the Lannisters were at the gates. How any infant would have been removed from King’s Landing then, I do not know. But whatever occurred, a babe was delivered to people selected to spirit the little prince away just as had been arranged. Varys himself will not answer clearly when I ask if he knows for certain that Aegon is my nephew. He only states that he must be. For the two of us must wed and continue the Targaryen line. My identity is a certainty and as long as Dorne believes that he is Elia’s son, they will remain loyal to the two of us. Except that isn’t possible.”

“Why not?” Ned asked again, and Daenerys looked at Catelyn.

“Because the Queen will bear no more children,” Catelyn said softly. “When her first son was . . . lost . . . she lost her ability to carry another.”

Daenerys looked at Catelyn as if her words were incomplete, but then she nodded. Ned’s heart went out to the young woman then. He recalled how devasted Catelyn had been at the prospect of not being able to bear more children when they’d been reunited and even her disappointment as that became a near certainty after Brien. And Catelyn had six children. Daenerys had none for that first son had been lost in the womb. 

“Are you certain of this, Your Grace?” he asked he gently.

Catelyn didn’t speak, but Daenerys nodded and said, “I am,” in a voice that left no room for argument.

“Would you consider naming this Aegon your heir?” Ned asked her.

“I cannot. His parentage cannot be confirmed, and I did not come here and retake the throne to have it plunged into war again upon my death. There are many who would far rather have a Baratheon or even a Lannister on the throne if they did not fear my dragon. And if Aegon cannot control Drogon, what claim to legitimacy would he have?”

“Not all Targaryens were dragonriders, though,” Ned said, wishing to address the problem of succession rather than to imagine a riderless, uncontrolled dragon in Westeros. He devoutly wished a long and healthy life for Daenerys Targaryen.

“No,” she acknowledged. “But there would be doubt always, and he is more than a year older than I am so it is likely I could outlive him in any case.” She looked down. “He believes he is Aegon Targaryen. He knows nothing else. And to think that he might not be . . .” She shook her head and looked back up at Ned and Catelyn. “He has a Targaryen look, you know. Not that all men with silver-blonde hair or a purple cast to their eyes are my kin. Look at Jon! I don’t know that any Targaryen ever looked so much a Stark before! And Aegon is a good man, I think. I don’t know what I am to do with him.”

“A good man, you say?” Catelyn asked quietly.

“Yes,” Daenerys answered. “The onion lord you so admire seems to think so, too. As does Lady Baratheon. He’s rather full of himself, but . . . he’s been raised to believe he is entitled to the Iron Throne. I know a bit about that.” She sighed. “Tyrion Lannister described him as brash and eager to prove himself. Smart, but impulsive—even quick-tempered at times.”

Privately, Ned thought “impulsive and quick-tempered” argued in favor of the boy having Targaryen blood, but he held his tongue.

“The young man I met, though, was sad and disillusioned, more than anything else. The man who raised him, Jon Connington, died of the greyscale. His dream of the Iron Throne is gone and questions from others regarding his identity have him questioning it himself, I fear.”

“But the Martells still believe him to be Elia’s child?” Catelyn asked again.

“The Dornish have little to gain by believing otherwise,” Daenerys said. “He is their last chance at the Iron Throne unless they want to fight me.”

Ned barely heard her response, though, because when she had spoken of Jon’s Stark looks, something she had said much earlier came to his mind.

“Jon’s dragon,” he said, and both women looked at him as if he’d spoken in a foreign tongue. “You spoke of it with Rickon, Your Grace. You told him it was larger now. How do you know that?”

Daenerys laughed. “Because I have seen it.” She grew serious again quickly. “Drogon flies even faster than you recall now that he has grown so large, my lord. I can travel the Seven Kingdoms with surprising speed. I needed to speak with Jon, and I’d had a letter from him that he would be at Last Hearth, meeting a number of men who’d be given charge of a new contigent of Northmen set to add to the defense of the Wall.”

Ned nodded. He’d known about that meeting. Jon had written him of it but he had not mentioned Daenerys would be attending. Nor had Jon Umber in his letter sent after the meeting. “I was not informed you attended that meeting, Your Grace,” he said stiffly. He realized he hadn’t had a letter from Jon since the one sent just before he’d left for Last Hearth. He’d left it to Lord Umber to tell him all that had been discussed there.

“I didn’t,” Daenerys said with a smile. Undoubtedly, she had picked up on his discomfort at having the Queen attending meetings in his land without his knowledge, and she appeared to be enjoying it. “I went north of Last Hearth, and I stayed far enough east that no one could see Drogon from the castle. Any isolated hunter or trapper who might have seen us could be written off as a drunkard. I knew Rhaegal and Drogon could find each other, and they did. Rhaegal is much bigger now, my lord. You will be impressed the next time you see him. Even if he does remain smaller than Drogon. They were quite happy to see each other.” She smiled even more broadly at the thought of her dragons together. _Her children,_ thought Ned. _That’s how she sees the dragons._

“Why did you need to meet with Jon in secret?” Ned asked.

“I had to ask him something,” she said. “You see, I know Jon to be my nephew, and I know Jon to be a dragonrider. He can ride his dragon anywhere and prove he is at least that regardless of his looks. Aegon does not have even that.” She pressed her lips together. 

“You wanted to make Jon your heir?” Catelyn asked, a step ahead of Ned in following the Targaryen girl’s reasoning.

“No,” Daenerys said. “Like Aegon, Jon is of an age with me. It makes no sense for him to be my heir.”

“And if he is accepted as Rhaegar’s legitimate child, his claim is better than yours,” Ned said shrewdly. “And he rides a dragon.”

“Jon has no interest in thrones and you know it!” she said hurriedly. “I asked if he would consider leaving the Wall to wed the Princess of Dorne.”

“What?” Ned asked.

“Arianne Martell. If Jon wed the heir to House Martell and I declared their children my heirs then Dorne would still have a king of their blood on the Iron Throne when I am gone, and the Targaryen bloodline would continue as well.”

“He turned you down, though.” It was Catelyn who spoke, and the conviction in her voice struck Ned forcefully.

“Yes,” Daenerys said. “You once told me he would take no title other than Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and it seems you were right.”

“Jon is a man of his word,” Ned said then, feeling ridiculously warmed by the fact that Catelyn had known that with such certainty. “He said the words of the Night’s Watch. He won’t go back on them.”

“No,” Daenerys said. “He won’t, damn the man. And I do respect him for it. But I still must find a way to secure the future of the Seven Kingdoms when I wish to focus on all the difficulties of the present.”

“He is a good man? This Aegon?” Catelyn asked again, and Ned wondered why she was so interested in putative Targaryen’s character.

“Yes,” Daenerys said, sounding nearly as puzzled by Catelyn’s repetitious inquiry as he was. “But I cannot wed him to Arianne Martell and declare their children to be definitive Targaryens! No dragons. No proof. Not even Varys can tell me with certainty! I wish to the gods I did have proof of any Targaryen blood in his veins. I’d happily marry him off and declare his children my heirs, but it cannot be that easy.”

“It can,” Catelyn said with a smile. “If he is a good man. And if she agrees.”

“What? If who agrees, Cat? What are you talking about?” Ned asked her, all propriety forgotten in his confusion.

“I am talking, _my lord,_ about Lady Shireen Baratheon.”

“Gods be good,” Ned breathed. “You’re right.”

“What?” Daenerys asked, looking between the two of them.

“You haven’t told Varys that you cannot have children, have you, Your Grace?” Catelyn asked gently.

“No . . . I . . . I don’t know what to tell him as it makes a mess of his and Illyrio’s pretty plan.”

Catelyn nodded. “I thought not. If you had told him, the wretched spider might have come up with this notion himself. Aegon may be the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. By acknowledging him as such, you can win Dorne and possibly appease some other old Targaryen loyalists as well. But you cannot allow the whispers which will undoubtedly persist about his parentage to leave people questioning whether or not your heirs have any Targaryen blood at all. Shireen Baratheon has Targaryen blood, Your Grace, and none dispute it. Her father’s grandmother was Princess Rhaelle Targaryen.”

Ned watched the smile come slowly over Daenerys Targaryen’s face. “That could be done,” she whispered. “I liked Lady Baratheon. It just might be a reasonable solution.”

“If she agrees,” Catelyn said quickly. “I would not have Shireen forced into marriage, Your Grace. She has not had a kind life, and you know what it is to be wed against your will.”

Catelyn’s repeated questions made sense to Ned now. She had seen the solution from the beginning, but she had no wish to sentence a girl she cared for to a bad marriage.

“She likes him,” Daenerys said quickly. “I mean, she thinks he is an honorable man and doesn’t dislike him at least. He wouldn’t be unkind to her, I don’t think. Their firstborn son could be heir to the Iron Throne and their second the heir to Storm’s End. It would even give her a chance to fulfill her father’s wishes. I believe that matters to her.”

“A child of such a match, bearing the Targaryen name, could heal a lot of old wounds, Your Grace.”

“Indeed.” Daenerys flashed a smile at Catelyn. “Perhaps I should have given your lady wife the position on my council, Lord Stark.”

“I would never disagree with that, Your Grace,” Ned said.

“I believe that is all I needed to speak with you about,” the Queen said then. “I am tired, Lady Stark. I have no doubt you’ve ordered rooms prepared for me. Could someone show me to them?”

“Of course, Your Grace, but might I ask you one question first?”

The Queen nodded. 

“My brother wrote that he was riding out against the Leffords for their attack on his lands which left Lord Piper’s son and heir dead. Do you know any more of what has happened there?”

Daenerys nodded. “Forgive me, my lady, I should have thought to tell you of Lord Tully first. When we spoke of the Riverlands earlier, I thought perhaps you knew. Your brother is well. He had actually advanced all the way to the Golden Tooth and was prepared to lay siege when I arrived there on Drogon on my way here. I invited him to a parlay with Lady Lefford and asked Lady Lefford to produce the plague victims sent to her on the River Road. She could not. It seems they were mere rumors. Tales repeated often enough to become truths in some minds. I need the West, my lady. I could not throw the woman in chains. I did order her to pay reparations to Pinkmaiden and Wayfarer’s Rest. It will not bring back Lord Clement’s son, but it is a measure of justice. She also claimed that the men who actually crossed into the Riverlands did so against her orders. They were only to close the road. I do not know if she speaks truly or not, but the leaders of those men have been given to Lord Clement’s men to take to Pinkmaiden and wait upon his justice. The River Road is to remain open all the way to Casterly Rock, and Lord Tully has the backing of the Crown to send armed escorts into the west as far as Sarsfield to ensure that travelers are not molested. Between Sarsfield and Casterly Rock, the safety of travelers belongs to Lord Tyrion Lannister. Lord Lannister can assume all responsibility for the maintaining the safety of his roadways if there have been no incidents in one year, or sooner if it is mutually agreeable to Lord Lannister and Lord Tully.”

“So Edmure is well,” Catelyn said, and Ned smiled. Daenerys had done a masterful job of handling the situation, and he imagined she’d remained mounted on her dragon long enough to give all the participants nightmares. Ordinarily, Catelyn would remark upon such excellent diplomacy, but in this situation, she wanted only to know that her brother was safe.

“He is,” Daenerys said. “He gave me a letter for you. He scribbled it quickly, but I promised to bring it. I’ll bring it to the Great Hall. We’ll be dining there, I assume?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Excellent. I must rest first. And I fear I must be gone again in the morning. I have many things to think upon. And many tasks before me.”

“Sansa!” Catelyn said suddenly after she and Ned had both risen and Daenerys was nearly to the door.

“Sansa?” Daenerys said, turning around to face them again with an almost mischievous glint in her eyes. “What of her?”

“You said you wished to speak again of her betrothal, Your Grace,” Ned said as courteously as he could. “We have accepted an offer for her hand and we hope that . . .”

“Oh, wed your daughters to whomever you please,” Daenerys said almost breezily. Then she laughed, and Ned wondered if his face looked nearly as shocked as Catelyn’s did. “I did intend to push for the Tyrell marriage,” Daenerys said then. “Your daughter is a valuable maiden. I meant that earlier. But I made the mistake of mentioning my hopes to our shared nephew, Lord Stark. The one who considers himself your son. He swore to me he would never ask me another personal favor in all his life, but asked that I please not ever use any of his brothers or sisters to further the interests of the Crown. He seems to think they are far better left to the two of you here in the snow. I hope he is right.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Catelyn whispered. 

“Well, now Jon owes me a favor,” Daenerys said with a smile. “Some day I’ll devise one he can grant me that won’t compromise his precious oath.” Then she turned and stepped out into the corridor, calling for someone to show her to her rooms and leaving Ned and Catelyn standing there looking at each other.

“Take him Ned,” Catelyn said after a moment. “I swear he weighs twice as much when he’s sleeping.”

Ned deftly pulled the sleeping child from her arms and slung him over his shoulder. “What just happened here?” he asked her.

“I’m not entirely certain,” she said. “Good things, I think.”

“You are all right with my serving as Master of Laws?” 

“By raven? Certainly. You will make a fine Master of Laws. She couldn’t ask for a better advisor, Ned.”

“She could ask for you,” he said, smiling.

“Well, I’ll advise you,” she laughed. “And you can decide whether or not my advice is worthy or not of being passed on to our Queen. And if winter truly lasts as long as the past summer, Bran will be a man grown before you ever need travel to King’s Landing. I could go with you. We could take Brien and Rickon, too, possibly if he liked.”

“You would return to King’s Landing, Cat? Take our children there?” Ned asked her seriously. Her loss of control when Daenerys had mentioned the office of Hand had been brief, but it had unnerved him none the less.

“I would not return now,” she said honestly. “I couldn’t set foot there knowing what was done to you. To our girls. But in five or ten years, our children will be mostly grown. We will know more of this new queen—for better or worse. I cannot say truthfully how I will feel then. But if you go, my love, I will, too. That much, I do know.”

There were any number of things from this conversation that they needed to speak upon, but Ned found himself unable to do so at the moment. It was enough to know that their immediate future was secure, Daenerys seemed to be making a reasonable start at ruling the realm, those they cared about far away were well, and best of all, Catelyn and the children were safe here with him in Winterfell.

“Shall we take him to the nursery, my lady?” he asked her. “He is rather heavy while sleeping.”

She laughed. “You hold him through an entire royal audience at some point, my love, and then tell me how heavy he is!”

He laughed as well as she led him out into the corridor, and enjoyed the feel of his son against his chest and her hand on his arm as they walked together to the nursery.

 

The following day, Ned Stark stood on the castle wall just as the sun began to set. Daenerys Targaryen had flown out on her dragon just before sunrise, and Winterfell belonged only to the Starks again. He was pleased by that, although he had to admit the Queen’s surprise visit had been largely enjoyable. Dinner the previous night had been a festive affair, and Sansa’s expression of relief when the Queen had offered her congratulations on her betrothal to Lord Karstark had been priceless.

Queen Daenerys had seemed to enjoy all of the children, and it struck Ned once more that she was only a few short years past being a child herself, although her childhood had been shortened much beyond what it should have been. He’d watched her laugh with Arya and realized that she’d been forcibly wed to a barbarian horselord at Arya’s age. He’d laughed out loud when the Daenerys had made Arya point Caleb out to her and then expressed that Brandon Tallhart must be handsome indeed if he were better looking than Caleb. The queen had then turned to Jeyne Poole and asked her if she found any of the guardsmen to be handsome, and poor Jeyne only turned red as a beet and actually put her hand over Arya’s mouth when Arya grinned as if she were going to say something.

Catelyn had enjoyed herself as well, and they’d both smiled at the delight Daenerys took in playing with Brien and making him laugh, although the somewhat wistful expression on the young woman’s face made him a bit sad as he now understood it.

Catelyn hadn’t even scolded Bran, Rickon, and Dak for having Summer and Shaggydog do all sorts of ridiculous tricks for tossed pieces of meat. She’d laughed nearly as hard at the direwolves as everyone else had. Nymeria, of course, had not come into the Hall. Far too many people in a walled-in space for her liking. Ned thought he understood his daughter’s direwolf because he’d felt that way more often than not inside the Red Keep in King’s Landing.

As that thought came to him, he realized that the lingering sense of discontent he felt in spite of the relief most of the Queen’s tidings had brought likely had to do with the past more so than the present. He and Daenerys had talked some more after the meal and again early this morning before her departure about mundane matters of government such as the funding of the treasury or the appropriate number of men to have in the City Watch, and the thornier issue she inherited from Cersei Lannister of defining and hopefully limiting the role of the Faith Militant in her government. Such discussions reminded him far too much of days spent arguing similar issues with Robert’s small council.

“Flatterers and fools,” he said aloud to the wind. He hoped Daenerys Targaryen managed to surround herself with better men. 

The problems facing the young Queen were real enough. She seemed to comprehend that as well as a young woman of seven and ten possibly could. Ned thought of himself at seven and ten. He’d been following Robert around in the Vale, trying to smile at girls he was afraid to speak to and dreaming of a little keep somewhere in the North close enough to Winterfell for frequent visits where he would have a wife of his own—a younger daughter of one of his father’s bannermen perhaps—who wouldn’t mind that he couldn’t dance well and wasn’t as handsome as Brandon. He’d been a quiet young man with quiet dreams at seven and ten while Daenerys Targaryen sought to rule the Seven Kingdoms. He wished her success.

She did want success, not only for her own ambition, but for the good of the people she would rule. He did believe that about her. The death toll in the Stormlands from greyscale was already high and likely to climb as some of those with slower moving infections would eventually succumb. She believed the spread had been greatly slowed, however. The Crownlands had suffered a significant number of cases, and the Riverlands and Dorne had both seen cases in refugees or returning soldiers, but no widespread disease. She was committed to enforcing a quarantine system to stop the spread entirely. Ned had been pleased to hear that Shireen Baratheon had been adamant that any quarantine be humane as well as effective. Shireen understood better than most how the scars of greyscale stigmatized survivors. 

He hoped Stannis’s daughter would agree to wed the man Daenerys was determined to name Aegon Targaryen whatever his true parentage may be. He was pleased by the thought of Robert’s great nephew one day sitting upon the Iron Throne. As Robert had no legitimate children of his own, that was as close as he would come to having his own descendants succeed him. Robert had not been a good king. Ned knew that. Nor had he been a good husband or father to the children of his wife that he believed to be his or the children of the other women he so carelessly got with child. If he were completely honest with himself, he wasn’t always even a good man. But he’d been a good soldier, and for most of their lives a good friend, and Ned had loved him. 

He recalled how Robert had loved the story of Orys Baratheon and Argella Durrandon and the foundation of his House. The situation was not the same, but mayhap in this generation another man who may or may not be a Targaryen could take the Lady of Storm’s End to wife and not only return House Baratheon to its former strength, but the House Targaryen as well. That would be a good thing, he thought. The best that could be hoped in the world as it now existed. 

_There is every reason for hope,_ he thought. _So why am I still so unquiet in my mind?_

As if he had suddenly asked himself the right question, the answer came to him in the form of a name. _Varys._ He had not been able to put the eunuch entirely from his mind since Daenerys Targaryen had informed them that not only had he returned, but that he once more sat upon the small council. The man had far more answers than he shared even with Daenerys. Ned was certain of it. And he wanted answers. He felt he deserved answers. So many terrible things had happenened to everyone he loved. _Robb._ He could often think about his firstborn son’s life with a certain amount of joy in the memories now, but any thought of Robb’s death still stabbed at his heart as if Roose Bolton’s blade had pierced his own chest.

_Answers. Would answers help me sleep on the nights when evil dreams find me? When they find Catelyn? Would answers change what has occurred? Or make the pain easier for any of us?_

He wondered. And while a large part of him wanted to ride for King’s Landing immediately and hold a blade to the eunuch’s throat until he told him everything he wished to know, a small but insistent voice whispered that he had all he needed to know. He had everything he needed here in Winterfell.

_I fear you are still a dead man, Lord Stark._

Ned could hear the spider’s voice as clearly in his mind as he heard it that night in his cell. Or had it been day? He couldn’t tell then. Time hadn’t existed there in his world of endless dark and pain. But the eunuch had spoken of games and pieces, not unlike Sansa had told him Littlefinger spoke. He’d talked of tame wolves and dead men and removing him from the board.

_I fear you are still a dead man, Lord Stark._

“You were wrong about that, you bastard,” Ned said, speaking aloud to the man in spite of the fact he was a thousand leagues away. “I am alive. I am the Stark in Winterfell, and I am not a piece in your game.”

“Ned?”

He turned abruptly to see his wife walking toward him, a slightly worried expression on her face.

“Catelyn! What are you doing up here in the wind, my love? You’ll freeze!”

“I am not that fragile, my love. My blood has thickened at least a little after all these years in the North,” she said with a teasing smile. “And today is almost warm for this winter.”

It was true. The sun had shown brightly throughout the brief daylight hours and snow upon rooftops had actually melted enough that it dripped down over eaves in almost a steady rainfall in places. And while the wind blew here atop the walls, it wasn’t the biting, bone chilling wind of most days. “I never thought I’d live long enough to hear you say warm and winter in the same sentence,” he said, returning her smile.

“I must say that while I was pleased by almost everything in the Queen’s visit, I am glad she is gone,” Catelyn said, stepping into the circle of his arms. He looked and saw that the place they stood was blocked from the view of nearly all the courtyard by a small turret rising up behind them and so he kissed her briefly.

“I am, too,” he said. “It is odd to think of peace, Cat. Although it is a good thing.”

“It is a good thing, my love. And an even better thing to think of peace and to keep you here in your place. With me and the children.”

 _It is my place,_ he thought. For so much of his life after he was eight and ten, he’d felt he’d stepped into another’s place. His father’s place. His brother’s place. Winterfell, the lordship, Catelyn. None of these things were meant for him. He’d done the best he could but felt always as if he had taken what wasn’t his. Now, after more than four years of war and death and grief and nightmares come to life, he stood atop the walls of Winterfell and looked at the scarred yet beautiful face of a woman he’d never thought to have in those quiet dreams at seven and ten. He’d fought with her, for her, and alongside her. They’d suffered and been broken and hurt each other and healed each other. And they’d taken back what had been taken from them. Robb was beyond their reach forever, and Ned’s heart ached at the thought, but their other children were back with them and Brien had come to them as well, an unexpected blessing in a time of sorrows. And Winterfell was theirs. They had taken it back. It belonged to them, and they belonged to it. Just as they belonged to each other.

“This is my place,” he agreed. “This is our place, Cat. Ours and our children’s. Winterfell is for the Starks, my love. And you and I have done our best to fill it with Starks.”

She laughed, and it sounded like music to his ears. As he looked down at her, a sudden gust of wind caught the edge of her hood and blew it back, allowing a good portion of her hair to fly free around her face. It caught the the last light of the setting sun and the colors there put the sunset to shame. He removed his glove and reached out to touch it with his fingers, not caring about the cold.

The sun would be gone entirely in a moment, and he knew he should lead her down from the walls for it would get much colder quickly once the darkness truly set in. But with his hand in her hair and her blue eyes looking up into his with all the love any man could ever want, he knew that however quickly the sun set, however dark the night became, his own time in a world of endless dark and pain was ended. He didn’t need answers from Varys or anyone else to know that. 

He kissed his wife again. His lady. His Catelyn. And he knew however long this winter lasted and whatever dangers remained to be faced, they would be all right. This winter would feel warm to him.

 _I am the Stark in Winterfell,_ he thought as he breathed her in with their lips pressed together. _We are the Starks of Winterfell, and we are still alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it's finished. "Love and Honor," which began as a series of imagined conversations in my head well over two years ago, before I ever knew that fanfic existed has come to a conclusion. There is still the epilogue to come, but the essential story is complete. I hope you have enjoyed reading it even half as much as I have enjoyed writing it. This has been a labor of love, and your comments and encouragement along the way have made it an even more wonderful experience for me. 
> 
> I hope the conclusion did not disappoint. I shall have a few more comments of my own and a few special thank yous once the epilogue is posted. Right now, I'm honestly just sort of stunned that I've finished this. When I hit the "Post" button, "Love and Honor" is actually over. Wow. I don't know whether I should laugh or cry. Maybe both. :) Thank you again for all the support I've received from readers for the past 2 years and 3 months. I promise I'll get you that epilogue in the next couple weeks!


	84. Epilogue--One Day in Winterfell

SOME THREE YEARS LATER

_Dear Aunt Catelyn,_

Catelyn Stark smiled at the letter’s greeting. She had seen the boy only three times in his life—once during a visit to King’s Landing when he was a tot too young to remember her, once when she’d taken Tyrion Lannister to the Eyrie, and finally when she and Ned had retrieved Sansa from the Eyrie. Yet, he always addressed her as Aunt Catelyn in his letters. She liked it. Robert Arryn was the last link to her sister, and whatever Lysa’s sins had been, she still had loved her.

_I regret that I cannot attend my cousin’s wedding, but Lord Nestor worries that the climate in the North now would not be good for my health. I have been quite well lately, but traveling is never easy on me, I fear, and of course we must travel to Storm’s End not too long from now._

_I pray that you are all well, Aunt. Please give Sansa the letter I have written to her._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Warden of the East_

Catelyn carefully laid aside the other parchment for Sansa, not reading the words young Robert intended for her daughter. Then she put her letter into a drawer in Ned’s desk. He’d want to see it upon his return as he felt an attachment to the boy as well. Robert was the last of the Arryns—the last link to the man Ned had considered a second father. The marriage between Jon Arryn and Lysa had not been a happy one, but it had produced a child Ned and Catelyn would both always care about.

He seemed to be thriving at the Gates of the Moon, or at least thriving as well as he might. He’d been sent there just over two years ago in the care of Nestor Royce when Lord Andar Royce left the Vale to take up his postion as Hand of the King to Daenerys Targaryen. Ned had privately voiced misgivings to Catelyn about Andar accepting that title, not because he felt he was not up to the task—he’d recommended him after all—but for fear of what his departure would mean for little Robert in the Vale. The boy had lost one important person after another from his life through the previous years. But it seemed that Nestor Royce, ever one to seek advancement and favor, had taken the responsibility of caring for, educating, and training the boy to heart. Even Ned now believed that sending him to the ancestral winter seat of the Arryns had been a wise move. And many lords of the Vale kept a close watch over him there, some of whom actually seemed to have his best interests at heart. 

Many corresponded with Winterfell, but Catelyn trusted the words of Lady Anya Waywood’s son Donnel the most. From him, she had learned that Robert remained somewhat frail physically and still was prone to shaking spells, particularly if he became overtired or was ill. Yet, he grew undoubtedly stronger and had become a passable hand with a sword and a fairly good rider. All manner of inquiries had been made of the maesters at Oldtown for various remedies to try for his shaking, and some seemed at least helpful in reducing the length of his fits when they occurred. He never took sweetsleep anymore. His intellectual abilities had advanced far more than his physical capabilities, and it seemed that unsedated and gradually freed from the excessive fears of his childhood that Robert Arryn had inherited his father’s shrewd mind. That fact had gone far to allay the concerns of many Valemen about his becoming their liege lord, Donnel wrote. A wise lord could keep strong men about him and rule well. Catelyn hoped that would be the case for her nephew.

She had no time to dwell upon that now, however. Guests for Sansa’s wedding would be arriving within the fortnight, and she had far too many things yet to do in preparation. She had hoped Ned would be back by now, but he and Bran had not yet returned from Barrowton. He traveled there at least twice a year to visit Lady Walda Bolton and her young son. At some point, Lady Walda was to be returned to the Dreadfort to set up her own household, and her son and heir would come to foster at Winterfell. The boy was barely older than Brien, so he would remain with his mother for some time yet, but Ned was determined not to let Barbrey Dustin be the only influence upon the woman and child. He’d not wanted to go now, especially as Lady Bolton would be attending the wedding here at Winterfell in any event, but Lady Dustin had unsurprisingly written him of any number of problems she wanted him to deal with, and so he had gone, taking Bran along as the weather had been relatively mild of late for winter, and it was a chance for Bran to observe one of the less enviable tasks of a lord.

A loud shout from the courtyard below caught her attention and she walked to the window to see Rickon and Willam Ryswell throwing snow at each other. The two boys were of an age and Catelyn smiled to see them playing together even though Willam’s presence in Winterfell was one of the things that had Barbrey Dustin irritated. True to his word, Ned had given the woman a large say in naming the heir to Barrow Hall as the Dustin line had come to an end when her husband died leaving her childless, and she had chosen her second brother Rickard’s eldest son who had been named in honor of her late husband. While some other lords and ladies had voiced objections to giving House Ryswell control of both the Rills and Barrowton after their quick support of Roose Bolton as Warden of the North, Ned had surprisingly accepted this proposal. He’d reminded all of them of House Ryswell’s historical record of loyalty and honor prior to that time and of their close ties with House Dustin. He’d declared that Rickard Ryswell’s boy would take the name Dustin and assume the lordship of Barrowton after his aunt. However, he’d insisted that young Willam be warded at Winterfell until at least the age of twenty. As with little Walton Bolton, Ned had no intention of allowing Barbrey Ryswell Dustin to be the future Lord Dustin’s only influence as he grew.

Watching the boys outside reminded Catelyn that daylight was fleeting and so she turned from the window to fetch her own cloak and gloves in order to take advantage of daylight herself. Guest rooms in the Great Keep were in reasonably good order, but the Guest House had not been nearly well furnished or supplied enough at her last check, and she wanted to see if her most recent orders had been carried out.

In the courtyard, she stopped to watch the boys at play for a moment, and as she stood there, a deep voice called out from behind her, “Is that you, Little Cat?”

Her heart leapt so to hear that voice and to turn and see her tall, strong uncle walking toward her that she didn’t even admonish him for calling out to her as if she were a child rather than Lady Stark of Winterfell. While most guests would not be arriving for close to a fortnight, Ser Brynden Tully had come over a moon’s turn ago, stating that if he had to travel to the godsforsaken North in the dark of winter, he would bloody well make it a long enough visit to be worth his time. After five years without seeing any of her family from Riverrun, she still felt a small thrill every time she heard that deep smoky voice.

The intervening years had not changed her uncle much. The lines on his face were deeper perhaps, but his hair had already been completely white the last time she’d seen him, and it was no different now. He may walk just a bit more slowly, but he stood as straight as ever. He’d taken great pleasure in sparring with Rickon, Dak, and even Arya since his arrival, and he’d always allow Brien to pelt him with snowballs when the older children left him out of their revelry.

“Everyone walks around so covered up in this frozen wasteland, it’s nearly impossible to recognize anyone from behind!” he groused as he walked up to her.

“I should think you’d recognize my cloak by now, Uncle,” she teased him. “You only see me in it every day.”

He shrugged. “You look like Sansa, from behind or in front. My eyes are old, child. I have to get close to be certain which of you is standing here.”

She laughed. “If you can’t tell the difference between a lovely maiden and an old woman, your eyes aren’t old. They’re blind.”

“And if you think you can convince me you’re an old woman, you’re not as intelligent as I’ve always believed you. Mayhap no smarter than Edmure!”

“Uncle Brynden!” Catelyn admonished him, hitting his arm. “Do not insult my brother and your liege lord! He’s done an admirable job bringing the Riverlands back to some semblance of order and overseeing all those troublesome lords these past years, and you know it.”

“Well, he’s done an admirable job of getting babes on his little Frey wife. I’ll say that for him,” Brynden said, shaking his head. “Those two are nearly as bad as you and your Northman, Little Cat.”

“Uncle!” Catelyn exclaimed, feeling the heat in her cheeks and hating that he could cause her to blush because she knew fully well that was his intention.

He grinned at her. “Oh, yes, Little Cat, it would seem that particular trout is every bit as lusty as your wolf.” He tilted his head to the side and gave her a considering look. “Or maybe it’s the trout in both these pairs that’s the lusty one!”

“Brynden Tully, I will not stand here and listen to this. You are a rogue!” Catelyn huffed at him as her cheeks burned impossibly hot in the winter air. She turned to walk away from him with what dignity she could muster as he laughed. She hadn’t gone three steps when he stopped her, however.

“I think Bethany will be very like you.”

Catelyn frowned as she stopped walking because her uncle knew that the surest way to make her stay was to talk about the nephews and niece she hadn’t yet met. “I thought you said Bethany looks like Roslin,” she said without turning around. “You’ve mentioned her brown hair any number of times.”

“Oh, she does look like her mother,” Brynden said, “Although her eyes are blue. But she acts like you.”

Catelyn did turn around then. She couldn’t ever hear too many tales of Bethany, her five year old big brother Hoster, and her newly born brother Perwyn. “Ha!” she said. “Bethany hasn’t even seen her third nameday yet!”

“And I knew you before you’d ever seen yours, Little Cat. As sweet and loving a child as ever drew breath you were, but stubborn as they come and convinced you were right about everything. Little Bethany’s the same. So I’ve no reason to expect she’ll change much as she grows. You didn’t!”

Catelyn shook her head at him but smiled fondly. “Did you need to speak with me about something, Uncle? Or do you simply wish to aggravate me?”

“You are entertaining when irritated, child, and I haven’t had the opportunity to do so in a very long time.”

“Well, I haven’t been a child in a very long time,” Catelyn replied with a rueful smile. “But I have missed you as well. What is it, Uncle? I can tell by your face that you have something to say.”

His face grew serious. “I spoke with the boy this morning, Cat,” he said softly. “He wants to come with me.”

“Oh,” she said just as softly. She’d expected as much. As soon as Brynden had mentioned it to Ned and herself, she’d known there would be no keeping the child here once Brynden made the offer. And Ned had told him that he would allow it, but only if the boy wished to go. That conversation had been more than a fortnight ago, just before Ned and Bran left. Catelyn half suspected Brynden had hesitated to pursue it while Ned was gone because he knew Catelyn was less than enthusiastic.

“It’s a fine chance for him, Catelyn, and you know it,” he said now. “A better chance than he’d ever have by simply remaining here.”

She looked away from him to watch Rickon who had now tackled Willam in the snow. She recalled all the times she’d seen Dak and Arya join the snowball fights as well. They were currently out riding with Sansa and Harrion. ‘Chaperoning,’ as Arya liked to call it with a smirk on her face.

“Dak is like one of my own, Brynden,” she said quietly. “I can’t imagine Winterfell without him. Arya will be lost. Rickon will be furious. And Jeyne . . .” She shook her head. “We’ll all miss him terribly.”

“I know, niece,” he said, putting a hand on her arm. “But however much he’s like one of your own, he isn’t a Stark. He’s no name at all to hear him tell it. If he squires for me, he’ll have a chance at making a knight. And I don’t doubt he can do it, Cat. The boy’s smart and damn good with a sword.” He made a face. “His horsemanship needs work. He sits a saddle like a sack of turnips.”

“I know,” Catelyn laughed. “Arya’s tried with him, believe me. Sansa teases him that he makes her look an excellent rider which makes Arya roll her eyes, of course.”

Brynden laughed. “Well no one should have to compare their riding with Arya’s. That girl’s half a horse, Cat! I think she’s better than you, and that’s saying something.”

“She’s a much better rider than I am,” Catelyn said honestly. Then she sighed. “If Dak wants to go to Riverrun with you when you leave, he has our blessing. He doesn’t actually require our permission, of course. He’s five and ten and not truly our son or ward. He came here of his own free will at barely one and ten. He’s never been bound by anything but his affection for us—and ours for him.”

“He may not be bound, but he’d not go if you or Lord Eddard told him nay. You know that, Cat.” He looked at her almost warningly.

“I won’t discourage him, Uncle. I do want the best future possible for him. But Ned and I will make it clear that he’s always welcome to return. And if he wants his own keep in the North some day after he’s made a name for himself performing feats of great renown with you, Ned most certainly will find him one. Or build him one.”

“And the little Poole girl?” Brynden asked.

“Did you ask Dak about Jeyne?”

Brynden shook his head. “Not my business. But I’m not blind, and I’ve seen the way they look at each other. She was your steward’s daughter, right? The one Bolton tried to pass off as your younger girl, although a girl less like Arya I can’t imagine.”

Catelyn nodded. “She suffered terribly, I’m afraid. Now she seems only very shy around men she doesn’t know, but . . . Jeyne wasn’t shy at all as a child. Too outspoken, truth be told. And not always kind in her speech. And when we first recovered her, she clung to Sansa like her life depended upon it and wouldn’t leave her room. I don’t remember how long it took before she could suffer the presence of any man without screaming or hiding. She tolerated Rickon first, and even that took time in spite of his being only a little boy.”

“Gods be good,” Brynden breathed. “And Dak knows what she suffered?”

“I have no idea what she’s told him. But he knows she was wed to Ramsay Snow as Arya, yes. This . . . affection between the two of them. It happened so gradually, none of us even noticed it at first. I always feared he had romantic notions about Arya which she would never return. It was plain she loved him fiercely, but as a brother, from the moment she brought him here. Even if he did ever harbor a youthful infatuation for her.”

“And it’s not like you’d wed your daughter to a bastard with no name in any case, Cat,” Brynden said.

“Well . . . it certainly wouldn’t be something I’d wish for,” Catelyn said carefully. In truth, Arya had now had more than one offer and she hadn’t accepted any of them. Ned and Catelyn had tried not to push her, but she was six and ten now. She should be betrothed already, but neither of them had any wish to force a marriage upon her. Catelyn did not want her daughter to end up alone, but if Arya was truly content here at Winterfell, she would not insist she leave. She couldn’t . . . not after all Arya had gone through to return to Winterfell. Not when she still had days when she seemed angry and far away inside herself in a manner that Catelyn understood all too well.

Forcibly turning her thoughts away from Arya and back to the present discussion, she met her uncle’s eyes. “As to Jeyne, she’s nearly eight and ten—certainly old enough to be wed. But Ned and I have never spoken to her of arranging a match because we didn’t think such talk would be welcome. Other than Dak and my boys, she still won’t willingly take a man’s arm. She’s touched Ned upon the arm, handing him Brien or such things as that, but even now she almost flinches. And she’s no need at all to fear Ned. I don’t think she does fear him. But that withdrawal from a man’s touch is instinctive, I’m afraid. I don’t know that she’d ever want to truly be a wife. To anyone.”

“Well, the boy will remain with me for the next few years. They may forget all about each other. If there’s anything for them to forget.”

Catelyn bit her lip. “Mayhap. He’s a good bit younger than she is, and he’ll certainly meet any number of other girls in the South. But I don’t think Jeyne will seek out other men. However long he’s gone. And if he does return one day and want her . . . well, Ned and I have talked about it actually. We’d have no objections, but I would have Ned speak with him first . . . about what fears she may have.” She looked away, unable to look at her uncle. “Ned understands such things,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

Her uncle said nothing, but she knew well enough he understood her meaning and she moved quickly on. “In the meantime, she may wish to go to the Karhold with Sansa. Especially if Dak will not be here. She is welcome at Winterfell for all her life, of course, but I would have her be wherever she is happiest.” She looked directly at Brynden then. “Vayon Poole died for Ned’s sake with the Winterfell men in King’s Landing. I would do a great deal to ensure his daughter’s welfare.”

“Of course you would, Cat. I would expect no less of you,” Brynden said, his blue eyes holding her own. “Your father was always proud of you, you know. Even before Minisa died, he told me you were something special. And after she was gone . . . I don’t think he would have made it without you there to help him with everything, and you were just a child. Now you are very much a woman grown, for all that I still see that little girl I couldn’t keep out of the river. And he’d be even prouder of you now. Because you are a remarkable mother who’s raised remarkable children. And you are even more essential to that husband of yours than you were to your lord father. You know that, don’t you?”

She swallowed the lump in her throat caused by her uncle’s praise. “I know it,” she said. “But that’s as true for me as it is for him.”

Brynden smiled. “I know that, too, Little Cat. I’ll not pretend to know anything of marriage as I’ve managed to avoid it longer than most men manage to live. But I think if more husbands and wives let themselves both need each other, marriage wouldn’t appear such a frightening institution.”

“You may be right,” she said, smiling. “I don’t find it frightening at all now, but I confess I was terrified on my wedding day.”

“So was Stark!” her uncle grinned. “His face was stoic enough, but gods the man was pale. Neither one of you looked like you had an ounce of blood beneath your skin standing up there in that sept. I nearly made a wager that he wouldn’t have the nerve to touch you. Of course, I would have lost that one when you turned up with child not a quarter hour later!”

“Uncle!” she said, shaking her head once again. “I must see to the rooms in the Guest House, so if you’ll excuse me . . .”

“Go on, Little Cat. I’ll go bother Rickon and his friend here. Oh, and Dak asked me specifically not to say anything except to you and Lord Eddard. He wants to tell the others himself.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she said with a smile, and then she bid her uncle farewell. She’d been terribly disappointed when Edmure had written that he couldn’t come. She understood it, of course. Little Perwyn was born barely three moons prior, and of course Edmure would have to go to Storm’s End for the wedding there whether Roslin and the children could go or not. She rather hoped he would at least bring Hoster along, for she and Ned would be attending that wedding as well with Arya, Rickon, and Brien. Sansa would be going to the Karhold with her own husband and Bran had to stay behind as the Stark in Winterfell, but the rest of them would travel to White Harbor and take ship with the Manderlys. 

Catelyn hoped the relatively mild weather of the past two moons held out through the festivities here and their subsequent travels south. They had originally planned to hold Sansa’s wedding the previous year, before Shireen Baratheon had even accepted the marriage offer of her betrothed, but the storms which had repeatedly battered the north for up to twenty days at a time had been brutal. People had died of frostbite and starvation, and even within Winterfell’s walls the bitter cold and ever dwindling food supply had claimed lives. She’d begun to despair of any of them surviving years of such conditions, but Ned had assured her that winter, like all seasons, varied over time, and while such storms would almost certainly come again before they ever saw the spring, there would be times of calm and days which, if not warm, at least allowed a warmly dressed person to spend some of the few daylight hours outside without guarantee of frostbite.

He’d been right, of course, as he always was about things of the North. But even Ned had never lived through a winter as long and harsh as this one that promised to stretch on for years still, and she prayed that he was correct in his assertion that this milder time would probably last as long as the terrible blizzard-filled year just past. She wished he were home now. He and Bran had been gone a fortnight, and while she’d slowly grown accustomed to his traveling to see his bannermen once more, the blizzard which had swept upon him and his men as they returned from Deepwood Motte a half a year ago, forcing them to take what shelter they could for more than a fortnight and then struggle home starving and frostbitten through snow so deep it was barely traversable had magnified all her fears. Four men had died on that accursed journey, and Ned had looked half-dead himself when he’d finally staggered through Winterfell’s gates. He’d left Winterfell again since then without incident, but never for this long. And never with Bran. _Please gods, bring them home swiftly._

Squaring her shoulders, she forced her worry for her husband and son deep down and set about her tasks. Only when she was certain that preparations in the Guest House indeed occurred at a pace to insure their readiness for the wedding guests, did she allow herself the luxury of praying for Ned’s and Bran’s safey at greater length. Her footsteps took her from the Guest House right past the Great Keep to the little sept that stood between the Keep and the Great Hall. As always, her heart lifted simply to see it, and she hurried to be inside where she always found comfort.

She did not even attempt to pretend to herself that comfort came only from her faith in her gods. She was devoted to the Seven, but she knew she was no less devoted to the man who’d insisted upon building this new sept as soon as work on buildings she’d insisted were more important had been completed. He’d begun coming here with her sometimes since its completion, something he’d never done in the old sept. He certainly wasn’t forsaking his gods for hers, and she’d never ask it of him, but he’d told her that his gods could find him anywhere, and just as she’d learned to share the silence of the godswood with him, he wished to share the songs of the sept with her. 

She smiled now at the memory of that conversation. Ned never actually sang, of course, but he liked to listen to her and Sansa sing. He smiled to hear the other children as well, although Arya, Bran, and Rickon showed little enthusiasm for the songs, prayers, and rituals, and Catelyn strongly suspected they participated as much as they did only to please her. Brien enjoyed the singing at least, and his clear little voice held the tunes surprising well even if he did get the words wrong as often as he got them correct. 

The children came with her to worship here, but it was her place. Ned had given it to her, and she could always feel him here. The godswood would ever be the place she could most strongly feel his strength and his conviction, but when she needed to feel his love for her, she could always find it here. She didn’t think the gods would begrudge her that.

She was kneeling in prayer when she heard her uncle’s voice speak to her very softly.

“Cat?”

She turned to face him without rising, and he looked uncomfortable to be interrupting her at her prayers. She began to feel alarmed because she knew he wouldn’t do so for no reason.

Her rising fear must have shown on her face because he quickly said, “Nothing is amiss, niece, and I am sorry to disturb you, but your young rascal suddenly took off running and when I grabbed him, he said he had to speak to you now.”

“Rickon?” she asked, rising from her knees. 

He nodded. “I’d just told him and the Ryswell lad it was time they got ready for the midday meal. Then that black beast of his howled a couple times, he got quiet, and then he took off without so much as a word. When I stopped him and he said he had to find you, I told him I’d seen you come in here, and whatever he had to say could wait until you were finished, but he said it couldn’t. He was about to rush in here as wild as that wolf of his, but I told him that was no proper way to enter a sept, and I’d tell you he was waiting.”

Catelyn felt cold. “Shaggydog was howling?”

Her uncle nodded.

“Ned,” she whispered. “Bran.” Then she pushed past Brynden and out the door of the sept without grabbing her cloak. “Rickon!” she called wildly as soon as she was outside, looking around for her son.

When her eyes fell upon him standing there though, he was grinning from ear to ear. “Mother!” he said with excitement. “Jon is coming!” 

She closed her eyes briefly in relief and wordless gratitude, and then looked to the sky to the north. She did not see the green dragon, though.

“Not right this moment,” Rickon laughed. “But soon.”

Catelyn looked at him, puzzled. She had grown rather accustomed to Bran announcing various visitors before they were visible from the castle walls, and he nearly always knew when Jon Snow was arriving, but Bran wasn’t in Winterfell. “Rickon, how can you know that?” she asked, shivering.

“Here,” her uncle said gruffly, wrapping her forgotten cloak around her. “You haven’t got your gloves, either, have you? Put your hands inside that cloak before you lose a finger. Haven’t you learned anything living in this place?” he asked her.

“My gloves are in the sept,” she said. “I forgot them in my haste.” She turned back to Rickon. “Why do you think Jon is coming?”

“I know Jon’s coming,” Rickon said confidently. “Bran knows it. He and Father are almost here. Maybe by tonight. Shaggy felt Summer.”

That warmed Catelyn more than the cloak. “But Jon? When is he arriving?” she asked, still confused by Rickon’s pronouncement. Jon wouldn’t have Ghost with him. His direwolf liked his green dragon no more than the wolves here at Winterfell did. They’d only seen the white wolf once since Jon had first gone back to the Wall with it. Two years past, Jon had come to Winterfell with a fairly sizable force of men to meet a group of men Daenerys Targaryen had sentenced to the Wall once she took the Iron Throne. He’d come by horse and had Ghost with him then. All of his other visits had been on dragonback as he could travel far more quickly that way. “How could Shaggy see Jon?” she asked.

“He can’t,” Rickon said. “And I don’t know exactly when. But Bran knows Jon is coming. So Summer knows Jon is coming. So Shaggy knows Jon is coming. And now so do I! He’s coming here, Mother! He really is!”

Rickon was nearly bouncing up and down with excitement. Having celebrated his tenth name day had done nothing to curb his natural exhuberance, and she smiled at him. “Very well, my wild wolf. Go on to the Keep then and share the news with your little brother. He’s been asking about your father and Bran almost every hour, and he’ll be excited to hear about Jon as well. Get yourselves ready to go to the Great Hall, and I shall come along in just a bit, and we’ll all go together.” 

“Yes, Mother!” Rickon grinned, dashing off through the snow toward the Great Keep.

“You understood all that?” Uncle Brynden asked with his bushy white eyebrows raised quizzically.

“I did,” she said, as she walked back past him to retrieve her gloves from the sept. “More or less.”

“I didn’t understand a word of it,” Brynden said, shaking his head. “But I gather the boy thinks your husband is coming home? And that the bastard is coming down from the Wall?”

Catelyn sighed. “Ned and Bran will be here as he said, Uncle. The wolves can always find each other, and you know how my children are connected to their wolves.” 

He followed her into the sept. “Including the bastard’s wolf? He’s got one too, hasn’t he?”

She took a deep breath, and carefully put her gloves on both hands. Then she looked up and met her uncle’s eyes. “Jon has a direwolf, yes. But he won’t have the wolf with him because he comes here on his dragon.” Brynden Tully’s eyes grew wide at that. “Bran can see him,” she said. “He can see almost anything that impacts Winterfell. It has nothing to do with the wolves.” She bit her lip. “Except that he and his wolf tend to share thoughts, I suppose, and then the other wolves . . .oh, don’t ask me to explain it, Uncle. But I’ve no doubt Jon is coming. He’d intended to come for Sansa’s wedding if he could, although he could make no promises. She’ll be pleased.”

“And you, Cat?” He caught her arm as she walked back toward the door. “Are you pleased to have that boy under your roof again? After all that your husband . . .”

“He isn’t a boy!” Catelyn interrupted sharply, pulling her arm away. “Jon Snow is one and twenty! And he’s the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. I’d have you remember that when he arrives.”

“Oh, I remember very well who he is, niece. And how Ned Stark claimed him as bastard and shamed you in your own home over him for years.”

“He isn’t Ned’s bastard, and you must stop calling him such,” Catelyn said coldly. Yet, the anger she saw on her uncle’s face was only from concern for her, and she found herself unable to be angry with him. “He isn’t Ned’s son,” she said softly. “You know that to be true, and I have known it to be true for a long time now. Since before my husband ever brought me back to Riverrun after he took me from the Twins.”

Her uncle looked genuinely surprised by that. “You never said . . .”

“My husband’s secrets were his own, Uncle,” she said firmly. “He shared them with me after he found me again. He had his reasons for what he did, and whatever those reasons meant for the two of us and our family . . . well, that is between the two of us. Anything that needs forgiveness on either of our parts is long forgiven. Please, Uncle. For the love you bear me, do not treat Jon ill, nor speak ill of him to Ned.”

“He caused you pain, Little Cat,” her uncle said softly.

Catelyn smiled and took his hands. “And you would always spare me any pain,” she said. “But I am not a child anymore, Uncle Brynden. Pain cannot be avoided in this life. What is past is past. I love my husband. You know that. And he loves me. As for Jon . . . he is a good man. He learned honor from the man who raised him, and he loves my children as a brother still. They will all be pleased to have him here.”

“And you, Cat?” Brynden asked, returning to his original question, but asking it much more softly and without the bitter edge.

“I am pleased as well. Truly.” She smiled widely. “And even more pleased to know that my husband and son may be back within these walls this night. Now, will you escort me to the Great Keep? Rickon and Brien will be hungry. Rickon will protest loudly having to wait for me if Willam has already gone to the Hall, and poor Osha doesn’t deserve to bear the brunt of that!”

Brynden laughed then, the last traces of the worried frown leaving his face. “If Rickon starts complaining, Brien will join in. That child does whatever his brother does as far as I can tell.”

“He does,” Catelyn laughed. “Gods help us!” She looked in the direction of the Hunter’s Gate as they walked back toward the Keep. “I do hope Sansa, Arya, and Dak return soon. I told them I wanted them home well before sunset which comes all too quickly.”

“Not concerned about Karstark, then?” Brynden teased her. “I thought you liked the man.”

“I like him just fine,” Catelyn said primly. “But he is not my responsibility. And until he puts that cloak on Sansa’s shoulders, she still is.”

“And I doubt you’ve let him forget it for a moment since he arrived here five days ago,” her uncle said grinning at her.

Catelyn merely rolled her eyes and did not answer, but in spite of her uncle’s needling she felt more at ease than she had since Ned and Bran had ridden out with their men. _Home,_ she thought. _I may well have my son safe in his room and my husband safe in my own bed this night._ Brynden’s japes could not detract from the joy she had in that.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“No.”

“Arya, wait. Just listen to me.”

“No. I’m not going to listen. It’s stupid. It’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard in a long time, and you and Uncle Brynden are both stupid if you can’t see that!” She continued walking away from him as she spoke, but course he followed her.

“Arya, we are not ten years old anymore!” he nearly shouted. “You don’t get to call everything you disagree with stupid and just walk away!”

She whirled around to face him. “I am not the one behaving like a ten year old. I’m here, and I’m staying here where I belong. This is home, Dak, and I won’t ever desert the people I care about to run off and have adventures in the south or play at being a knight.”

“This isn’t playing.”

“No, it’s leaving. And you shouldn’t do it. Do you believe I never think about running away sometimes? You know me better than that. You know me better than almost anyone here in some ways, Dak. But I won’t run. I am a Stark and I don’t desert my pack.”

With that she turned and ran, not caring who might stare after her. There weren’t many men in the courtyard around the stables, but she and Dak had not been speaking quietly, so someone would likely spread the tale of this argument to her mother by the time the sun set. Let them. According to Dak, her parents had approved this scheme before Uncle Brynden approached him about it. She didn’t care if Mother knew how angry it made her. 

She didn’t stop running until she was in the lichyard, past the big monument and its guards, all the way toward the back near the entrance of the crypts. Only then did she turn to see if he’d pursued her. She could see him walking determinedly in her direction, but he did not run. Suddenly, she felt foolish. Telling him how terrible and wrong he was for leaving Winterfell was not childish. But running away was. So, she stood there, waiting for him to reach her.

The day had been going so well before Dak had ruined it. They hadn’t been out on horseback in ages because all the snow on the ground made riding much more work than enjoyment, but today was especially fine, and as a fairly large hunting party had ridden out to the Wolfswood yesterday and no new snow had fallen since, the path they’d made could be followed. Sansa, uncharacteristically, had leapt at Arya’s suggestion they go riding because she knew Lord Karstark liked it. And because riding didn’t require a great deal of conversation. For two people who wrote more letters to each other than anyone Arya had ever known, her sister and Harrion Karstark had been ridiculously tongue-tied around each other since he’d gotten to Winterfell. Of course, it had been well over a year since they’d seen each other as the terrible storms of last year had not only postponed their wedding but made any travel all but impossible for a very long time. And however much Sansa proclaimed herself ready to be the man’s wife, Arya knew she was anxious about precisely what that entailed. Sansa and her betrothed were rarely alone for long, and they barely touched each other. 

Arya had shared more passionate kisses with several men than Sansa had ever allowed Lord Karstark, although she certainly hadn’t told her sister about that. Sansa had admitted to her that she was a bit frightened about the bedding, and Arya didn’t blame her for that. As good as it felt when Brandon Tallhart or Caleb or Torrhen pressed their lips against her lips or her neck and grasped her breasts or arse through her clothes, Arya had her own misgivings about actually bedding with a man. Caleb had once pressed his entire body against hers as they’d kissed, and she’d felt his hard cock through his breeches. He’d moved his hips, causing it to rub against her, and she’d panicked, seeing in her mind’s eye the Mountain’s men, and what they had done to girls on the road to Harrenhal.

She shivered now, recalling both the horrors of that journey and the way she’d screamed at Caleb, pushed him away, and run. _I hate running,_ she thought bitterly. _But I’ve done an awful lot of it. And now Dak is running away. Damn him!_

He seemed to slow his pace as he drew nearer, and Arya wondered if he were afraid to speak to her. Dak had never been afraid of her—no matter how angry she got. No matter how dark her moods. If he left, there would be no one left in Winterfell who knew as much of her past. Even Dak didn’t know everything, but over the years, she’d told him more bits of it than anyone else. He’d known her first as a dirty, blind beggar girl, after all. He knew most of her secrets and they frightened him no more than her occasional black rages or long silences did. Jon had never been afraid of her, either, although Arya thought he feared for her. And Jon was at the Wall. She couldn’t lose Dak as well. She just couldn’t.

“Arya? Can we please just talk about this?”

Dak was standing directly in front of her. 

“I said what I had to say,” she told him. “Did you hear it?”

“I heard you,” he said sadly. “But however much you think you want to run sometimes, we both know there is nowhere else you want to be. Winterfell is your home.”

“It’s your home, too,” she insisted. “You know it is.”

He nodded. “I consider it home. But, Arya . . . I’m not a Stark. I’m not . . . anything, really. And I want to be something.”

She looked up at him. She had to tip her head back to look him in the eye when he stood this close. At five and ten, he was already as tall as Father, maybe even a tiny bit taller, although she thought it only appeared so because Father’s leg prevented him from standing perfectly straight. “You are something. You’re family, Dak. Even if your name isn’t Stark.”

He shook his head sadly. “Arya, I know you feel that way. And the rest of your family does, too. It’s more than I ever thought to have, and . . . I think of you all as family, too.” He grinned his crooked grin at her. “Especially you. But to everyone else, I have no family. No name of my own. And a man should have something of his own. Your uncle is giving me a chance to earn that. Can’t you understand why I want go with him? I don’t want to leave Winterfell or any of you, but . . . I have to do this, Arya.” 

For the first time in a long time, Arya thought of another stupid, stubborn boy who she’d thought had become a part of her pack. But Gendry had chosen the Brotherhood Without Banners. He was still with them, as far as she knew. Her parents had met him and they’d told her how he’d searched for her. _But he didn’t stay with me. And Dak isn’t staying either._

“Arya? Say something, please. Even if you only call me stupid again.”

“I’m not ten years old,” she said sullenly. Then she gave him the smallest of smiles. “And you never even knew me at ten. I was one and ten when we met in Braavos.” She sighed heavily because she supposed she did understand why Dak wanted to go to Riverrun. It wasn’t fair of her to think only of herself. Suddenly, she thought of someone else who would be more upset by Dak’s departure than she would. “What about Jeyne, Dak? Have you told her?”

Dak’s brown eyes clouded over and a pained expression appeared on his face. “No. I wanted to talk to you first. You brought me here, Arya. Everything I found here is because of you—and I thought you should know that I’m leaving before anyone else.” He swallowed. “She’ll be hurt,” he whispered. “I . . . this isn’t about her any more than it is about you or your parents or anyone except me. Well, that’s not really true. Because it is kind of about her.” He shuffled his feet and looked at the ground. His Braavosi accent was all but gone thanks to Jeyne’s careful instruction, and most of the time Dak could pretty much pass as a highborn Northman if he wanted, but now he looked precisely like the boy she’d first met. Except a lot taller. When he looked up again and met her eyes, though, there was nothing boyish about him. “I love her,” he said plainly. He’d never said that before. At least not to Arya.

“Then why are you leaving, stupid?”

“Because she’s had everything taken away from her, Arya. And while she has a home here, she can never have her family back. She can never have her innocence back. She loves me, too, but I don’t know if she’ll ever . . .” He shook his head and his eyes darkened murderously. “There is no hell terrible enough for Ramsay Snow. Your mother was right to have his corpse dragged on the ground.”

“Dak . . .”

“She thinks she’s ruined, Arya!” Dak said. “She thinks she’s not good enough for me! How sad is that? The daughter of the Steward of Winterfell not good enough for the nameless bastard of a Braavosi serving girl! It’s me that’s not good enough. And I mean to make myself good enough. I mean to show her that she’s worth a man with a name even if it takes me years to earn one. I’m not leaving her, Arya. I’m making myself worthy of her. And maybe by doing that, I can make her see the worth in herself.”

As he finished this speech, Arya found herself feeling jealous. She’d known Dak and Jeyne liked each other, but he’d never spoken with such fierce devotion about any girl other than herself. _He’s mine,_ she found herself thinking childishly. _I brought him here._ She wasn’t in love with him. The thought of kissing him the way she had other men was as ridiculous as imagining herself kissing Jon or Bran. But, still she was jealous that he might care more about Jeyne than he did about her. And she didn’t like that feeling. She didn’t like herself very much for feeling that way. She didn’t even know what she intended to do with the rest of her life, but she expected Dak to simply hang around and be there whenever she needed him rather than building his own life? _Stupid,_ she thought. _And selfish._

“Arya?”

She’d been quiet too long. Dak’s face now wore a more apprehensive expression than when he’d first begun to tell her of his plan to become Uncle Brynden’s squire. “I’ll look after Jeyne,” she’d said quietly. “With you and Sansa both going away, it will be hard for her. But . . . I won’t let her get too lonely. I promise.”

Dak tilted his head. “You don’t even like Jeyne that much, Arya.”

“That’s not true!” she protested. “All right, it was true. Once.” It was more than true. She’d hated Jeyne Poole’s guts for the first decade of her life. She’d been foolish enough to believe Jeyne was truly evil back then rather than just silly and selfish and probably insecure from spending every day in the company of the ever perfect Sansa. Now, she knew what real evil looked like. And she knew perfection did not exist. Not even for Sansa. “We’ve all changed from when we were children, Dak,” she said. “I care about Jeyne. And even if I didn’t, I would now. Because you do.” 

“I love you, too, Arya,” Dak said then. “You’re my sister. Even more than Brea is. I will come back to Winterfell. And not only for Jeyne.”

She smiled at him. Brea was the sister he’d never seen. He’d written his mother faithfully over the years even though she only sporadically returned his letters. Targano had been disappointed that Alina had given him a girl, but he’d married her anyway, and a son had been born to them as well last year. Sometimes Dak felt guilty that he had no wish to return to Braavos. He’d spoken to Arya of it more than once. He loved his mother very much, but she seemed happy enough with her husband and new children, and his life was here now. She was glad he felt that way. She could barely stand the thought of him going to Riverrun. She’d never want him as far away from her as Braavos. “I am your sister, and don’t you forget it. Your _older_ sister, so you have to listen to me.”

“Barely older,” he laughed. “And I’ll listen to you as long you aren’t calling me stupid.”

“You aren’t stupid, Dak,” she said seriously. “You never were.”

“Are you all right then? With my going to Riverrun? Are we all right?”

She bit her lip. “I’ll never really be all right with you going somewhere without me,” she said honestly. “But I understand why you’re going. And we’ll always be all right.”

He grabbed her and hugged her. “Good. Jeyne should be in the Great Hall now. I haven’t really figured out how to tell her, and I don’t know if I can sit beside her and eat without saying something. I just hope she can understand.”

He looked apprehensive at the thought of facing Jeyne, and Arya wondered if he’d been that frightened before talking to her about his new position as Uncle Brynden’s squire. She thought he probably needed to find Jeyne before his courage deserted him entirely.

“She will,” Arya assured him. “Mayhap not right away, Dak. But she will. Go on, now. I’ll come eat in a bit.”

As Dak turned to walk toward the Great Hall, Arya remained where she was a moment. She thought about asking her parents if she could travel to Riverrun as well. She could see her Uncle Edmure whom she hadn’t seen since she was a baby and meet the three little cousins who were only names to her. She could escape the worry in her parents’ eyes when they looked at her sometimes. She was certain Uncle Brynden would allow her to continue training with her sword.

She dismissed the thought as soon as it entered her mind, though. Dak was right. She might occasionally feel too watched, too worried about, too fussed over, here at Winterfell. She might flee to the godswood to hide from her family and her memories more often than to pray. But she didn’t want to leave Winterfell. She’d spent far too long trying to get back here, and she had no intention of letting go of any of her pack. Ever. She wasn’t even letting go of Dak. She believed him when he said he’d return. Besides, she’d promised Dak she’d take care of Jeyne. And Mother would be a mess when Sansa left for all she put on a brave face about it. And Rickon would hate Dak’s leaving. She might need to let her little brother beat her at swords once or twice to get him over it.

Thinking of how Rickon would grin and shout if he ever did beat her made Arya smile, and she began to walk toward the Great Hall herself. Before, she reached it, however, she saw Sansa going in to Mother’s sept. That wasn’t unusual. While none of the rest of them ever went there without Mother (everyone in Winterfell even referred to the sept as Lady Catelyn’s), Sansa did frequently pray to the Seven on her own. But, surely, she hadn’t had time to finish her midday meal, even though Dak and Arya had offered to put away all four horses so that she and Harrion could walk back to the Great Keep together alone because Sansa, of course, would have to change clothes after riding before eating. She’d said she was famished. So why was she going into the sept instead of the Great Hall?

Curious, Arya decided to go to the sept as well and discovered her sister on her knees before the maiden. She wasn’t praying, however. She was crying.

“Sansa? Are you all right?”

Sansa jerked around at the sound of her voice. “Oh! It’s only you. I was afraid it was Mother,” she said, sniffling and wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

“I don’t sound anything like Mother,” Arya said, rolling her eyes. “That would be you. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just . . .” She’d risen up on her knees to look around at Arya, but now she sank down so that she sat upon the heels of her feet. “Harrion kissed me,” she whispered.

“Sansa, you’re getting married in less than a moon’s turn. It’s all right if you kiss him.”

Sansa shook her head. “But I didn’t. I . . . I just stood there, Arya. I . . .” She started crying again. “And he started apologizing, and I told him he didn’t need to and I just . . . why didn’t I kiss him back?”

Arya sat down beside her sister. “I don’t know, Sansa. Do you not like kissing?” She couldn’t imagine not liking kissing, but then she’d never had to kiss Joffrey Baratheon.

“I don’t know,” Sansa whispered. “I liked kissing Joffrey when I was eleven years old. But he was a monster. And later when he’d kiss me . . .” She shuddered. “Tyrion Lannister barely brushed his lips against mine at the wedding we were forced into, and I hated it. Then Petyr Baelish . . .” She’d been looking away, but she turned her eyes toward Arya’s now. “He kissed me often. The first time he kissed my mouth, Aunt Lysa still lived. She saw it and tried to kill me for it. Once she was dead, he kissed me when he wished. And required me to kiss him. He would insist I call him Father and then put his tongue in my mouth.”

Arya thought she would be sick. She knew Sansa had suffered. She’d seen her scars. But her sister had never spoken to her like this. Arya recalled how she’d often unfairly felt that Sansa had suffered so much less than she had and found herself unable to speak.

“Do I like kissing?” Sansa asked, repeating Arya’s question to her. “I have no idea. I don’t know how to kiss without being told to do it.”

“Sansa, it will be different with Harrion. I promise. But if you don’t want to wed him, you don’t have to. Father won’t make you. Even now, he’ll call it off if you say.”

“I do want to wed him!” Sansa insisted. “He is a good man, and I like him. And I want to be a wife and a mother, Arya. I do! But . . . what if I cannot please him? I’m scared, Arya. I wish I wasn’t, but . . . it was terrible when I had to lie in bed naked before Tyrion Lannister.”

Arya’s eyes went wide at that. Everyone said her sister was still a maiden.

“Oh, he didn’t bed me,” Sansa said quickly. “But I could see that he wanted to. When a man wants a woman, his . . . his . . .”

“I’ve seen it,” Arya said shortly, thinking again of that horrific journey to Harrenhal as well as of the men in the brothels of Rag Harbor.

If that shocked Sansa, she didn’t react. “It was terrible,” she repeated. “What if that’s all I can see? What will he think of me if I do not want him in my bed? He’s nearly thirty years old, Arya. Surely, he’s bedded women. He’ll know how I should be. And I don’t know.”

Arya sighed. She was the last person who could give her sister any advice on this topic. She thought again of the way Caleb had stopped speaking to her altogether after she’d pushed him away that time. She’d lost a friend that day, and she missed that more than she did the kissing. “It’s good if he’s bedded women,” she said. “He’ll know how to treat you. He is a good man, Sansa. He won’t hurt you.”

She shook her head. “I am not worried that he will hurt me. Mother . . .” Sansa’s face turned red. “Mother spoke to me of the bedding. She told me I should allow him to . . . touch me . . . that a man’s touch upon . . . well, that a man’s touch is not unpleasant at all and that it would ease the way for his . . .” She turned redder as she spoke until she simply shook her head furiously. “I am not worried that he will hurt me. I am worried that I will be a disappointment to him. What if I cannot stop seeing the past when he touches me?”

Arya didn’t think she had an answer for that, but then it came to her all too clearly. “Mother,” she said.

“Mother? I . . . I don’t want to worry Mother, Arya. She has so much on her mind, and she is never at ease while Father is gone. Especially with Bran gone as well.”

“She can answer your question, Sansa.” Before her sister could begin blushing and stammering again, she continued. “Not about being deflowered. About how to stop remembering.” She hesitated because no one ever spoke of her mother’s time at the Twins. No one. “You know what was done to her, Sansa. She was . . . raped. By the Freys.” It seemed wrong to even say the word aloud, but not saying it didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. Sansa stared at her silently, blue eyes wide with shock at her words, and Arya wished that she looked less like Mother just now. “You know about it. I know you do!”

Sansa only nodded. 

“Well, she still beds with Father. They’re both past forty namedays now, so I don’t think she does it to get children.”

“No,” Sansa whispered. “She said it can take some time to learn how to trust each other in such things, but that once you do, a marriage bed can be an experience of joy and pleasure . . . and love.”

“Do you think she has forgotten what was done to her?” Arya asked.

“Of course not!” Sansa said. “How could she?”

“But she wants Father in her bed. You should ask her about it, Sansa. She’ll answer you.” Arya swallowed. “She doesn’t spare herself if she can help us.”

“I would spare her, though. I could never ask her to speak of that again. She did . . . once. At the Eyrie, she told me what had happened to her when I feared Father would think less of me for how I let Petyr kiss me. She asked if I thought Father thought any less of her.”

“Of course he doesn’t!”

“I know. And she wanted me to know he would be the same with me. But I never asked her about . . . I mean . . . I never had reason to wonder if . . .”

“You do now. Sansa, don’t go to your wedding more frightened than you need be. Talk to Mother. She would want you to.”

Sansa nodded, although she didn’t actually agree to do so. “Have you eaten yet?” she asked. 

“No. Come with me to the Hall?”

Sansa nodded again. Once they were bundled up once more and headed to the Great Hall, she actually smiled. “Once I’m wed, Mother will have more time to focus on getting you married,” she teased. “Are you prepared to discuss the details of bedding a man with her?”

“Gods, no!” Arya exclaimed, making a face. But in truth, she realized that if she ever decided for certain that she did wish to be married, there was no one else she would discuss such things with. It occurred to her that she had forgotten about Mother earlier when she’d considered that Dak and Jon were the only people at Winterfell who weren’t at times frightened by her. Mother wasn’t afraid of her. Afraid for her, yes, even more so than Jon. But never frightened by her or anything she’d done. “I’d ask her, though. If I truly needed to know.”

“Well, if you keep turning poor Lord Hornwood down, he’s going to stop asking for your hand and wed someone else,” Sansa exclaimed. 

“Mayhap I don’t want to marry Brandon!” Arya retorted. “But he isn’t going to stop asking. Not for awhile anyway. I’m the highest born maiden in the North now that you’re about to be wed. Besides, he likes me.”

“Oh, he’s smitten by you, that’s for sure. How many times has he ridden to Winterfell for no conceivable reason?” Sansa smiled as she said that, but then she suddenly took hold of Arya’s arm and stopped walking, her expression becoming serious and her face looking more like Mother’s. “But you shouldn’t toy with him. If you have no intention of wedding him, tell him, Arya. And if you do wish to wed him, please be careful in these games you play with Father’s soldiers.”

It was Arya’s turn to be shocked, and Sansa laughed.

“Oh, don’t worry. I don’t think anyone else knows. Mother and Father certainly don’t. And I’m not going to tell them because I don’t think you’re doing anything to truly dishonor yourself. But I figured out why you and Caleb used to disappear into the godswood at the same time, and I’ve noticed that it’s Torrhen now who goes to his prayers at the same time as you more frequently than seems coincidence. And if I notice such things, others might as well. And men do talk when they are in their cups. So be careful, Arya.”

“I will,” Arya said, momentarily too stunned by her sister’s accurate assessment of her activities and her surprising willingness to keep her secrets to say anything else. As they began walking forward again, she recovered enough to say, “I honestly don’t know if I wish to wed Brandon Tallhart or anybody else. Ever. But I won’t shame any husband, Sansa.” She thought of her own parents’ marriage, and the only thing her father had ever done that still angered her if she dwelt upon it. “Or lie to one,” she said firmly.

“Do you like Brandon at all?” Sansa asked, sounding genuinely interested.

“I like him a lot,” Arya replied. “And he’s a much better kisser than Torrhen or Caleb.”

She’d said it simply to shock Sansa, and it worked, but it also happened to be true. The kisses with Brandon Tallhart were usually the most chaste because he insisted upon behaving with honor at all times. His eyes had nearly bulged out of his head the first time she’d put her tongue in his mouth, but once he’d realized she truly wanted it, he’d proven himself a very talented kisser. And he always stopped as soon as she asked him to, something the other men seemed to find a bit more difficult to do.

 _I truly might like being wed to him some day,_ she thought. But for now, she belonged at Winterfell. She belonged with her pack. _The lone wolf dies,_ her father had once told her. She had been a lone wolf for far too long. She hadn’t died, but she’d lost herself. She still felt lost sometimes. And angry. But she knew who she was. Here in Winterfell surrounded by her family, she knew who she was, and just like Nymeria continued to get stronger and faster in spite of the old wound to her leg, Arya continued to grow stronger in spite of her own hurts. Some day, she might feel strong enough to make her own pack—the way Sansa would do with Lord Karstark. She was strong enough to watch both Sansa and Dak leave Winterfell, and she wouldn’t have been not long before. _The pack doesn’t simply survive the winters,_ she thought. _We make each other stronger even in the winter. I need to be stronger still. And I can help Bran, Rickon, and Brien be strong as well._

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

Willam called out his name and patted a place beside him on the bench where he sat when Rickon entered the Great Hall with Mother, Brien, and Uncle Brynden. Rickon scowled to see that his friend’s plate was nearly empty already. Mother had taken forever to come back to the Hall to fetch him and Brien. He hated having to wait for Mother like a baby, but he hadn’t complained. He knew she’d only asked it of him for Brien’s sake. She always let him go anywhere in the castle on his own. He had celebrated his tenth nameday after all. His little brother hated forever being the smallest, being the one left behind, and Rickon understood that well enough. He didn’t truly mind waiting with Brien for Mother this one time, but he couldn’t help resenting that Willam had likely gotten better food than he would. Until the wedding guests arrived, the stupid rationing was still in effect—worse than usual even—and the good bits always went first.

Eating his fill for a change was the thing Rickon looked forward to most about his sister’s wedding. That and the chance to spar with some new people. Most of the guests would be older than himself as people didn’t want to cart small children long distances in a Northern winter, but there would be boys of twelve and thirteen among their visitors. He could beat some of them. He knew he could. Even Arya said he was good enough, and she and Dak both had said they’d help him convince Mother to let him spar with tourney swords against boys at least close to his age. He looked up at Mother to see if he could go and sit with Willam. There was a better chance the other boy would wait for him to finish if they were sitting together.

“Ask Willam to come sit with us,” she said before he could ask, with a meaningful look at Brien.

Before Rickon could protest, Uncle Brynden says. “Have I told you and your friend yet how your father broke the siege of Riverrun?”

Rickon grinned. He’d heard all about that battle, of course. But not from anyone who’d fought in it as Father rarely spoke about his own part in any war. And hardly any Winterfell men had been with him then. But Uncle Brynden had been there. And he told of battles better than anyone Rickon had ever heard. “I’ll get Willam!” he said quickly and ran like a shot to where the Ryswell boy sat with some of the men.

As expected, Willam was more than willing to come and sit with Rickon’s family in order to hear Uncle Brynden talk of any battle, so the two boys made their way to the front of the Hall. Rickon figured Willam probably thought he could get served a second plate by moving up there as well, but if he was, he’d better be prepared to give Rickon half the food on it or get reported to Mother, friend or no.

Jeyne Poole was already seated at their table with Lyanna Mormont. Mother sat down, thoughtfully leaving an empty seat beside Uncle Brynden when Brien climbed into the seat on his other side, staring up at him raptly.

“He’s only four,” Mother was saying to her uncle as Rickon raced to claim that empty seat between them. “Don’t terrify the child.”

“I’m not a baby!” Brien protested. “I want to hear how Father saved our uncle’s castle!”

“So you shall, boy, so you shall,” Uncle Brynden assured him. Looking at Mother, he said more quietly “I won’t give the boy nightmares, Cat. I promise.”

Rickon almost wished Brien weren’t there. He liked tales that Mother thought too frightening for them. They didn’t scare him. He had nightmares sometimes, but those were of things he remembered. Not things he’d been told.

“Lya!” he yelled over at Lyanna Mormont, earning a frown from Mother over his lack of proper courtesy at table. He rolled his eyes. It was only the midday meal, and no guests were there unless you counted Lord Karstark whom Rickon just then noticed sitting alone at the far end of the table. And he wasn’t really a guest if he was going to marry Sansa. He was family. Even if he was quiet, dour faced family. “Lady Lyanna!” he called again with look at Mother. “Uncle Brynden is going to tell us about when the Northmen broke the siege of Riverrun!”

That got Lyanna’s attention. “They weren’t all men, Rickon Stark, and you know it! My mother fought at Riverrun!” she said proudly. 

“She certainly did,” Uncle Brynden said, smiling. “I’d take Maege Mormont by my side in any fight over most men I’ve known, and that’s nothing but truth.”

Lyanna’s eyes looked little bright then, but she didn’t cry. Rickon didn’t know if Lyanna Mormont ever cried. She’d been sent here by her sister Alysane who was Lady of Bear Island since their mother had been killed fighting the Others. She’d arrived just over a moon’s turn after the last truly terrible storm they’d had—the one that had nearly killed Father and his men. Apparently, the Lady Alysane thought her youngest sister too wild even for Bear Island, and considering all Rickon had heard about Maege Mormont and her daughters, that must be wild indeed.

“Aly says I need to know at least something of being a lady,” Rickon had overheard her saying to Bran not long after her arrival. “Her with two children and no husband, and she thinks I’m not lady enough!” She’d laughed as she’d said it, and Rickon had asked Bran about it later. 

He’d thought that ladies in the Seven Kingdoms had to be wed to have children. Bedding with a man not your husband was considered shameful, and women and men had to bed together to get children. He’d known that a long time. When he had been small, he and Osha had lived for a long time with Goreg Hearteater’s band. There, all the men, women, and children had slept on the furs spread on the floor of the cave because the bodies all together kept everyone warmer. He had seen and heard how men and women moved upon each other in the furs and asked Osha about it. She’d told him it was to bring pleasure and sometimes babes. She’d bedded with Goreg who moved atop her many nights, but she never had a babe. Some of the other women did, though, and Rickon didn’t think any of Goreg’s folk were wedded. Not like people spoke of it in Winterfell. Bran hadn’t laughed at him when he asked if people on Bear Island lived like the people on Skagos. He hadn’t looked shocked either. Bran seemed to understand that some things still confused him at times, and he simply answered any questions Rickon asked.

Bran was the only person here besides Osha and himself that knew anything of Skagos. There were heart trees there so Bran could sometimes see people like Goreg and the others Rickon had known. Rickon was glad of that because the longer he’d been home, the more the memories of his time on Skagos faded, and sometimes he wasn’t certain if something he recalled like a half-remembered dream was from Skagos or from the before-time here. Bran was good about helping him when that happened. Rickon hated forgetting anything, and he held on to what memories he had of his earlier years as tightly as he could because he felt too much had already been lost.

“You with us, Rickon?” Lyanna asked, tapping him gently on the head, and Rickon realized she’d dragged a chair over to be closer to Uncle Brynden. Surprisingly, Jeyne had come over as well, and Brien scooted over in his seat to share it with her. Plates were being laid upon the table for Mother, Uncle Brynden, Brien and himself, but not for Willam who was seated just past Brien, and Rickon grinned at his friend’s disappointed face before nodding to Lyanna, taking a bite out of his roll, and waiting for his great uncle to begin speaking.

The story was an exciting one, and Uncle Brynden told it well. Rickon couldn’t help wondering if he played up Lady Maege Mormont’s part in it for Lyanna’s benefit or if the woman had really swung a mace fiercely enough to kill as many men as he said. He remembered Lady Mormont a bit from when she’d come to Winterfell before going on to the Wall with Father. She’d been a thick woman with heavy arms almost like a man’s so he supposed she could have swung a mace like a man. Lady Alysane had looked similar to her. Lyanna didn’t though. She was slim and tall—as tall as Sansa even though she was only Bran’s age—and Mother said she looked like her oldest sister. The one who was killed with Rickon’s brother Robb. The brother he tried so hard to remember, but was never certain if he really did at all. Shaggy remembered Robb’s wolf, though.

“Did Father really kill the man with his sword right there?” Brien asked when Uncle Brynden told how Father had rescued the Lord of Riverrun who’d been held at knifepoint. Rickon looked at his little brother and saw that his blue eyes were huge, and his normal grin had been replaced by a look of awe. A very solemn sort of awe, though, that made his long face look even more like Father’s than usual. “Kill him dead?”

“Well, I didn’t see it, young Brien, but my nephew told me Lord Stark dropped the bugger right where he stood,” Uncle Brynden said.

“Uncle, that’s enough,” came Mother’s voice, sounding sharper than Rickon had ever heard her speak to her uncle. He looked up at her, and her face wore a very odd expression.

“He didn’t take him prisoner?” Willam Ryswell was asking. “If Lord Stark had him beaten, and Lord Tully was free, why kill the man? Did he refuse to yield?”

Killing a man who was already beaten didn’t sound like something Father would do. Rickon knew well enough that his father had killed many men. He’d seen him kill one because he’d ridden out with Father and Bran when Father had to execute a man who’d killed another man in Winter Town over a pig. But executing a condemned murderer was not the same as killing a surrendered foe in cold blood.

“Uncle, please.” Mother’s voice was a hoarse whisper, and her face was pale except for the red lines which stood out more harshly against her white skin. 

Uncle Brynden looked at her, and a terrible, almost pained expression crossed his face. “Yes,” he said hurriedly, looking back to Willam. “Yes, that was it. The man wouldn’t drop his knife, and even though my nephew had gotten out of his grasp, he was still close by him and defenseless. Lord Eddard had to act.”

Rickon looked between his mother and her uncle and was certain he was missing something. Uncle Brynden’s words had sounded hasty and uncertain, not at all like the rest of his story. And something was wrong with Mother. Had his father behaved dishonorably at Riverrun, and she didn’t want them to know? He couldn’t imagine that being the case.

“He was a Frey, Rickon. That’s what Uncle Brynden isn’t saying.” Arya’s voice was low and dangerous, and Rickon looked up to see her standing just behind Mother’s chair. He hadn’t even noticed her come in. “He was a filthy, craven Frey who deserved only death. Father did what was needed. What had to be done.”

Arya’s face looked hard. Uncle Brynden’s did as well, but his blue eyes filled with concern as he looked back at Mother. Mother sat very still and seemed to look at something far away, her face still pale with a terrible expression upon it. It scared Rickon.

“Why is everybody quiet?” Brien asked loudly with a sort of trembling sound in his voice. 

That made Mother move. Her eyes turned suddenly to Brien and became bright with tears although, like Lyanna Mormont, she didn’t cry. “I’m sorry, Brien,” she said, her voice soft, but steady. “Nothing is wrong. I simply don’t like to recall the danger your father was in that day. But the man who held Edmure was a terrible, evil man, and your father had no choice but to kill him. And so he did. And his forces carried the day, and Riverrun and its lord were freed.” Her eyes then went to Brien’s largely untouched plate. “Now eat, sweetling. Your food grows cold.”

Brien still looked unsure, but Jeyne picked up his spoon and dipped it into his porridge so Brien took it from her and began to eat before she could feed him like a baby.

“Are you all right, Mother?” Rickon heard Arya ask, and he turned to see his sister looking at his mother with a worried and somehow protective sort of expression.

“I am quite well, Arya,” Mother said firmly. “You need to sit down and eat. I will sit with you if you don’t want to sit with Lord Karstark and your sister.”

Rickon looked toward the end of the table where he saw that Sansa had indeed come into the Hall as well. She looked almost as solemn as Lord Dour Face, but the two of them were talking together quietly. 

“Is something wrong with Sansa, Arya?” Mother asked, and Rickon realized she was looking toward his oldest sister as well.

“No,” Arya said a bit too quickly. “I mean . . .it isn’t anything really. I was going to ask you to speak to her about something, but . . . now I don’t . . .”

“I am well, Arya,” Mother repeated, and her color did look much better. “Whatever hurts I’ve suffered, they are far in the past. They cannot touch me now. Tell me what troubles your sister.”

Arya began to speak to Mother very quietly, but Rickon didn’t hear her. Suddenly, he understood what hadn’t been said. There were too many things he didn’t remember, and too many things he’d been too young to understand when his parents had found him. That had been half his lifetime ago now, though. He was no longer a small child, and even if he hated lessons with Sam, he wasn’t stupid. He knew how to listen and he knew how to watch people carefully. He did both, and he learned more from doing that than from any of Sam’s books.

He knew what had happened to his mother at the Twins. No one spoke of it. Not out loud anyway. Not knowingly in the hearing of himself or any of his brothers or sisters. Certainly not where Mother or Father could hear. But there whispers sometimes, and they could be heard by a boy who listened. He was old enough to understand those whispers now, and he was glad his father had killed the Frey bastard. 

“I’m certain Lord Stark did right,” Willam’s voice said from right beside him. His friend had gotten up to come whisper in his ear. “It just seems he would have preferred to execute the man publicly if he was part of the Red Wedding. You know, like he did at the Twins.”

Rickon growled low in his throat, and he was suddenly looking at Willam from further away. He padded slowly along the length of the Great Hall, never taking his eyes from Willam, but intensely aware of his mother where she sat, alert to any danger that might threaten her.

“Rickon?” Mother’s voice sounded mildly alarmed, but Rickon kept his great green eyes on Willam as he approached him. Willam looked frightened of him, and for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, that made him happy. He growled once again.

“Shaggydog!”

Mother’s voice had a commanding note in it then, and he looked toward her obediently.

“Lie down,” she said firmly, but he continued to stand on all paws, alert for any trouble. “Lie down,” she repeated. Then she softened her voice a bit. “I am fine. There is nothing here that can harm me. Lie down, sweetling. We are all safe now.”

Her voice was soothing. As he began to stretch out, he felt something shaking his foreleg. No, his arm.

“Rickon? Are you with us, little brother?”

He opened his own eyes to see Arya there with her hand on his arm. “Yeah,” he mumbled.

“Good. I think you and Shaggy could use some fresh air.”

“Yeah,” he said again, shaking himself almost as if he were still a wolf. When he stood up, his mother reached for him, and he allowed her to embrace him briefly even though they were in the Hall.

“Go on, sweetling,” she whispered as she released him. “I am fine, you know. And I love you.”

He nodded. “Father will be here soon,” he mumbled. Summer was very close now. He hadn’t been paying attention to it, but he’d felt Summer when he’d been with Shaggy just then.

“Really?” Arya asked eagerly.

Rickon rolled his eyes. Arya could slip into Nymeria’s skin as easily as he could Shaggy’s, but his sister tended to only do so for very specific reasons rather than just spending time there like Rickon did. Sometimes, he didn’t even mean to slip into Shaggy. It just happened. Like just now. He and Shaggy always shared. It’s how he knew about the ice dragon eggs even before Father told him on his tenth name day and how he knew about Jon coming even though Bran wasn’t here to tell him. If Shaggy knew, he knew. And if he knew, Shaggy knew. “Check with Nymeria if you don’t believe me,” he said with a shrug. “Oh, damnation!” he muttered then, catching sight of Sam entering the Great Hall.

“Rickon Stark!” 

“Sorry, Mother,” he mumbled apologetically. Arya swore twice as much as he did, but somehow she always managed to avoid doing it in front of Mother. “I wanted to leave before Sam got here.”

“He let you off lessons all morning, Rickon,” Mother sighed. “Surely, you can stand to . . .”

“Take some more time off lessons,” came Sam’s voice as he reached them. He always moved more quickly than Rickon thought he should be able to. He wasn’t as fat as he used to be. Not with the wretched food situation of the previous year, but he still wasn’t close to being thin.

“Sam,” Mother started.

“No, Lady Stark,” Sam said. “Today is as fine a day as we’ve seen in far too long. The books will wait. At least until sunset.”

That made Rickon very happy. His father and Bran would be here by sunset, and no one would enforce lessons upon him then. “Coming Willam?” he asked, speaking to him for the first time since coming out of the wolf. Willam looked at him warily, and Rickon almost got angry again. _Willam didn’t say Father was wrong. He only asked a question. He didn’t know._ He grinned at his friend. “Race you to the practice yard!”

“Not so fast,” Sam interrupted. “I’ve had a raven from Lady Dustin. She hasn’t received a letter from you this week.”

Willam groaned. The weekly letters the Lady of Barrow Hall insisted upon from her heir were Willam’s least favorite chore. 

“There is parchment and a quill waiting for you in my turret. Go now and write to your lady aunt. You can leave it there for me to read over and join Rickon as soon as your are finished. 

“I’ll come with you!” Brien told Rickon as Willam grumbled but took his leave of Mother and trudged toward the entry of the Hall.

“I’m afraid I have need of you, little wolf,” Sam said, and then he looked at Mother. 

Watching the two of them look at each other, it occurred to Rickon that Sam needed to talk to Mother. That was the real reason for no lessons. He wondered what he wanted with Brien, but while he hated the disappointed look on his baby brother’s face, he was just as happy to escape without him at the moment. “Wanna come, Lyanna?”

“Sure,” Lyanna said. “Arya?”

“I still haven’t eaten,” Arya said, shaking her head.

“Is Dak coming to the Hall, Arya?” Jeyne asked softly.

Arya frowned a bit. “I thought he’d already be here. He probably decided to go think.”

“Think about what?” Jeyne asked.

Arya bit her lip, and Rickon knew her sister well enough to see that she was trying to decide what to say and not to say. He wondered where Dak was. 

“Who knows?” she answered lightly. “Stupid boys. Sit with me while I eat, and we’ll go find him. Maybe even take him some food.”

Jeyne smiled at that. 

“Didn’t you have something to tell me, Arya?” Mother asked. 

Arya looked back down the table at Sansa and Lord Karstark and made a face. Rickon looked as well and laughed to see that Lord Dour Face was actually holding up Sansa’s mug for her to drink from. And he looked almost pleasant.

“She seems to be fine at the moment,” Arya said to Mother. “And it’s obvious Sam wants to talk to you. Go on, and I promise I’ll tell you later.”

Mother smiled at her, and Rickon smiled to see it. “Come on!” he said, taking Lyanna by the hand to get their cloaks and gloves and escape outside once more. 

“Is Bran really coming back today?” she asked him when they were out blinking in the sunshine.

“Probably in no more than an hour,” he said, and he grinned to see the way her face lit up. “We can spar a round or two, and then go up on the walls to look for them if you want.”

“Perfect! But you’re going to lose.”

He probably would. She was four years older, a lot taller, and had been training a lot longer. “Not today!” he said with bravado, and she laughed.

Rickon thought Alysane Mormont was stupid if she thought Lyanna needed to be any different than she was. He liked her just fine. And Bran liked her even better.

“Oh, I don’t think so, puppy,” she teased him. “I am going to defeat you extra quickly today so that we don’t miss Bran’s riding up to the gate.”

She never once mentioned Father, Rickon thought as she took off running for the practice yard. He grinned even bigger as he chased after her with Shaggy at his heels. His brother knew more than just about anyone in Winterfell. He even knew some things Father didn’t know. But Rickon was pretty certain that he knew one thing Bran didn’t know. Lyanna Mormont liked Bran just as much as Bran liked her. Mayhap even more.

Some day, Bran would be the Lord of Winterfell. Rickon didn’t like to think about that because that would mean Father was dead, and one of his clearest memories from Winterfell in the before-time was the heart crushing moment he had learned that his father had been killed. He didn’t want to ever feel that way again. Or at least not until Father was a hundred years old. But when Bran was Lord of Winterfell, it would fall to Rickon and Brien to help him care for the North in whatever way he needed them. Father had explained that to him, and one day would explain it to Brien. 

Rickon had been too young to rescue Father. Too young to save Robb. Too young to protect Mother from what those awful Freys did to her. Too young to bring his sisters safely home to Winterfell. But he was nearly a man grown now, and when it was his time to help Bran rule the North, he would be strong enough. And sometimes, he thought with a satisfied smirk, he would even know things Bran didn’t.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Lady Stark’s expression when she walked into Father’s solar would have made Jon laugh if he didn’t fear she’d take offense. The two of them were far easier in each other’s company during his visits to Winterfell than he’d ever dreamed possible, but he never quite shook that brief sense of trepidation when he first faced her again after long absences. And she was quite obviously stunned speechless by finding him here.

“Lady Stark,” he said in the most courteous voice he could manage. “Forgive me for having Sam . . .”

“Where is your dragon?” she interrupted him.

“In the Wolfswood,” he said, momentarily thrown by the fact that she seemed less perplexed by his presence than by Rhaegal’s absence. “I flew into the Wolfswood while it was dark and walked here.”

“From the Wolfswood?” she said incredulously.

“It isn’t that far,” he said somewhat defensively. In truth, he’d walked for hours and had to hide quickly to keep from being seen by his sisters and their little riding party at one point, but he didn’t feel the need to share all of that.

Lady Stark narrowed her eyes slightly. “Jon, why would you feel the need to sneak into Winterfell? I knew you were coming.”

“What?” Realization hit him. “Oh . . . Bran.”

“Rickon, actually, but why the secrecy? And how did you manage to get past the guards?”

She sounded almost alarmed, and Jon hurried to reassure her. This is not how he had intended this conversation to go at all. “I didn’t. I mean I was stopped at the Hunter’s Gate. But I knew the guard, and I asked him to find Father for me before anyone else knew of my arrival. He told me Father was gone and you were in the Great Hall, so I had him bring me Sam and I asked Sam to have you meet me here.” He shrugged. “No one paid me any attention with my hood over my face as I walked to the Great Keep.”

She bit her lower lip. “What’s wrong?” she asked sharply. “Why do you need to see Ned or myself without anyone’s knowledge?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said hurriedly. “It’s only . . . well, I brought something. And I thought you and Father should see it first before I . . .”

“Oh, gods be good! Not more dragon eggs!”

“No!” Jon said. “Nothing like that, I promise. Although Rhaegal liked carrying these almost as little as he did them, I’m afraid.”

She raised her brow in a questioning manner, remaining where she stood barely inside the door..

“Here, let me show you,” he said, moving from where he stood by the hearth to the bundle of furs which was likely obscured from her vision by his father’s desk as he’d laid it behind them. Reaching down, he retrieved a pup from that bundle which responded to having its sleep disturbed by wriggling in his hands and giving a single yelp.

When he held it up for Lady Catelyn, her eyes went even wider than they had at his own appearance. “It’s Brien’s,” he said softly. “If you and Father will allow it.

“Gods be good.” This time the words were whispered in a tone of awe rather than muttered in worried exasperation. “A direwolf!”

“Yes, my lady.” He set the pup down on the floor, and Lady Catelyn, to her credit, sank down to her knees, extending her hand to it. The white pup went to her immediately, sniffing her outstretched hand.

“He looks like Ghost,” she said, reaching down with her other hand to scratch the pup’s head. “He certainly isn’t afraid of me. It is a male pup, isn’t it?”

Jon nodded. “And he should look like Ghost as Ghost is his father.”

She looked up from the pup then. “Your wolf found a mate at Castle Black?”

Jon shook his head. “North of the Wall.” The concern that immediately flashed across her face touched him. “I have to go beyond the Wall at times, Lady Catelyn, however Bran may feel about it,” he said softly. “But I never go beyond the sight of it. Ghost, however, goes somewhat further. He led me to a female direwolf, light silver-grey in color, who was birthing pups. She wouldn’t let me near although I could see she was in some sort of distress. There was one pup already born, and this little fellow was trying to be born, but there was some problem.” He shook his head at the memory. Ghost had wanted him to help somehow. He’d known that, but he couldn’t reach into the female’s mind, and in her panicked state, she’d not allowed Ghost near her either. Jon had been forced to wait until she lost consciousness before he could approach. “She was nearly dead when I pulled him free,” he said to Lady Catelyn now. “And the other pups waiting to be born died with their mother.”

“Poor things, all of them,” Lady Catelyn murmured, picking up the pup to look at its face. “His eyes are blue!” she exclaimed suddenly, and Jon knew she must have expected to see Ghost’s red eyes just as he had.

“Like Brien’s,” Jon said, and she looked up at him and smiled. 

“Of course, Brien can have him,” she said. “Sam wanted him for some . . .Sam has him in order to bring him here, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Jon acknowledged. “I remember how Rickon was leery of Shaggydog at first. I thought Brien might like to meet his pup without an audience. If you said he could keep it, that is.”

Lady Catelyn looked at him for a long moment. “That was very thoughtful of you, Jon. Thank you for that.”

She set the pup down and rose to go to the door. Jon heard her call out to someone in the corridor to find Maester Samwell and young Brien. _Maester Samwell,_ Jon thought with a smile. His friend hated being given the title he did not feel he deserved, and Lady Catelyn called him Sam to his face, but she always spoke of him as Maester Samwell to others regardless of Sam’s preferences on the matter.

“He’s bigger than yours were. When you first brought them home, I mean,” she said when she returned. 

“He’s older. Rhaegal objected strongly enough to direwolf cargo. Had I added a bitch from our kennels for milk, the dragon might have thrown all of us off! I had to get the pups weaned first.”

“What of the other pup? The one who was born first?”

“Jon! You are here!” Before Jon could answer Lady Catelyn’s question, Brien burst into the room and flung himself at him with great enthusiasm. Jon caught the little boy up in his arms and swung him over his head. “Sam said you were, but I didn’t believe him because I didn’t see Rhaegal! Did he fly away already? Rickon said you would come, and I wanted to watch for Rhaegal but . . .”

“Slow down, little brother!” Jon said with a laugh. Brien had been so single-minded in his determination to reach and interrogate him that he hadn’t noticed his mother at all—or the white pup she now held on her lap. “I brought something for you.”

“You did? For me?” Brien’s blue eyes lit up, and Jon’s heart gave a lurch. The boy’s face was Father’s down to almost the slightest detail. But the eyes were Robb’s. As full of life and joy and mischief as Robb’s had ever been. “Where is it?” He began moving his hand over Jon’s jacket as if to discover a hidden treasure pocketed there.

“Look to your lady mother, Brien. She has your present.”

“Mother?” the boy said in confusion, but then he twisted in Jon’s arms to see Lady Catelyn now seated beside the hearth with the wolf pup in her lap. 

“A puppy!” he shouted, immediately struggling to get down, and Jon released him before he fell. He ran to his mother as quickly as his legs could carry him, but stopped suddenly as she held the white pup up to face him. “He’s . . .is . . . is he a . . .?”

“Direwolf,” Lady Catelyn said softly, and Brien spun around to look at Jon as if he required confirmation. 

Jon nodded, and the boy spun back around, stepping closer to his mother and the pup. “But . . . he’s white!” Brien said, sounding somewhat disbelieving but not displeased.

“Aye. Like his father.” Brien had seen Ghost once when Jon had brought him here, but he’d been little more than a babe then. Of course, he didn’t remember him. “My direwolf sired him, Brien. And he’s white. Looks just like him except Ghost’s got red eyes.”

“Can I hold him?” That was directed at his mother.

“Here,” she said, holding the pup out toward him.

He grabbed for it, and she pulled it back slightly. “Easy, sweetling,” she said. “I know he’s bigger than the pups you are used to, but he’s still just a baby.”

“I’ll be gentle,” Brien said with great solemnity, and Jon found it difficult not to laugh as he wondered how many times in his short life Brien had been cautioned to be ‘gentle’ with something by Lady Catelyn.

“They’re blue like mine!” the little boy exclaimed, getting a good luck at the pup’s eyes as he cradled it to him. “Oh!” he yelped then in some alarm as the pup began to wriggle. “He wants down!”

“So put him down, Brien,” Jon said, coming over to lay a hand on his youngest brother’s shoulder. “It’s all right.”

Brien sank down to sit on the floor and released the pup who seemed content to jump about right beside him without venturing far.

“Give him your hand to sniff,” Jon instructed, and Brien complied, collapsing on the floor in giggles as the pup went from sniffing to licking his hand and then climbed up on his chest to lick his face.

“He tickles,” Brien giggled. He then pushed the pup off him and turned over to crawl on all fours as quickly as he could across the room, squealing with delight when the pup chased after him. “Will he get as big as Shaggy, Jon? Will he?”

“I don’t know that he’ll get as big as Shaggydog, Brien,” Jon said honestly. “Shaggy is the biggest of all our wolves.”

“Except for Grey Wind,” Lady Catelyn said softly. “You never saw Grey Wind full grown, Jon. He was enormous.”

“Maybe mine will be the biggest of all!” Brien said with excitement. He stood up and ran back across the room. “To me!” he shouted as he’d no doubt heard his brothers and sister say countless times to their own wolves.

When the wolf pup trotted up to him and licked the hand he held down to it, Brien looked first at Lady Catelyn and then at Jon with such a fierce look of pride and joy on his long face that it caused Jon to sharply draw in his breath. He knew that expression as well as he knew his own name, but it wasn’t one he’d seen on his father’s face.

“I see it, too.”

Lady Catelyn’s words had been little more than a whisper, but he turned to see her looking up at him from where she sat. “I see it, too,” she repeated, and then she looked to the far corner of the room where Brien had begun some sort of wrestling match with the pup and was now ignoring the two of them. “He is so much like Robb. People look at him and see Ned because the gods know he shares his face. They see my eyes because mine are still here for them to look at. And his fearlessness . . . they see Rickon.”

“But it isn’t the same as Rickon’s,” Jon said, truly thinking about it for the first time. Brien wasn’t so much fierce or wild as he was adventurous and filled with a joyful sort of mischief. He watched Brien for a moment and then turned to see that Lady Catelyn was looking up at him again, her eyes bright with unshed tears. 

“No,” she said. “It isn’t the same as Rickon’s.” She smiled at Jon then. “Ned sees it, too, of course. But I fear there are few people left at Winterfell who can remember Robb at Brien’s age.”

“I do,” Jon said. “I remember Robb as much as I remember myself.”

At that, Lady Catelyn actually reached out and took his hand. “I know,” she said simply. 

Jon found himself unable to speak then, and so he simply stood there holding Lady Stark’s hand until a shout from Brien caused the two of them to look back at the boy.

“What’s his name?”

“Well, he doesn’t have one yet,” Jon said. “He’s your direwolf, Brien. It’s your responsibility to name him.”

Jon watched with amusement as the boy twisted up his features into a very exaggerated expression of concentration. He found himself wondering if Brien’s face would become less expressive as he grew older—like Father’s and, he had been told, his own. Arya’s face tended to show her feelings fairly openly so perhaps Brien’s always would as well.

“Snow!” Brien shouted suddenly, a great big grin on his face.

Lady Catelyn drew in her breath. “Sweetling, I don’t know if . . .”

“It’s perfect!” Brien cried. “He looks like snow. He’s a direwolf and that’s our sigil and we live in the snow. And Jon gave him to me! And people call him Lord Commander Snow!” 

Jon recalled Theon Greyjoy taunting him that he should name his direwolf pup Snow all those years ago. It had made his blood boil at the time. He could see that Lady Catelyn was concerned it might do the same now.

“Brien,” she started to say again.

“It is perfect, Brien,” Jon said quickly. _We live in the snow,_ Brien had said. He realized the boy had never seen ground without snow upon it except perhaps in pictures in books. He likely wouldn’t for some years yet, either. “Snow is a name for the North,” he continued. “A name that tells the world you belong to the North—whatever other names you may bear.”

He doubted Brien understood all that he meant, but Lady Catelyn nodded almost imperceptibly at him. “Very well,” she said. “Snow, he shall be.” Then looking up at Jon with a small smile, she said very softly, “I suppose it is more fitting than Shaggydog.”

Jon laughed as Brien began chasing the pup around again. “Oh, I don’t know, my lady. I think Shaggy’s name rather suits him.”

“Another one!” Brien suddenly shouted! “Mother, Jon brought two pups!” His head popped up from behind Father’s desk and instead of Snow, he held a smoky-colored pup, darker than Summer and Nymeria, but not black, with the same blue eyes as Brien’s pup.

“The first-born pup?” Lady Catelyn asked, not seeming terribly surprised to see it there.

“Can I have this one, too?” Brien asked.

“No, little brother,” Jon said, shaking his head. “Snow is yours. His sister is . . .” He turned back to look at Lady Catelyn. “His sister is to be a wedding present . . . if you think she would want . . . another.”

Lady Catelyn bit her lip, and Jon realized she wasn’t any more certain than he was. It had seemed so obvious that bitterly cold day north of the Wall as Ghost had howled mournfully at the death of the wolf he had mated and Jon had bundled up the newborn pups. Two surviving pups. One boy, one girl. Two Stark children in Winterfell without direwolves. One boy . . . and one girl. But Sansa was hardly a girl anymore. Sansa was older than Robb had been when he’d died. She was soon to be a married woman—Lady of the Karhold. And she had a wolf. Her wolf may be dead, but as Jon had drawn closer to Winterfell, he’d wondered more and more if his sister would even want to replace Lady.

“But who . . .” Brien started to ask.

“Brien,” Lady Catelyn said quickly. “Is poor Sam waiting for you out in the corridor?”

Brien shrugged. “I don’t know. He said Jon was in Father’s solar, and I ran here.”

“Put that wolf down, and find him,” Lady Catelyn instructed him. “Bring him here.”

“Can I take Snow?” 

“No. But if you bring Sam, I’ll let him go with you to take your wolf pup to your room, and you can show it to your brothers. All right?”

“And the girls!”

“And the girls,” she said. “But don’t say anything to anyone of your wolf until you and Sam take him to your room, sweetling. Let it be a surprise.”

Brien grinned. “Yes, Mother!”

Sam must have been haunting the corridor because Brien was back almost instantly. Jon had told him of the pups, but hadn’t gotten them out of their pack when he’d spoken with Sam earlier, and Sam stared at the two pups in awe. “The others were that small once?” he asked, shaking his head.

“Smaller,” Jon and Lady Catelyn said at the same time, both laughing.

“Mine is going to be the biggest of all!” Brien exclaimed confidently.

Lady Catelyn explained to Sam what she’d like him to do, but added one instruction. “Please send Sansa to me here. She may bring Lord Karstark if she likes, but no one else. And don’t take her to Brien’s room first.”

“But . . .”

“Your sister will see your direwolf soon enough, Brien. Go with Sam, now.”

When Sam had ushered Brien out with the white direwolf wrapped in his arms, Jon looked at Lady Catelyn. “Are you certain that . . .”

“I am certain of nothing except that this is my daughter’s decision. Not yours or mine.”

Jon nodded. “I don’t want to hurt her,” he said.

Surprisingly, Lady Catelyn smiled at him. “I know.” She bit her lip. “Brien is not Robb,” she said suddenly, causing Jon to startle. “He is my sixth child and in no way a replacement for my first. I do not want him to be, and he could not be even if I did wish it of him. Robb is gone.” She wasn’t smiling now, and Jon knew how much it hurt her to say those words. He knew how much it hurt him every time he thought them. Even after all all these years. “Yet, Robb will never be gone for me. He lives in my heart. He lives in my memory. And yes, he lives in the smiles, and the eyes, and the words, and in so many tiny actions of all my children. And sometimes that hurts, Jon. But I wouldn’t change it.” She looked down at the smoky colored pup who ran around the floor as if wondering where her brother had gone. “That pup will remind Sansa of her Lady. And that will hurt sometimes. But if she wants the pup for itself, the hurt will be less than the joy of it. And those things about the pup that remind her of Lady will serve to make her love both of them more.”

Once more, Jon didn’t know how to respond. He certainly loved Brien—far more than should be possible for a child he had seen only for a few brief periods separated by long expanses of time. Did the fact that he still loved Robb cause him to love Brien more? Did Robb’s loss make all of his brothers and sisters dearer to him? He thought there might be some truth in that. He knew that learning he shared no parent at all with them had somehow made him hold them more tightly in his heart—as if only his own will made them his brothers and sisters now, and therefore he had to exert it forcefully. 

Lady Catelyn’s words made sense, but he still wondered about the other aspect of having a direwolf pup. All of the Stark children could warg their direwolves. He thought it very likely that Brien would one day be able to do the same with Snow. Sansa had never knowingly shared Lady’s skin, but had the bond been there before the wolf had been killed? And if it had, could Sansa share that kind of bond with another wolf? He wanted that for her. She was so good with all the wolves, and he’d long suspected she envied the bond that she alone of all them did not share through the wolves. 

He hoped the other wolves would consider the new pups part of their pack. Ghost did, he knew. He could feel the tiny tugging strands of connection between Ghost and his two pups already when he slipped into the white wolf’s skin. As the others were part of Ghost’s pack, Jon thought they would welcome the pups. _But will Sansa want this pup?_

The polite knock at the door was a far cry from Brien’s boisterous entrance.

“Come in, sweetling,” Lady Catelyn called.

“Sam said you wanted me, Mother?” Sansa said as she entered. Then her eyes fell upon Jon and widened much as her mother’s had when she’d first seen him. “Jon!”

She hadn’t brought Lord Karstark, and Jon was glad. This was a moment for Starks, and Sansa remained a Stark for the moment. “Sansa, it is so good to see you,” he said, warmed by the joy in her eyes as she looked at him.

“You came!” she said, rushing to embrace him without questions about Rhaegal or how he’d slipped into the castle unnoticed. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t be able to! You are staying through the wedding, aren’t you?” she asked, pulling back from their embrace to look at him.

“Of course, I am. I realize I’m a bit early, but I don’t know when I’ll have such a good excuse to spend more than a fortnight at Winterfell again, so the Wall will simply have to remain standing without me for a bit.” He grinned at her.

“I’m so glad!” She turned to Lady Catelyn. “Mother! Jon is here!”

Lady Catelyn actually laughed. “Yes, sweetling, I am aware of that.”

Sansa looked back and forth between the two of them, and her eyes clouded. “But, why are the two of you here in Father’s solar? Why doesn’t anyone know Jon is here? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Sansa,” Lady Catelyn said. “Jon has a wedding present for you, and he thought to give it to you now.”

“Oh!” Sansa exclaimed. “Sam said I could bring Harrion, but he went somewhere with Derek when he finished eating. Should I go get him?”

“No,” Jon said almost sharply. “I mean, it’s fine if you want to, but I just thought . . .”

Jon’s stammering was interrupted by a sharp yelp. The pup had been quiet and relatively still since Sansa’s entrance, and she hadn’t even noticed it, but now it was standing at her feet. Having yelped once for attention, it looked up at her as if waiting for some acknowledgement.

“Oh!” Sansa cried softly in surprise. “What’s this?”

“A direwolf pup,” Lady Catelyn said as Jon discovered he was unable to speak.

“Oh,” Sansa said even more softly. She bent down and picked the pup up. The female pup was a good bit calmer than her brother and didn’t wriggle at all, leaning happily into the bodice of Sansa’s dress as she held her in her arms. “She’s lovely. Is she yours, Jon?”

Jon swallowed. “She’s yours, Sansa.” His sister’s eyes flew to his own, again wide with surprise. Blue eyes like her mother’s. Like Robb’s and Brien’s. Remarkably like those of the pup in her arms. “If you want her, I mean.”

“Want her?” Sansa whispered hoarsely. “Oh, Jon . . .”

At that moment, a loud blast sounded from the gates announcing the arrival of a party on horseback.

“Ned and Bran!” Lady Catelyn exclaimed. “It must be them!”

Sansa, still gripping the pup tightly, nodded. “We should go down to the courtyard and meet them! You, too, Jon. You’ll be an excellent surprise!”

Jon looked at his sister. Of course, he wanted to see his father. He wanted to see Arya and his other brothers as well. But, he still didn’t know what she thought about the pup. “What should we do with the direwolf pup?” he asked.

“Do with her?” Sansa asked. “I’m taking her with me, of course! I want to show Father my new direwolf pup!” 

Slowly, Jon began smiling at his sister as he heard Lady Catelyn say, “They’ve likely only just been spotted. It will take them a bit to reach the gate. I’m going to make certain your brothers and sister are coming out to the courtyard. You two come along in a moment.”

“Yes, Mother,” Sansa answered.

Jon, his mind still occupied with Sansa and the wolf pup, belatedly stammered, “Yes, Lady Stark.”

Lady Catelyn, halfway through the door already, turned at his words. “It is good to have you home, Jon.” Then she was gone before he could reply.

“Thank you, Jon!” Sansa said then, moving the pup into one arm so she could throw the other around him. “She is beautiful and I . . .” Suddenly her face fell, and so did Jon’s heart as he wondered what was wrong. “I shouldn’t take her, though.”

“Why not?” Jon asked, and then he wanted to kick himself for being thoughtless. “I mean . . . she isn’t Lady, and I know that . . .”

“No,” Sansa said quickly. “It isn’t because of Lady. Not like that, I mean. But, I did have Lady once. And Brien . . . he’s a Stark, too, Jon. And he’s never had a direwolf, and I think mayhap . . .”

Jon started laughing, and perhaps it was because he had been so anxious about Sansa’s reaction, but he couldn’t stop. 

“What is wrong with you?” Sansa finally asked in irritation.

Jon took a deep breath to quiet his laughter before replying. “Brien’s already named his wolf Snow. He’s white like Ghost. Ghost is their father, by the way. Their mother is dead, and these are the only two pups who survived.”

“Ghost is their father?” she asked incredulously. 

“He is. You can tell it when you see Brien’s pup. This one looks like their mother, only darker.”

“Oh. It’s sad that she died,” Sansa said, looking at the little direwolf she held.

“It is,” Jon agreed. “But I think her children will be just fine now.”

Sansa looked up at him and smiled. “I love her, Jon. I promise I’ll take care of her.”

“I don’t doubt it for a minute.” He smiled back at her. “But we better get along to the courtyard or we’ll have your mother to answer to.”

“And you can meet your aunt and uncles!” Sansa gushed, holding the pup up to her face. “They’ll love you, I know!”

As Jon followed his sister out out of his father’s solar, he felt remarkably happy. The Wall was place. The men of the Night’s Watch were his brothers. The safety of the North from all threats beyond the Wall was his responsibility. And he accepted that responsibility without question. He took pride in his position and found satisfaction in performing his duty as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch well. But Winterfell was home. 

He had people he loved spread across the Seven Kingdoms from King’s Landing to the Wall. He was a dragon and a direwolf. The blood of Targaryen and Stark ran through his veins, and he’d reached a certain peace with that. He could not imagine himself without Rhaegal or Ghost now. And Dany had a very special place in his heart, for all that she could exasperate him like no one else. As for Aegon, he’d met him only twice. He supposed he liked him well enough. Whether or not they were brothers was something neither knew for sure. Jon doubted Aegon’s parentage, and Aegon questioned Jon’s in spite of Rhaegal. Jon wasn’t certain whether or not they truly wanted to be brothers. He hadn’t believed it possible to discover a family relationship more complicated than he had with Dany, but Aegon was even more of a puzzle to him in many ways. Lady Shireen had finally decided she liked him well enough to wed him, and Jon liked the young Lady of Storm’s End a great deal. So, that was a mark in his putative brother’s favor. Still, as much as he embraced the Targaryen blood within him, that part of his family remained forever complicated.

Here at Winterfell, however, family was easy. Even after his father’s secrets and lies, they’d remained family. He knew his brothers and sisters here were not his siblings by birth at all, and yet they all felt more truly his brothers and sisters now than they ever had. He never heard or thought the word “half” anymore. _Even Lady Catelyn called Winterfell my home,_ he thought, as he walked with Sansa through the corridors of the Great Keep.

 _I will be going back to the Wall,_ he thought, _and she will be going to the Karhold. But Winterfell will always be home for both of us, however many other homes we find. It’s in our blood._ He thought about what he’d told Brien. _Snow is a name for the North._ That was true. He was of the North. Winterfell was of the North. And the matter of his name troubled him not at all now. Nothing troubled him at the moment because he was at home, his family was well, and he was going to meet his father at the gates.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Jon accompanied Sansa to get her cloak and then out into the courtyard, both of them laughing at the movement of her cloak as the little direwolf pup wriggled in her arms beneath it. 

“I don’t think she wants to remain covered up,” Jon said with a smile.

“I know. I want to surprise Harrion.”

“Jon!” came a shout of pure joy from up ahead of them, and Sansa smiled to see her sister racing across the ground to barrel into their brother. Had she been a larger person, Jon would have likely fallen to the ground, but instead he caught her up easily and spun her around. 

“Little sister!” he exclaimed. “You keep looking more and more a maiden, but you still behave like a wolf, I see!”

“I am a wolf!” Arya grinned, as he set her down. “And don’t you forget it! When did you get here? Where did you find that direwolf pup Brien has? Where’s Rhaegal?”

Sansa laughed at the barrage of questions. It occurred to her suddenly that she didn’t quite know how Jon had arrived so secretly or where the dragon was either, but as her sister continued to question Jon more quickly than he could possibly answer, all the while tugging on his hands and pulling him toward where the family was gathering, she decided to give the two of them this moment. They had always been close, and Sansa suspected that Arya missed Jon the most out of all of them.

She turned and looked at the people in the courtyard. Mother was there, of course, trying to line people up properly. Arya always rolled her eyes about that, proclaiming that Father couldn’t care less about such things, but Sansa understood why Mother did it. It was her way of assuring Father at a glance that all was well in Winterfell. His family and household were here waiting for him, and she had done her duty as Lady of Winterfell in his absence. Arya might not understand why such things mattered, but Sansa did. She hoped that she could do as well for her own husband.

The little tightness in her chest hit her then—the one that always struck when she contemplated that soon she would have a husband. Harrion had not seemed upset with her about her less than enthusiastic response to his kiss when they’d eaten together earlier. Mayhap Arya was right, and it would all be well once they were wed. She almost wanted to speak to Mother about it as Arya had suggested, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask Mother to recall such terrible things from her own past simply to calm a daughter’s silly fears.

“My lady!”

At the sound of his voice, Sansa turned to see her betrothed hurrying from the direction of the stables, and she smiled toward him, willing herself not to allow her anxiety to show. She took courage from the warm weight of the little direwolf pup in her arms and waited for Harrion to approach her.

“Your lord father returns, my lady,” Harrion said as he approached her. “It is a good day.”

“Yes, my lord,” she agreed. “It is very good to have Father and Bran home once more.”

He offered her an arm. “Shall we join your family to greet them?”

She couldn’t take his arm, of course, so she quickly said, “I have something to show you first.”

As he looked at her quizzically, she extended her arms to hold the pup out from under her cloak, and she watched his eyes go wide with shock. “Is that . . . is that a . . .”

“Direwolf,” Sansa said. “Yes, she is. Jon brought her to me for a wedding gift.”

“Jon?” he stammered, still staring at the pup which didn’t like being held out with its feet dangling. The animal wiggled and kicked and made an annoyed yelping sound to which he exclaimed, “Don’t let it bite you, my lady!”

Sansa smiled and pulled the pup back against her chest, although she kept her outside her cloak. “She won’t bite me, my lord. She knows me already! See?” She held her fingers up to the pup’s snout and allowed her lick them. 

Harrion stared at the pup. “Jon,” he repeated as if he couldn’t place the name.

“My brother,” she said. “From the Wall.”

“Oh! The Lord Commander. But I thought he was not truly your . . .”

“Jon is my brother,” she said quickly and definitely. She had spent too much of her life attempting to minimize Jon’s role in her family, and she would never do that again. “It matters little who his parents were.” She was somewhat annoyed at Harrion because they had spoken some about this before. He still gazed at the the direwolf pup as if dumbfounded by her very existence, and she hoped his foolish words resulted merely from his shock.

“Of course,” Harrion said. “I meant no disrespect, my lady. Do you . . . intend to bring that to the Karhold?” He indicated the pup.

“Of course, I do!” she nearly shouted, angry with him now. “She is mine! Does that bother you, my lord?”

“No . . . I mean . . . it will grow to the size of your brothers’ and sister’s beasts?”

“Yes. She’s a direwolf, Harrion. She will be enormous.”

He frowned slightly. “And wild, my lady. A direwolf is hardly a dog. Surely you can understand that I might have some . . . concerns . . . about bringing such a beast into our home. I would not have you in danger.”

“I will never be in danger from her,” Sansa said firmly. “You have been in Winterfell enough to see that my siblings’ wolves attack no one here. I will train this pup myself, and she will never harm me or anyone else unless they threaten me . . . or someone I care about.” She looked down at the bundle of dark, smoky fur in her arms. The pup hardly looked like a killer now, but she would grow to be one. Harrion was not a Stark. She tried not to resent his distrustfulness of the pup. Likely, he’d heard tales of how Grey Wind had ripped limbs from men’s bodies when Robb rode to battle. She was glad he had not been there to see Shaggy rip out the Frey man’s throat or to hear her calmly call Rickon’s wolf to her as the animal stood upon the dead man, feeding on his flesh. She wondered in sudden panic if her husband would come to hate and fear her if she ever shared with this pup what her siblings’ shared with theirs—what she knew in her heart she would have shared with Lady.

“What’s wrong, Sansa?” Harrion said suddenly. The concerned look on his face and the use of her given name caused her to arrange her own features into a polite, calm expression.

“Nothing, my lord. I am well.”

“You were frightened,” he insisted. “And as I know well enough you do not fear that wolf, I must assume you were frightened by me. I will never hurt you, Sansa. And if you wish to have a direwolf, you shall have it.”

“I’m not frightened by you,” she whispered. “It is only . . . the wolves . . . and us . . .” She wasn’t certain how to continue. She knew full well that the word “warg” was bandied about Winterfell in reference to her brothers and sister. Most here seemed relatively unfazed by the bond between the Starks and their wolves now, but the word was still spoken in a hushed and somewhat wary manner. Outside Winterfell, she imagined it would be spoken with blatant fear and even revulsion.

Her betrothed looked at her a long moment and then responded as if she had actually given voice to her fears. “I don’t understand how such great, fierce beasts seem to heed the very thoughts of the Starks of Winterfell, my lady, any more than I understand why the Lord Commander and the Queen can ride upon the backs of dragons. But I know you are a Stark, my lady, and I know you to be a lady of honor with a kinder heart than I deserve. If you tell me this wolf pup will be a protector for you and for . . . our children . . .” Sansa heard him swallow before saying ‘our children,’ “Then I shall gladly welcome it at the Karhold.”

“She will be,” Sansa whispered. “I promise.” She hesitated only an instand before adding, “And I thank you, Harrion.”

“Sansa!”

Her mother’s voice calling her name somewhat sharply prevented any reply he might have made. She turned to see Father and Bran riding through the gates at the head of their men, and she ran to take her place in line, calling for Harrion to follow her. They managed to reach a place between Rickon and Arya just as Father was dismounting and approaching Mother first just as he always did.

“Winterfell is yours, my lord,” Rickon said formally from where he stood on one side of Mother. Sansa smiled at her little brother. Father and Bran had impressed upon him that he was the Stark in Winterfell in the absence of both of them, and while he had done nothing but attend lessons, train at swords, and play as usual in their absence while Mother took charge of Winterfell, he drew himself up to his full height to give the traditional greeting to the returning lord.

Father smiled at him, too, taking his eyes from Mother long enough to put a hand on Rickon’s shoulder and say, “I thank you, son.”

Then his eyes were only for Mother again. Sansa knew they wouldn’t speak much out here in the courtyard, but as her mother whispered, “Welcome home, my lord,” she could feel the connection between them—the feelings that were impossible not to see if you only looked at them together. She watched her father put his hands upon her mother’s arms and press his lips to hers for no more than an instant—the only departure from their usual proper manner with each other they would allow themselves except for in Mother’s chambers or when they thought themselves unobserved elsewhere. 

“It is good to be home, my lady,” he told her, his deep voice almost as quiet as Mother’s had been. Sansa could see his eyes, however, and she knew that they spoke much more. She felt very aware of Harrion standing beside her and wondered if the two of them would ever share so much in a simple greeting or if anyone had ever shared quite what her parents did. She hoped that it would be possible for her. Mayhap she was foolish or silly, but she did hope. _I will gladly welcome it at the Karhold,_ he had said with resolve about her wolf. She held onto that.

“I have a wolf, Father!” Brien suddenly shouted from Mother’s other side, unable to contain himself any longer. “Jon gave me a direwolf! His name is Snow!” He squatted down and released a white wolf pup from beneath his own cloak to a gasp of surprise from Father.

As Father bent down to the pup, Sansa watched Mother’s eyes go to Bran who was being lifted from his special saddle by a guardsman into his outdoor chair. He and Sam had designed the chair with runners similar to those on a sleigh, and it had two ropes extending from it attached to a stick which Summer would pick up and hold in his mouth. Summer always knew where Bran wished to go, of course, so the chair kept him from ever needing to be carried outside unless he had to get to the top of the castle walls for some reason. Sansa knew Bran still hated that he had to be lifted on and off his horse so she looked away. Even Mother managed to keep from running to him until he was in his chair.

The formal receiving line had completely broken down as Mother ran forward to embrace Bran in his chair and everyone else gathered around Brien and Jon and the white wolf pup. _He does look like Ghost,_ Sansa thought. Mother released Bran, and Summer pulled him into the group where several others embraced him while Summer nosed at the pup. 

“There’s another one, too!” Brien pronounced then from where he was currently sitting on Father’s knee as Father knelt in the snow surrounded by his children with a hand reaching out to Brien’s pup. “It’s kinda black but not as black as Shaggy. Jon says it’s a present!”

Father looked up at Jon with a puzzled expression, and Sansa stepped forward. “Here she is,” she said, holding her own pup out from under cloak once more. 

Father smiled at her. “Sansa,” he said. Gently, he stood Brien up off his knee and then stood himself. She kept herself from grimacing at how painfully he rose. She barely even noticed his limp anymore, and he rode a horse as if he’d never been injured at all, but rising from a kneeling position was difficult for him, and she knew he hated that. “A female pup, I take it?” he asked softly as he walked toward her.

“Yes, Lord Stark,” Jon said, coming up beside him, and Sansa wondered at his formal manner of address. “There were two pups, one male and one female. One for each of your trueborn children who did not have a wolf beside them.”

Her father looked at Jon then with the oddest expression on his face and then he smiled. “Is that so, son?”

“It is,” Jon said with a grin. 

Sansa didn’t understand at first, but then she recalled what Bran had told her three or four years ago about what Jon had said to father when the first direwolves had been found.

“Our children are meant to have these wolves, my lord,” Mother said, and Sansa turned to see her standing behind Bran’s chair, smiling.

“I know better than to argue with a Tully,” Father said, smiling at her. Then he turned back to Sansa and reached his arms out for the pup. Sansa handed her to him, and he said, “Brien calls his Snow, and I think the reason for that is clear enough. What is her name?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” Sansa said, realizing in that moment that she hadn’t even begun to think of a name for the pup. It had been so easy with Lady. She hadn’t even considered another name. It had sounded perfect to her. But then everything had seemed easy then, a lifetime ago. Now she didn’t believe in perfection, and she feared that nothing of worth ever came easily.

“Well, don’t wait as long as Bran did to name her!” Arya groused, and everyone laughed, even Harrion and Dak and Lyanna Mormont and Willam Ryswell, none of whom could possibly know how long poor Summer had been nameless. 

Sansa found herself laughing too, realizing that that it didn’t even matter what the cause was. It simply felt good to laugh among her family and friends, all of them safe at home.

“May I hold her, Lord Stark?” Lyanna Mormont’s voice came from where she stood beside Bran’s chair, and Sansa looked up to see the eager expression on Lyanna’s face as she gazed toward the pup and Bran’s absolutely enchanted expression as he looked up at Lyanna.

“Sansa?” Her father asked, and she nodded.

“Look, Bran!” Lyanna exclaimed as she turned immediately toward Sansa’s brother with the pup. “She is nearly as dark as Shaggydog, but she’s definitely grey rather than black. Oh! And her eyes are blue!”

“So they are,” Bran said softly as Lyanna laid the pup in his lap, and Sansa found herself wondering if her brother had seen the pup before in his visions or dreams.

“Snow’s got blue eyes, too!” Brien cried out as if he had decided Sansa’s pup had held everyone’s attention long enough. “Look, Bran!” He picked up the white pup and lifted it onto Bran’s lap beside the dark grey.

“Their eyes are exactly the same color,” Bran said smiling. Then he looked back and forth between Brien and Sansa, and Sansa knew he was observing the nearly identical shade of blue the two of them shared with Mother. “Mother is right,” he said. “These two are definitely meant for the two of you.”

Everyone stood there in the snowy courtyard gathered around Bran’s chair and the pups, smiling and laughing and eventually the two pups got passed around to everyone. Even Jeyne took a turn at holding Sansa’s. Amid the general conversation and happy noise, Sansa observed Harrion beside her watching her parents. They stood quietly, observing everyone else and Mother leaned into Father as she held his arm. Smiling at the two of them, Sansa reached up to take Harrion’s arm, and he turned to look at her with a smile of his own, and she dared to hope that their future might look at least a little like what her parents had made here.

A couple hours later, Sansa sat in her room alone, watching the pup explore and trying to decide upon a a name. She’d received numerous suggestions—Beauty, Darkfur, Smoky, Shadow, among others. But none of them seemed right to her. She’d loved being surrounded by her family and friends out in the courtyard and then briefly in Father’s solar, but she’d been been rather glad when Mother shooed them all way so that Father might have time to talk with Jon for a bit. Even Mother had left the solar, and it struck Sansa that she never would have done that for Jon years ago.

Sansa looked around her room and realized how much she loved it. As time had gone by, and Jeyne had grown stronger, Mother had decreed that all the girls were well past old enough to have their own bedchambers. She and Arya had had separate rooms before they’d ever left Winterfell after all. And while she sometimes missed having Jeyne and her sister sleeping close by her during the long winter nights, she mostly enjoyed having the space of her own. Arya and Jeyne would be forced to room together temporarily again soon to make room for wedding guests, as would the boys. But Sansa’s room would remain hers alone. Until her wedding night. She looked at her bed—a much larger bed than the one she had slept upon in the room she’d shared so long with Arya and Jeyne—and thought about what would happen there in less than a moon’s turn.

 _I’m not frightened,_ she told herself. She didn’t entirely believe herself, however. She picked up the pup and sat down with her on the bed. “I am a wolf. I can be brave,” she said to the little animal. “I will be as brave as my lady mother.”

“Oh, you are far braver than I, my little wolf.”

Sansa looked up to see her mother standing in the corridor with the door pushed slightly ajar.

“I am sorry, Sansa. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but your door was not truly closed.”

“It’s all right, Mother,” Sansa said. She looked down at the pup on her lap. “I was talking to my wolf. I suppose that’s silly.”

“It isn’t silly at all, and you know it.” Mother smiled at her. “You’re a Stark, Sansa. Conversing with direwolves is in your blood, apparently. May I come in?”

“Oh! Of course. I’m sorry, Mother.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” Mother closed the door behind her and came to sit beside her on the bed. “And I meant what I said before. You are far braver than you give yourself credit for.”

“I’ll never be as brave as you are.”

Mother laughed softly, but it was almost a sad sort of sound. “You already have been, although I would wish you had never needed so much courage.” She bit her lip briefly. “Arya came to me.”

“Arya?” Remembering her conversation with her sister in the sept, Sansa frowned. “She shouldn’t have.”

“She shouldn’t have needed to. I wish you had come to me, Sansa.”

Mother sounded almost hurt, and Sansa reached out to grasp her hand. “I know I can always come to you, Mother! It’s only that . . . I just . . .”

“You fear hurting me,” Mother sighed. “You try to protect me. You shouldn’t, you know. It is always my place to protect you. You’ll understand that when you have children of your own. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Sansa. Nothing of myself I wouldn’t give.”

Arya had apparently told Mother a lot. “But . . . it isn’t the same,” Sansa said haltingly. “What was . . . done to you . . .it was unspeakable and so much more terrible than anything that happened to me. I have no right to . . .”

“You have every right,” Mother interrupted her softly. “You are my child, for all that you are now a woman grown. If any pain I’ve ever suffered can help save you some suffering, I will accept that for you without hesitation. In any event, do you truly think that I’ve forgotten what the Freys did to me at the Twins? Do you think those memories are less terrible if left unspoken?”

Sansa looked carefully at her mother’s face. It was as calm as it had been that long ago day in the Eyrie when she’d first told her what had been done to her, but her voice was not so flat and controlled. Sansa could hear the pain there, but also the truth. Her mother remembered all of it even though no word of it was ever spoken.

“But . . . if you cannot forget . . .” Sansa whispered, feeling tears prick at her eyes, “How can you . . . how can . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to ask the question.

“Oh my sweetling,” her mother whispered back, taking both Sansa’s hands in her own. “You must remember that I had known love long before I was ever touched by those vile men. Had I not been loved by your father all those years before, I don’t know that I could ever have stood a man’s touch again. And even so . . .” Mother closed her eyes. “It was not easy . . . not at first.” She took a deep breath and opened her eyes to look into Sansa’s once more. “That is why I thank the gods no one hurt you in that way. You were hurt, Sansa, and I do not mean to belittle that fact. But when your husband takes you to your marriage bed, he will be the only man who has touched you in such a way. And whatever evil things men have done to you in the past, this will be new—something shared only with him. Take courage in that, my sweet girl. And comfort.”

Sansa wanted to do that. She truly did. But when Mother had said ‘marriage bed,’ an image of a naked Tyrion Lannister came almost immediately to her mind with his terrible raw stump of a nose and stunted legs and his cock standing up stiff with its purple veins and bulbous head looking for all the world like a hideous weapon of some sort. She closed her own eyes tightly against the memory and felt a tear slip between her lashes and slide down over her cheek. “But what if I can’t even see him?” she whispered almost inaudibly. “What if I can only see . . . someone else?”

“Open your eyes, Sansa.”

It sounded almost like a command. The words were not whispered, and Mother’s voice was firm. Sansa’s eyes flew open to look at her.

“That is what your father told me,” Mother said. “The first time we . . . were together. After the Twins.” She let go of one of Sansa’s hands and reached up to touch her hair. “I couldn’t stop seeing them, you see. And the same might happen to you. But if you keep your eyes open, you will see no one but your husband.” She smiled just a little. “I realize you are only beginning to know him, Sansa. It is not the same as it is between your father and myself. Not yet, anyway. But you do respect him, and I believe you trust him.”

“I do,” Sansa said. _If you tell me this wolf pup will be a protector for you and for . . . our children . . . then I shall gladly welcome it at the Karhold._ “I believe he wants only what is best for me.”

“Then keep your eyes open, Sansa, however awkward or shy or uncomfortable you may feel. Keep your eyes on your husband and know that there is no one else between you. Past hurts cannot be erased, I am afraid. But the pain of the past can be overcome by the joys of the present. Believe that, my darling girl, because it is the truth. And ghosts—even terrible, wicked ghosts—cannot trouble you overmuch if you keep your eyes and your mind upon the man before you.”

 _Keep my eyes open,_ Sansa thought. _I can do that. However frightened I may be, it is better to see my way forward because blindness is far more terrifying._ “Thank you, Mother.”

Mother smiled again. “I haven’t done much, really. You are a Stark of Winterfell, Sansa. You have all the strength you need.”

Sansa smiled back at her. “I shall try to be as brave as my lady mother. And don’t you say anything to contradict me!”

Mother laughed. “I wouldn’t dare contradict the Lady of the Karhold,” she said. 

The direwolf pup had been curled up just behind Sansa as if asleep, but now she crawled over Sansa’s lap to lay her head upon Mother’s, and Mother ran her long fingers through the soft dark, grey fur. “Have you thought of a name for her yet?”

“No,” Sansa said, smiling at the way her pup seemed to instinctively want to be near Mother in much the same way that Summer and Shaggy and even Nymeria did. “But I will.”

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

Bran Stark pulled himself up the staircase by reaching for the iron rings hammered into the wall one after the other. The flat pieces of well-smoothed timber which had been securely fixed upon the steps along a narrow strip to form a sort of slide on that side of the staircase allowed him to drag his useless legs along it without bruising them by banging them upon each step. He didn’t like to use the staircases when people were around because he felt that only being lifted on and off his horse made him look more a cripple than this ungainly procedure. Yet, it was still preferable to being carried like a babe.

He was quick at it, too. His legs might be useless, but he would wager his arm strength against anyone’s in Winterfell. At four and ten, Bran Stark’s twisted legs were scarcely bigger around than Brien’s, but his shoulders were as broad as Father’s and his arms even more firmly muscled. At the top of the staircase, he used the rings on the wall to pull himself into the chair that waited there for him and then made use of the overlarge front wheels on the chair to propel himself down the corridor toward Father’s solar.

At least one staircase between every floor of the Great Keep had been fitted with rings and slide for his use, and there was a wheeled chair on every floor as well. No one would think to move any of his chairs from where he left them at the head or foot of the staircase when he moved to another floor. He and Sam had worked together on the design of the chairs and the staircases, corresponding with maesters in the citadel and Lord Tyrion Lannister who had an interest in designing accomodations for him dating back to his original saddle design. Consequently, he had independent movement throughout the Great Keep.

It had been Sam who’d thought to fix sleigh runners to a chair for use outside the Keep. Bran had no way to propel that chair on his own, but he had Summer who pulled the chair skillfully enough that he had gradually gained the ability to go nearly anywhere within Winterfell’s walls without relying on any man’s assistance, and of course he had a wheeled chair in the Great Hall and in several other buildings as well. He’d prefer to have his legs, of course, but as he had now lived half his life without them, he was rather pleased with the level of independence he’d gradually achieved over the years through his continually redesigned chairs, well-placed iron handholds, staircase modifications, Summer, and the strength of his own arms. 

Lyanna commented upon his arm strength rather frequently when she helped him with his sword work on horseback out in the Wolfswood where no one could watch and report to his mother just how vigorously they practiced fighting from saddles. Bran could never be a knight. He knew that well. He would never lead men to battle even upon horseback because he would become worse than useless if his horse were injured or killed. Good men would die needlessly defending the crippled Heir of Winterfell, and he wouldn’t allow that to happen. Yet, he would not hide forever behind Winterfell’s walls either. Upon his horse, he was as able as any man to hunt or to ride out and visit the bannermen in their castles and keeps. He could also wield a sword as well as any other man from a saddle, and he was determined to learn to do so better than any man. He would not ride into battle, but he would not ride out from Winterfell unarmed and defenseless save for the men around him either.

Of course, rides in the Wolfswood with Lyanna Mormont were satisfying for more reasons than simply his improving swordsmanship.

“Bran! I am pleased you could join us, son.”

His father’s voice startled him as he’d scarcely realized he’d reached the open solar door already. Thinking about Lyanna had a way of doing that to him, and he fought against the blush that threatened to color his cheeks. “Sam said you and Jon had need of me, Father,” he said as he wheeled himself into the solar.

Father was seated behind his desk and Jon occupied a seat beside him. Not Mother’s though. He’d pulled another chair around, leaving Mother’s customary seat unoccupied, and Bran smiled to see it. Mother occupied that place so often that everyone had become almost as hesitant to sit in that chair as they were to sit in Father’s.

“It’s good to see you, little brother,” Jon said as Bran wheeled himself up to the front of the desk. “I barely got to say three words to you since you and Father returned. Did you enjoy the journey?”

“It was good to get out and see people,” he replied. “Even if it meant visiting sour old Lady Dustin.”

Jon laughed, and even Father did not frown at him so Bran continued. “I liked little Lord Walton well enough. He acts younger than Brien, though, and he’s at least half a year older. His mother babies him, I think.”

“Young Walton is all Lady Walda has left,” Father reminded him. “Her husband is dead and most of her family has been killed.”

 _Deservedly,_ thought Bran. “Lord Olyvar is her family,” he said. “Walton told me Lord Olyvar writes to him regularly.”

“He does,” Father said. “And that is a good thing. Olyvar is the only Frey I’d have influencing the future Lord of the Dreadfort. As for his mother, Lady Walda has a surprisingly strong attachment to Roose Bolton even now, but as long as it does not cause her to nurse a resentment against us, I see no harm in the boy hearing some good about his father. Few men are entirely evil, after all. And even fewer, if any, are entirely good.”

Bran knew the truth of that well enough. He had not lived as long as Father or even Jon. He had not fought in wars and commanded men as they had. But he sometimes felt older than both of them for it seemed he’d lived lifetimes when he saw with the trees and the old gods. He shivered. “At least he looks more like his mother.” Bran had never liked Lord Bolton’s looks. The man had been cold and altogether frightening when he’d been at Winterfell before riding out with Robb. _He killed Robb,_ Bran thought. _And Mother killed him. And in another few years, his son will be brought to live here as a ward of Father’s and a playmate for Brien._ Bran hoped that would lead to better things than Theon Greyjoy’s being warded here had. Willam Dustin seemed genuinely happy here, and he and Rickon were as close as brothers. Mayhap it could be like that between Brien and Walton Bolton. The North would certainly be better for it. 

“Bran?” 

Bran looked up to see his brother gazing at him curiously. Jon shook his head a bit when he’d gotten Bran’s attention, but didn’t seem terribly concerned at the fact he’d drifted off in his own thoughts. He had a habit of doing that, and he supposed his family had all gotten used to it.

“I asked if you thought the boy would get to the size of his mother,” Jon said with a small grin.

Bran laughed. “She likes to feed him, and he likes to eat,” he told Jon. “But Barrowton is on winter rations just like we are, so he isn’t really a fat little boy. Just bigger around than Brien. It was good of you to bring those wolf pups for Brien and Sansa, Jon.”

“It seemed the right thing to do when I found them.” Jon briefly told him the story of how Ghost had led him to his dying mate. From Father’s silence, Bran surmised he’d already heard it. “Had you seen them? The new pups, I mean,” Jon asked him softly when he finished his tale.

Bran nodded slowly. “Not as pups, though. And I never saw them with you or anyone here. I saw them in the Godswood with Summer fully grown. A white wolf and a dark grey wolf both with blue eyes. I didn’t know them, but it was apparent Summer did. I realized it was them as soon as I saw the pups.” He grinned. “The white one is going to be enormous.”

Jon grinned back. “That’ll please Brien. He’s already declared that Snow is going to be the biggest direwolf of them all.”

Bran shrugged. “Hard to say. Bigger than Summer, for certain, but Shaggy wasn’t with them when I saw them.”

“Has your sister named hers yet?” Father asked.

“Not by the time I last saw her. I thought Rickon’s suggestion was a good one. Her pup really does look like she could be his pup’s shadow.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed. “That was the best of the names offered. Much better than Jeyne’s or Brien’s ideas. What was it Lyanna said? Smoky? That one wasn’t bad. Rickon’s was the best, though.” He laughed. “Arya thought it a shame he didn’t think of it seven years ago. Shadow would have been suitable for his black wolf as well.”

“No,” Father said firmly. He was smiling, though. “Shaggydog’s name suits him. I cannot imagine him with another, whatever we thought of it when Rickon was three. And I’ve no doubt that whatever name Sansa settles upon will suit her pup as well.” His face became serious. “Now, Bran. Jon and I have spoken at some length about matters at Castle Black and all along the Wall. You and I have spoken a great deal about what you’ve seen north of the Wall, and Jon would like to hear it from you. He also wants to speak more of the ice dragon eggs.”

“The ice dragon eggs?” Bran said, startled. He didn’t like to speak much about them for he felt oddly protective of them, and it bothered him somehow that everyone else viewed them as a potential threat that must simply be well contained because it could not be destroyed. “What of them? They are safe beneath the monument.”

“You get no sense that they are likely to hatch?” Jon asked him, leaning forward.

Bran shook his head. “I don’t sense the eggs at all, Jon. But I haven’t seen ice dragons at Winterfell during any of your lifetimes. The dragons are alive, though, however deeply they sleep. The wolves sense them in some way. And I don’t think they would if there was no life at all within the eggs.”

“Why do you always say that?” Jon asked. “ _Your_ lifetimes! Bran, you are staying here at Winterfell to become lord. You’ve said that you will.”

“Jon . . .” Father said warningly. 

“It’s all right, Father,” Bran said quickly. “I will be the Lord of Winterfell, Jon. I’ve told you that I don’t look for myself . . . or for any of us . . . if I can help it. But what I dream when I sleep . . . I can’t always control that. And I’ve seen myself in Father’s place. Don’t ask me when. I honestly cannot tell you, and I wouldn’t if I could. But I’m much older than I am now.” He swallowed. “Winterfell is my place. And it will be for a long time. But . . . Brynden Rivers lived a long life before he ever went north of the Wall, you know. Once my s . . . my heir is a man grown and well prepared to be lord in his own right, there may come a time when another place is mine. And if I can do more for the North, for all the realm, away from Winterfell then, I will go. And I cannot say how long my life will be.”

He’d almost said son. He’d almost said it out loud, but he refused to speak of that dream. He would never speak of that dream because it was the dream he held most dear and he would not give it voice until it actually came to pass. If it ever came to pass. Jon didn’t seem to have noticed. He was looking at him with that same concerned and frightened look Mother and Father got whenever he spoke of this. Father’s face was impassive now, though. His lord’s face.

“But I thought you wanted to know of the dragon eggs, Jon. I’ve told you before, they are no more good or evil than your dragon or even our direwolves. Ice dragons are simply what they are, and one day these two will have a role to play that I don’t yet understand. But they belong to Winterfell now. It is our duty to keep them safe and keep them sleeping. For however long they need to sleep.”

Jon looked frustrated with his answer as he always did, but he nodded. “And north of the Wall, Bran? My men have seen no Others for some time, but I do not let them range far. We’ve seen no people either. Are there people left, Bran? Do any of the free folk yet live in the North?”

The fear in his brother’s voice as he asked the question nearly broke Bran’s heart. “None that I see,” he said quietly. “But some may live still. Only if they are very clever. They would have to live as the Children do—completely hidden. Underground more than likely. There are mushrooms at least in some of the caves. And the possibility of remaining hidden from Others. For I do see Others, Jon. They are not gone. They are only staying further to the north than your rangings reach. You needn’t send men any further north. I promise I will send word if I see any movement of them to the south. Going further north is only courting death.”

“But if any of the free folk do survive . . .” Jon insisted.

“They will likely starve before this winter is over,” Bran said bluntly. “There are no glass gardens, Jon. No sleighs from White Harbor.” He swallowed. “If any free folk survive, you needn’t search for them. If they have any wish to last the winter, they must come south and seek you out.”

Jon nodded, and Bran could tell he was clinging to that small bit of hope that some of the wildlings just might manage to find their way to the Wall. He knew that his brother considered some of the men among them his friends. The man who had sent the boy with the map to the dragon egg cave, for instance. Mayhap those men had been found by the Children. Mayhap they had taken them in, but Bran doubted it. The Children had seemed rather resigned to the idea that their own time was coming to an end and not terribly concerned that the time of men might end as well. They saw the passage of time and the passing away of all manner of creatures and civilizations as the inevitable way of things. Mayhap, if he did return to them years in the future, he would come to think that way as well. He hoped not. He would never be a knight, but he did not intend to stop fighting for his people. His family. His home. Not everyone could be saved. He knew that. Those beyond the Wall were likely lost already or soon would be. But not everyone must perish. Men could make choices and make a difference in their fates. In the fate of their world. He could make a difference. He refused to believe anything else.

“Bran?”

It was Father’s deep, quiet voice that reached him that time.

“I’m sorry, Father. Is there something else you need of me?”

His father shook his head. “No, son. Jon, do you have any other questions for your brother?”

Jon shook his head. Then he smiled rather suddenly as if he’d just remembered something. “Not now, Bran. But I do want go riding with you soon. And if you can find me a mount that isn’t skittish about combat, I’d like to see for myself what you can do with a sword now. Father has been boasting of your prowess.”

That made Bran’s chest swell, pushing more disturbing thoughts quite out of his mind. During the journey to and from Barrowton, he and Father had ridden away from the column several times to practice at swords. Like Bran, Father trained at fighting from horseback extensively because of his own bad leg. He could still walk, of course, and defend himself on the ground if need be, but he knew he was a better soldier on horseback now. He’d seemed pleased enough with Bran’s efforts, but Father wasn’t effusive with praise, and to hear that he’d spoken well of his abilities to Jon meant more than any of the words Father had given to him.

“I’d like that,” he stammered to Jon, feeling his cheeks color slightly. He silently cursed his Tully heritage on that particular score. Jon and Father were never troubled by turning the color of a ripe tomato. Bran hated it, just as he knew Robb had hated it. He wondered if it bothered Sansa as much or if it was different for a girl. Rickon should flush as easily, but sometimes Bran thought his younger brother felt no shame.

“Good,” Jon said. “Your friend Lady Lyanna can come as well. Father has been telling me how much you enjoy her company.”

Bran did not miss the teasing note in Jon’s voice, and he nearly cursed aloud as he felt the heat in his cheeks increase about tenfold. “I’ll ask her,” he said quickly, looking down.

Jon looked as if he were struggling not to laugh, but Father took some pity on him. “Why don’t you go on to your room and get some rest before the evening meal, Bran,” he said. “I know I am quite exhausted after our journey and I intend to rest a bit myself. You are certainly younger than I am, but I would be surprised if you aren’t at least a little tired.”

“I am, Father. I think I will go to my chambers.” He bid both his father and brother goodbye as quickly as possible and with no more eye contact than absolutely necessary before nearly fleeing the solar. He did manage not to run his chair into anything in his haste.

Back in his own room, Bran finally began to breathe normally again. He wished he didn’t react so strongly to the teasing about Lyanna, but he couldn’t help it. She had to hear it, too, and it didn’t seem to bother her in the least. She never blushed or stammered or looked away from Arya or Rickon when they teased her about missing sparring practice to sneak off into the woods with him. Mayhap that was because she didn’t feel what he did. Mayhap for her it was nothing but training with a friend. The one kiss she had given him didn’t necessarily mean she was in love with him. If girls only kissed boys they loved, then Arya was in love with any number of men in Winterfell. And Brandon Tallhart.

Bran flung himself backward on his bed and lay there looking at the ceiling. He wasn’t even certain what he felt about Lyanna. How could he possibly be expected to figure out what she felt? And the dreams didn’t help at all.

He’d started dreaming of Lyanna within the a moon’s turn of her arrival at Winterfell. He never sought her out when he went into the trees, but he had no control over what visions appeared when he slept. At first, he hadn’t even realized it was her because she was usually older and often in a dress rather than her customary breeches. He always saw just her. Always in Winterfell. Never for longer than a moment, and she never spoke. He barely even knew her when he first dreamed of her because when she first got here, she was far more interested in exploring the castle and training than sitting around indoors. Lyanna liked to be in motion and had gravitated toward Arya, Dak, and Rickon more than anyone else.

Unlike Arya and Rickon, however, she also enjoyed lessons with Sam. She had a quick and curious mind, and the way she never feared to question or even argue with Sam had drawn Bran’s attention toward her as much as her big eyes and soft pink lips or the way she moved with with an effortless sort of grace he’d never seen in anyone else except Meera.

She reminded him a little of Meera with her slim build and active nature. She was much taller, though, and her chest was not flat. She’d made him miss Meera when he first started wanting to be near her or hear the sound of her voice. But as time had gone on, he’d realized the warmth he felt deep inside when Lyanna touched his hand or spoke his name was very different than the warmth he’d felt with Meera—more like the heat of a flame, warm and thrilling all at once, but feeling as if it might burn him if he let it.

Once they became friends, she began to remind him even more of Shireen because she would always speak her mind and expected him to do the same. She looked nothing like Shireen, and her manner was very different, but like the Lady of Storm’s End, Lyanna seemed to see him rather than his chair or his too-thin legs. She listened to him as well, and Bran found himself telling her things he’d not told anyone except Shireen. He still missed Shireen terribly and considered her his best friend. They wrote to each other frequently. But Shireen never made him feel like his insides were on fire. 

Lyanna would be going to Shireen’s wedding at Storm’s End while Bran remained here. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. He knew the importance of that better than anyone even if he didn’t completely understand it, but it was still a bitter thing to miss his friend’s wedding. He wanted to be there for her because while he believed she truly did like Aegon Targaryen (the Queen had made it clear that was his name regardless of the whispers about his parentage), she was still anxious. He could tell it in her letters. He supposed that was normal for a bride because Sansa was anxious, too. Still, he would like to see her on her wedding day.

That the entire family other than himself would be going didn’t make it any easier. And when the letter came from Bear Island instructing Lyanna to attend as well to represent House Mormont, Bran had been sorely tempted to cry. It was unfair that he would be without Lyanna, too. And he was honest enough at least with himself to admit that he would miss her more than anyone. He’d missed her terribly just during the much shorter journey to Barrowton.

He’d known he liked her more than he should the first time he’d dreamed of the babe. He hadn’t realized at first what she held in her arms as she stood in a Winterfell courtyard that had no snow upon the ground, looking like the lady of a castle rather than a wild bear-girl eager to run or ride. Then he’d realized it was a babe and somehow he’d known it was a boy. He’d seen the child’s dark auburn curls clearly—darker than Sansa’s hair or even Mother’s, more like Rickon’s and his own. He’d thought his heart might break in two after that dream for he could only see one meaning in it. Lyanna would wed Rickon one day and provide the heirs to Winterfell that he could not. Bran was broken. Crippled. Whether he wished it or not. He could not give a woman children. Everyone had said so since before his eighth name day. Long before he was old enough to care about such a thing when faced with the loss of his legs. He’d tried to keep his pointless feelings for Lyanna hidden, but he obviously hadn’t been successful as the teasing from his siblings got continually worse. 

He’d tried to apologize to her for it one day. They’d been in the Wolfswood, and she’d made some remark about how they should get back before Arya accused her of compromising his honor. She was laughing, but Bran didn’t think it was funny. He’d told her that his sibilings needed to hold their tongues and that he had no illusions of there being any truth to the japes they made about her. He’d apologized for their behavior, and she’d leaned over and put a hand on his mouth to silence him. They’d been sitting beside each other on a large fur with his back reclined against the trunk of a large tree because he’d reluctantly allowed her to lift him off his horse. 

“Don’t you ever apologize for other people, Bran Stark,” she’d told him. “And if you ever do anything yourself that requires an apology, I’ll let you know.” 

Then she’d moved her hand away and kissed him. She’d pressed her lips against his and then put her arms around his neck causing the length of her body to lean against his. Of course he could only feel her against his arms and chest and, in a less distinct sort of way, against the lowest part of his belly. His legs felt nothing at all. But every part of him that could feel had felt as if the fire her presence so often caused to burn inside him now burned him from the outside as well, and he’d wrapped his own arms around her, kissing her back as if he couldn’t ever allow her lips to be apart from his again.

He’d never felt that like that before. Never. He’d felt invincible and terrified all at once, and his body seemed to have developed a will of its own. He’d stopped the kiss, though. He had no idea how long he let it go on, but he’d been the one to stop finally, turning his head away from hers and pushing back on her shoulders.

“Forgive me,” he’d said. “I should never have done that.”

“I did it,” she’d replied clearly. “And I told you that I’ll let you know if you ever need to apologize to me. I’m not sorry, Bran.”

He’d insisted upon coming back to Winterfell immediately, and had nearly died of shame when he realized that his cock had grown hard in his breeches. It would do that to some extent when he needed to make water, and he had enough sensation there to feel when he needed to relieve himself, but that sensation was not as sharp as it had been before his fall. But after that kiss his cock had been harder than it had ever been, and while he was mortified at the thought of her lifting him back up into his saddle in such a state, he was also desperate to know what it meant. He’d known how men and women coupled, of course, but he hadn’t known what this particular occurrence meant for him.

He’d refused to speak about the kiss to Lyanna, and while they still took lessons together and sometimes even practiced with swords as they’d always done, he’d been careful not to touch her any more than necessary after that. Then he’d discovered to his great surprise that simply thinking about kissing her and recalling how she had felt in his arms could provoke that same response from his body when she was not even with him.

Finally, he could not stand the uncertainty any longer. A few days before his departure for Barrowton with Father, he’d remained in the large first floor room of Sam’s turret after lessons and waited until everyone else had gone before speaking. Even then, he’d found it hard to form words. 

Finally, Sam had looked at him in exasperation. “You obviously have something to say, Bran. What is it?”

Turning as red as he’d ever turned in his life, Bran had stammered out, “I can’t . . . I mean men like me . . it isn’t possible to . . . I cannot father children after my fall, isn’t that right?”

Sam had turned a bit red himself, but to his credit, he’d simply sat down in the chair Dak had recently vacated. “That is often the case, but I cannot say with certainty for you.”

Bran’s eyes had grown wide. He’d always heard it spoken with certainty. He’d never thought to ask anyone more specifically about it.

“Bran,” Sam had said slowly, watching his face. “What have you done?” 

“What have I . . .? Nothing! I haven’t done anything!” He hadn’t thought it possible for his cheeks to burn hotter, but they had then. “I only . . . I kissed Lyanna.”

“Oh,” Sam had said softly. “You do realize that a kiss cannot possibly bring about a . . .”

“I am not Brien!” Bran had nearly shouted, both embarrassed and angry then. “I know well enough how a woman gets with child. It’s only . . . when I kissed her . . . I . . . I did not think it was possible for me to do such a thing with a woman but when I kissed her, my cock got hard and I don’t know what that means or if it means anything at all.” He said the entire last bit in such a rush, Sam had barely been able to decipher the words, and he watched as Winterfell’s not-quite-a-maester slowly worked out precisely what he had said.

“Oh,” Sam had said again finally. Then he’d sighed. “I’m not surprised, Bran. You’ve always known when you needed to make water and have been able to do so.”

Bran had frowned. “That matters?”

Sam had nodded. “I can’t truly explain it all to you, Bran. No one can. But when a person breaks their back as you did, often they lose control of such bodily functions. A man may leak water all the time or be unable to make water at all and suffer the effects of it backing up. That can kill a person, Bran. I worried about such things when I first came here, but then I realized your injury must have spared you that function.”

“And so I can father children? Everyone was wrong?” He’d not been able keep the hope suppressed.

“I do not know, Bran,” Sam had said in a cautionary tone. “There are men who can . . . bed a woman, but no children come of it. So, even if you can . . . lie with a woman, I cannot say you will give her children.”

“But it’s possible.”

“It may be. There have been men who have lost the use of their legs to injury who have gone on to father many children.”

Bran had nodded his head thoughtfully, trying not to let hope run away with him. “Thank you for answering my questions, Sam.”

“You’re welcome, Bran,” he’d said, but then he’d shaken his head with a somewhat exasperated expression on his face and muttered something under his breath Bran couldn’t quite hear. He made out the words ‘wolves’ and ‘beds’ and ‘babes,’ though.

“Oh!” he’d said as Sam stood up to turn away. “I do have one more question.” He’d felt the heat creeping back into his face, but having come this far, he’d been determined not to leave without all the answers he needed. “I don’t see how I can . . . I mean . . . I can’t move, Sam. Not my legs and not really my hips either. I’ve never seen . . . people . . . but I’ve heard the boys talk, and I’ve seen the animals, and it seems . . .”

“No,” Sam said firmly, leaning over Bran to interrupt him. “No.”

“I can’t do it, then?”

“No! I mean, yes. I mean . . . No, I am not having this conversation with you. Yes, there are ways that . . .” Sam looked as embarrassed as Bran felt, but he took a deep breath and said, “I have answered what you need to know from me, my lord. You are not yet my liege nor are you his lady to order me into conversations I’d rather not have. And you are not my son, so it is not my place to speak with you of all the ways a man and a woman can lie together. Speak with your lord father about this. I assure you he has far more experience in such matters than I do.”

Bran had flushed anew at Sam’s words about his father. Of course, he knew that Mother and Father enjoyed sharing a bed, but he didn’t like to think about it. They had made six children, though. And so Bran had waited until he had his father more or less to himself on the journey to Barrowton, and then he’d discussed things with him that he thought he never possibly could have done in Winterfell with Mother anywhere nearby. Father had been surprised to hear that Sam thought that his having children of his own was even a possibility, but he’d been pleased by it. And he’d told Bran that a good marriage was far more than a means to get children. Any children he might have would be blessings to him, certainly, but sharing Winterfell with a wife he cared for would be a blessing in itself.

Now he lay on his back feeling his cheeks redden once more as he recalled some of the things Father had told him of bedding a woman. That he could lie back like this and she could . . .

“Bran?” A soft knock accompanied the voice that called his name, and Bran opened his eyes hurriedly, trying to push the image he’d begun to conjure out of his head. “Are you asleep?” Lyanna called softly.

“No!” he said, taking a couple deep breaths before continuing. “Wait just a moment!” He grabbed for the handholds in the wall above his bed and pulled himself back up into his chair, wheeling himself to the door to open it. “Come in, Lyanna,” he said in what he hoped was a calm voice.

“I can go if you’re trying to nap, Bran. Jon said . . .”

“Jon and Father are worried that I’m tired from our ride back, but I’m not. I just agreed so I could get out of talking more about the Night’s Watch and the Others and . . .” He shrugged.

Lyanna grinned as she walked into the room. “Well, it is your duty to see what you can see to help the Watchers on the Wall, is it not?” she teased.

“Yes, but not the minute I get home. I’m not sleepy, but I am too tired for that.” He grinned at her. “You tore yourself away from the wolf pups?”

“They are wonderful, aren’t they?” she exclaimed. “Your sister went to her room when we all left your Father’s solar earlier. I thought you would come back outside with the rest of us to watch Brien’s pup play with the other wolves.”

“I was a little tired,” he confessed. “So I came back to my room, and then Father called me to his solar a little while ago. But Summer was there with you.”

She smiled. “I know. He stayed right with me. Did you tell him to do that, Bran?”

Bran shook his head. “He’s missed you,” he said simply.

“Well, I missed him. I missed you, too.”

“I missed you, Lyanna.”

“You did?” Her face lit up and he found himself wanting to kiss her again. “Then hopefully you’ll think this is good news!”

“What?” he asked, and she held up parchment that he hadn’t even noticed she held rolled in her hand.

“It’s a letter. From Aly. She must have sent the bird just before they left because surely they’re on their way here for the wedding now.”

“Your sister wrote you with news?” Bran asked, wondering what news had her grinning like she’d just beaten Arya in a sparring match.

“She wrote me a reply to my letter,” Lyanna said. “I wrote her that I thought it was terrible how you were going to be stuck here in Winterfell all alone while we all went to Shireen Baratheon’s wedding. And that I thought Lyra might like a chance to see someplace other than the North.”

“You . . .what?” Bran asked her, trying to figure out what she was getting at. He didn’t want her pity, and he certainly didn’t want her writing the Lady of Bear Island that he was a pitiful little boy who couldn’t stand to be left at home.

“I told her to ask Lyra if she’d like to go to Storm’s End,” Lyanna said very slowly as if she were speaking to someone hard of hearing. “And she would very much like to go.” She held up the letter and grinned. “That’s what Aly wrote me about. After your sister’s wedding, Lyra is going to stay here, and then she is going on to Storm’s End with the Winterfell party as the official representative of Bear Island.” She shrugged. “She has better manners than I do, anyway.”

“So you . . .” Bran said slowly.

“Get to stay here!” 

There was no doubting that the prospect of staying in Winterfell made Lyanna happier than a commitment to attend a royal wedding. That was plain in the excited tone of her voice and the sparkle in her eyes, and Bran found himself feeling suddenly much happier as well.

“I hate fancy parties,” Lyanna said with another shrug. “So it looks like you’re stuck with me.” 

Bran found himself unable to speak, daring to hope that at least part of her desire to stay at Winterfell when everyone went to Storm’s End came of a desire to stay with him. The two of them just sort of grinned at each other for a moment, and then Lyanna began to look around the room. Spying the cyvasse board in the corner, she said, “We’ve got a bit of time before the evening meal. Care to lose to me, Bran?”

“No. But get the board and let’s set it up. Because I would enjoy defeating you.”

He wheeled his chair to the table where they always played, smiling at the sound of her laughter and her good natured taunts as she gathered up the game pieces.

 _Stuck with her,_ he thought. _I think I’d rather like to be stuck with her. And mayhap she wouldn’t hate the idea._ He closed his eyes again, this time conjuring the image of Lyanna and her baby boy with Tully-Stark hair. _Could you be my son? Could Lyanna be my wife and not Rickon’s?_ Whatever else was true of the child, he would be a summer babe as Bran himself had been for it was obviously summer in the dream. And winter promised to remain for years yet. Bran had time. Time to learn more of being a man and a lord. Time to learn more of Lyanna and what she might want for her future. Time to see whatever a thousand eyes and one had to show him of Winterfell’s future.

“Are you ready to play, Lord Stark, or are you simply going to stare off into the distance?”

He returned her grin and picked up his pieces to place them on the board. She only called him Lord Stark to irritate him so he’d stopped acting irritated by it. “Oh, I’m ready, Lady Mormont.”

Time to play. Time to rest and wait, like the eggs hidden in the monument.

“I’ll give you first move, my lord. Just to offer you a brief hope of victory.”

“Oh, I have hope, my lady. I have hope.”

 _I have time,_ Bran thought. _Time to hope._

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Goodnight, Dragon!” Brien shouted, waving his arm furiously at Jon’s great beast which reclined in the snow far enough from Winterfell’s walls not to terrify all the castle inhabitants, but close enough to be easily seen from the top of the walls by the light of a full moon. The brilliant green color of its scales could not be discerned, but the enormous shape of it stood out plainly against the white snow.

“You’ve bid Rhaegal good night, son. Is there anything else you require before I take you to your bed?”

“Snow,” the sleepy little boy in his arms responded with a yawn. “I want Snow.”

“Your mother has your wolf pup. It is likely she has taken him to your room already. Shall we go see?”

Brien nodded and laid his head on Ned’s shoulder causing him to sigh deeply. The evening meal had stretched far too late into the night for his youngest son. It had been a joyful occasion. All the family was in Winterfell including Jon, and the two new direwolf pups were the talk of the castle. As much as he’d longed to be alone with his wife, Ned had enjoyed watching his children all together and all seemingly happy. He’d been far too aware that while revelry would be more or less ongoing here for the next moon’s turn or so as wedding guests began to arrive, the end result of that would be Sansa’s departure from Winterfell permanently. Oh, she and Lord Karstark would visit, certainly, but never again would his firstborn daughter live under his roof. She would belong to her husband rather than her father, and Ned found himself more bothered by that than he thought he would be. Jon would be leaving for the Wall immediately after the wedding so that he could make certain all was well there before leaving once more for Lady Shireen’s wedding. Dak would be leaving as well, headed to Riverrun with Catelyn’s uncle who said he had no intention of going to Storm’s End to watch two people he’d never met get married to each other unless Edmure commanded him to do so. 

_Will all of us ever dine together at a single meal again once they begin leaving?_

“Brien?” he said, shaking the boy in his arms gently. “Here are the steps, son.”

“I’m too tired,” Brien whined, and Ned cursed silently. He’d done as Catelyn had asked and made the child walk up the steps to the top of the wall holding his hand. The narrow, steep steps proved a bit of a challenge for his bad leg when he was not carrying a child. Yet, it was plain that Brien was not going to walk down them now, so Ned began the descent slowly and carefully. Whatever his wife thought, he was capable of carrying his son down a staircase.

“Father?” Brien said, suddenly lifting his head up as they traversed the courtyard in the direction of the Great Keep. “Did Rickon really fly on Jon’s dragon? He said Jon let him ride him!”

“He did not,” Ned said firmly. “Jon once allowed your brother to sit upon Rhaegal’s back in the courtyard of Winterfell—which he should not have done. But I assure you the dragon never left the ground, and Rickon was not upon his back very long.”

“Rickon’s a liar,” Brien yawned.

“He does tend to exaggerate at times,” Ned acknowledged.

“I wanna sit on Rhaegal.”

“No one is to sit on Rhaegal except Jon. The dragon doesn’t like it.”

“He didn’t like Rickon?” Brien asked, yawning again.

“Not particularly. Look. Here we are at the Keep. I bet your wolf is waiting for you.”

“Snow!” Exhaustion forgotten, Brien began wriggling to get down, and Ned set him down once they were inside the Great Keep. He immediately began running toward his room as fast as his little legs could go, and Ned shook his head. He was intercepted at the top of the stairs by Rickon, however. 

“I thought I heard you,” Rickon said with a grin. “You’re in with me until after Sansa’s wedding, little brother.”

Ned smiled to himself to hear Rickon calling anyone ‘little brother.’

“Already?” Brien asked.

“Yep! Mother decided Snow might like being with Shaggydog since Sansa’s got the other pup with her. So it’s the two of us and our wolves.”

“Yes!” Brien exclaimed, obviously pleased by this arrangement. He started to run down the corridor, but then turned to face Ned on the staircase. “Goodnight, Father! I’m going with Rickon.”

“Goodnight, Brien. And goodnight, Rickon,” Ned said with a smile.

Rickon told him goodnight and led his little brother down the corridor. Ned watched his two sons for a moment and then turned to go to his solar. He wanted to go to Catelyn’s room, but he needed to be certain he’d left nothing pressing undone.

The number of letters which had awaited him after a mere fortnight’s absence had been staggering. Catelyn had already dealt with anything regarding Winterfell which required immediate response, of course, and she’d organized the rest for him in an effort to make his task easier upon his return, but Daenerys Targaryen liked all of her letters answered. And she wanted them answered by him. While she was always interested in what Catelyn had to say on any number of matters, she also liked to remind him that he and not his wife was Master of Laws, and if he refused to come to King’s Landing, the least he could do was give her timely responses to all correspondence himself. The young woman wrote him an alarming number of letters with inquiries about any number of things—some matters of grave import and other matters trivial enough to seem entirely meaningless. Ned half suspected she pestered him with so many ravens to make him rethink his position on remaining in Winterfell at least until spring. It would not work. He would attend Lady Shireen’s wedding and return immediately to Winterfell without setting foot in King’s Landing.

In spite of her tendency to annoy him and her occasional missteps in dealing with one lord or another, however, Ned had to admit the Targaryen girl was doing a reasonable job of attempting to rule the Seven Kingdoms. She was more competent than Robert had been at the very least. He had to admit that. Andar Royce was doing an able enough job as Hand as well and seemed to actually enjoy the position, as unfathomable as that was to Ned. Daenerys’s small council overall seemed far more functional than Robert’s had been, at least in the time he had known it. He’d originally thought her decision to exclude anyone from the West was a mistake borne of lingering resentment at Tyrion Lannister for wedding without her permission, but whether that had been her motivating factor or not, it seemingly had worked in the Imp’s favor.

Daenerys had stepped in to make certain the border disputes with the Riverlands were settled, but otherwise she’d left the initially very unpopular Lord of Casterly Rock to his own devices. The ever oppositional lords in the West had actually hated the Imp less when they began to view him as in dispute to some extent with the Queen on the Iron Throne, and even began to gain a grudging respect for him when he argued with the Queen on behalf of several measures which benefitted the West and won those arguments. It was then that Ned began to suspect that at least some of the falling out between the two had been engineered to help him consolidate his hold on the West. He never asked about it because he knew neither would admit it, but he had to give them credit for a game well played. When Lady Jeyne Lannister had birthed an heir to Casterly Rock with her brown hair and Lannister green eyes and, most importantly, strong normal-length limbs, support for Lord Tyrion Lannister among his bannermen had soared and remained fairly solid still. Little Gerion Lannister was a future liege lord of entirely western parentage that those western lords could support with few reservations.

Ned looked at the pile of parchment on his desk comprised of letters from Daenerys and other members of the council. He’d written a quick letter earlier today apprising her of his return to Winterfell and assuring that all correspondence would be answered prior to Sansa’s wedding. She wasn’t attending the wedding—she’d written that pressing matters kept her in King’s Landing until the time of her nephew’s wedding to the Lady of Storm’s End, but Ned knew perfectly well she could get to Winterfell on her dragon easily enough if she wished. She had accepted their refusal of her own marriage plans for Sansa, but would not go so far as to bless this Northern marriage with her presence.

Tyrion Lannister had sent his regrets as well, and Ned was far more inclined to believe his stated reasons. The man had stated flatly that he couldn’t imagine his presence would bring any sort of comfort or joy to Sansa on her wedding day and that he had no wish to take his wife to the place she had never seen but once had thought to reign as Queen in the North. He and Catelyn had only sent the invitation as a matter of form, and Lannister’s declining of it had been as welcomed as it had been expected for all of the reasons he’d given.

Two letters on his desk had made him smile, however. The first was from Shireen Baratheon. Stannis’s daughter wrote him fairly regularly. Not as often as she wrote to Bran, but often enough that he felt he had come to know her better through their correspondence than he had known the girl when she’d stayed all that time at Winterfell. She was ruling the Stormlands with more success than he could ever have hoped. While new cases of greyscale continued to pop up in isolated areas, the epidemic had been largely contained for more than a year now, and the death toll had not climbed nearly so high as he’d feared it might have.

The young woman had rapidly developed a reputation for being fair but firm. Her judgments were not so harsh as her father’s might have been, but she did not hesitate to punish those who had done wrong. She refused to be merely a pawn in the Queen’s game as well. For two years she had refused to agree to the marriage with Aegon, stating that she was not certain it was in the best interests of the Stormlands. Over all that time, the man had practically lived in Storm’s End though he had long ago ceased to be treated as a prisoner and had even been to King’s Landing on more than one occasion. 

When she had finally agreed to the marriage, it was with the stipulation that she would remain the Lady of Storm’s End in her own right with Aegon as her husband but not her lord. Whichever of their children was named heir to the Iron Throne would take the Targaryen name, but adopt as their sigil both the dragon and the stag. All other children, including, of course, the heir to Storm’s End, would carry the name Baratheon.

She’d asked Ned’s advice on mundane matters of ruling over the past three years, and he’d offered her what counsel he could. She’d shared with him a few of her thoughts as well, and he’d often found himself wondering if Stannis Baratheon had ever truly realized what a remarkable young woman his daughter was, or how very much she was like him.

He re-read one passage of her most recent letter.

_I am deeply sorry I cannot attend Lady Sansa’s wedding. I would very much like to celebrate with her and to see all of you once more. Your kindness and great assistance to me when I needed it greatly will never be forgotten._

_As I look toward my own marriage, I hope it can bring about a more lasting peace than we have known for many years in the Seven Kingdoms. I confess that while I have no wish to set a child of mine upon the Iron Throne, I can see it is my duty. My father believed the throne to be his by rights and mine after him. I could not see that done for him, and selfishly I am glad of it. I am more than content as the Lady of Storm’s End._

_I am doing this because I believe it is best for the Seven Kingdoms, Lord Stark, and because no one else is in a position to do this. But I would not do it if I did not believe Aegon Targaryen to be a man of honor. He will keep to his word in all of our agreements, and he will be a good husband and father. May the gods grant us the children to fulfill the promise our union makes._

_While I act primarily for duty’s sake, I will not deny that I find myself thinking often of my father. I wonder if he would be proud to see his grandson on the Iron Throne or if he would be disappointed that I shall allow that child to be called Targaryen even though I will never take that name myself. I honestly do not know the answer. I suppose I must content myself with the knowledge that I believe I am doing what is best. What is right. What I believe is required of me by honor and duty. I know that is what my father always did._

“You are certainly right about that,” Ned whispered as he laid the letter down again. Stannis Baratheon had had little use for gods. He’d not even been comfortable with the red god of the Lady Melisandre whose power he had at least acknowledged. Yet, Ned hoped that the man had found some sort of peace after that life, and that within that peace there was pride in this daughter who wore the name Baratheon with pride and honor.

The second letter which had made him smile had been sent from Moat Cailin and he had laughed out loud to realize that his friend had thought it necessary to request a raven from the small garrison Ned always kept there now as he passed by.

Wyman Manderly was coming all the way from King’s Landing to attend Sansa’s wedding, the guest who would travel the furthest of all. Ned had assured him it was unnecessary. The Lord of White Harbor was hardly a physically fit man, but he had declared that if he could travel to Winterfell to witness a farce of a wedding for a false Stark daughter, the least he could do is return to Winterfell to see his lord’s actual trueborn daughter wed to a good man of the North. The fact that he now resided in King’s Landing rather than White Harbor, having accepted a position on the Queen’s small council as Master of Coin and left his son Wylis to rule White Harbor in his stead did not deter him at all, and in fact he’d declared his intent to take the overland route via the King’s Road rather than come by ship in order that he might join and travel with his granddaughter and her husband.

He laughed once more as he again read Lord Manderly’s words.

_You will no doubt be relieved to hear I am once more in the North. This may be the last time I ever travel the King’s Road for I have no love of wheelhouses which forever get stuck in the mud. Thank the Seven I have at last reached Moat Cailin to find the sleigh I had sent here. Give me snow over mud any day, my lord. It makes for much smoother traveling, I assure you. I have collected Lord and Lady Frey, and they travel with me. I asked Wylla if she didn’t think she and young Wendel ought to stay put, but she informed me that her son will ever give Winterfell the honor it’s due whatever his surname and whatever castle he rules! The fact that the lad is scarcely past his first name day doesn’t seem to give her any pause. Of course, that doesn’t really surprise me. Her lord husband doesn’t seem to object to her willfulness, and that’s a fortunate thing for him, as I don’t believe there’s any changing it!_

Ned shook his head, still laughing softly to himself as he laid the letter down. When Manderly had first come to him about a possible match between his younger granddaughter and Olyvar Frey, he’d thought the idea ludicrous. Wendel Manderly had been murdered at the Twins. Wyman Manderly hated the Freys bitterly over his son’s death and had undoubtedly been responsible for a number of Frey deaths. Ned had even had a fleeting fear that this betrothal was a plot to somehow murder Olyvar and whomever remained of Frey blood at the Twins. It wouldn’t be the first time the Lord of White Harbor had betrothed his granddaughter to a Frey with no intention of carrying out the marriage.

Wyman had assured him this marriage offer was entirely legitimate, however. As Wylis had no sons, Wynafryd would inherit the title of Lady of White Harbor in her own right, and he wished to see Wylla as the lady of her own castle. Olyvar Frey was closely bound to Winterfell but worshipped the Seven just as the Manderlys did. His family was an abomination, but by all reports this particular Frey was a good man. If Lord and Lady Stark could confirm for him that Olyvar Frey was in fact a man to be trusted, a man with the honor his father had so completely lacked, then he would make the match between his granddaughter and Lord Frey as long as the girl liked him well enough to agree.

Of course, Ned and Catelyn had assured Lord Manderly they considered Olyvar very much a friend to them and a good man, indeed. Olyvar had traveled to White Harbor to meet Wylla, and she had apparently liked him well enough to go to the Twins and become his bride. Ned and Catelyn had not attended that wedding, of course, for Cat would never again enter the Twins, but by all reports Olyvar was quite smitten with his outspoken, green-haired wife. She’d given him a son less than a year into their marriage and promptly named the boy Wendel, daring anyone to say a word about it. Ned had not seen Wylla Manderly since Brien’s first nameday feast at Winterfell, but he could well imagine the sparkle in the girl’s eyes and the proud, somewhat defiant jut of her chin when she announced to one and all that the next Lord of the Crossing would bear the name of her uncle, murdered at the Red Wedding. 

While Ned did somewhat doubt the wisdom of traveling so far with such a young child during winter in the North, he did look forward to seeing Lord Manderly, Olyvar, and the ever spirited Lady Wylla. Right now, however, he wanted only to see his wife. Assured that his desk was as well ordered as it could be, he went to retrieve his heavy traveling cloak and gloves as well as his sword and scabbard which he’d discarded here earlier. He smiled as he picked up the sword and looked at Oathkeeper’s pommel. Catelyn had replaced the scabbard long ago. She’d had the gold of the old scabbard melted down and used part of it to commission a new scabbard of dark grey metal, engraved all over with snarling direwolves. She’d used the remainder of the gold and all of the rubies from the scabbard save three which she kept back for their daughters and Jeyne Poole to pay on their ever growing account in White Harbor.

The new pommel was her latest gift to him. While the sword had always meant a great deal to him, both for its connection to Ice and the fact that it had once been wielded by the Lady Brienne, he had always hated the lion’s head pommel. He had always been loath to part with the sword for any period of time, however. Finally, Catelyn had simply demanded that he give it to her and promised him she would return it as quickly as she could. It hadn’t been quick enough for him, and while he’d been at Winterfell the entire time, he’d chafed at its absence and begun to complain to her. She’d silenced those complaints when she gave him back his sword. The blade was unchanged, still with its odd red and black ripples of Valyrian steel. But the golden lion’s head was gone from the pommel, replaced by a direwolf’s head carved of a dark, smoke-grey stone. The two rubies that had once been the lion’s eyes were still there, though. Now they were the direwolf’s eyes, red like Ghost’s eyes although the wolf’s head was darker than Summer or Nymeria if not quite as dark as Shaggydog. Ned loved it, and he loved the woman who’d insisted upon giving it to him.

“Father?”

“Sansa!” he said, looking up from where he held the sword in its scabbard, examining the pommel. “I thought you would be in your bed now.”

“I am on my way,” she said. “I only came to see if the furs Jon brought the pups in were here still. I think she misses her brother, but I don’t want to take her to Brien’s room if I don’t have to. I want her with me. I thought mayhap if she could smell his scent on the fur . . .”

Ned realized she held her direwolf pup in her arms. “I believe Jon did leave them here,” he said. “It’s a good thought. Brien’s pup seemed to miss her as well, and your mother appears to have solved that problem by putting Brien and Snow in with Rickon and Shaggydog.”

“Oh!” Sansa said. “I didn’t think to ask if I could borrow a wolf.” She frowned. “Arya and Bran are probably both asleep, though. I’ll see if the furs help.”

“Let me get them.” Ned laid the sword down on his desk, and bent to retrieve the furs behind it. He stood back up to see Sansa examining the pommel closely. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “I barely got to see it before you and Bran left.”

“It is beautiful,” he agreed. “Your mother was quite pleased with it.”

Sansa smiled. “It pleases Mother because she knew it would please you.” She looked pensive for a moment, and then set the wolf pup down on the desk beside the sword. “Look!” she cried, delightedly. “It looks like her. Well, except for the eyes. Those are her father’s.”

Ned smiled to hear the way she referred to Ghost, but she was right. Of all the children’s wolves, the pommel of his sword most closely matched Sansa’s new pup in color. He started to agree with her, but caught sight of her face and didn’t speak. Suddenly, she looked wistful, and somehow remorseful.

“Do you ever miss your old sword?” she asked quietly.

“Well, this one is made from it, so I still have part of it,” he said carefully.

“It’s not the same though. I remember Ice. It wasn’t only bigger. There wasn’t any red, and it wasn’t as dark as the black is now. It was . . . more like smoke.”

“That’s right,” Ned said quietly.

“I’m sorry, Father,” she said. “For all that was lost in King’s Landing.”

“It wasn’t your doing, Sansa. It wasn’t. And while I certainly mourn the people we lost there, I rejoice that I did not lose the two most precious things I had in King’s Landing. As for Ice, well you and your sister are worth infinitely more than any sword—even the greatsword of House Stark. Don’t ever doubt that.”

She smiled at him a little sadly and took one of the furs from his hands and wrapped her wolf pup in it. As she looked at the pup’s dark head, she began to smile more widely and then looked up at him again. “That’s her name.”

“What?”

“Ice. Her name is Ice.”

He looked at her. “You are naming your wolf after a sword?”

“Yes. But not only a sword. Ice was the name of the greatsword of House Stark. And the direwolf is our sigil. My direwolf is the color of that greatsword, isn’t she?”

“Well, yes, she is, but . . .”

“Ice isn’t only the name of a sword. Ice itself can be a weapon. Sharp and hard and cold and strong. But it is also beautiful. It reflects the light. It’s made of water which gives us life. And when you melt it, it simply becomes water. It can’t be destroyed. Only changed.” She looked down at the pup who was gazing up at her with its blue eyes. “Your name is Ice.” Then she looked up at Ned. “Good night, Father.”

“Good night, Sansa. It’s a good name.”

He stood there staring after her long after she’d gone. _Ice._ His daughter who looked so much like her mother was undoubtedly a Stark. Beautiful, but strong, and cold when she had to be. Full of life, but well aware of death. Certainly changed by all she had seen and done, but not destroyed. Never destroyed. _Ice._ “It’s a very good name, Sansa,” he whispered. Then he gathered up his garments and his sword and left his solar. He wanted his wife.

“Come in!” she called when he knocked at her door, and the simple words he’d heard her utter so many times thrilled him. He opened the door to see her sitting at her dressing table where she’d been brushing her hair. It caught the light from the candles, the scattered silver-white strands sparkling among the thick mass of myriad reds. She hated the white ones, but he loved them. He’d told her they only made her more beautiful to him, and she’d rolled her eyes as if she thought he only said that to appease her. It was true though. She never stopped becoming more beautiful to him.

“I have missed you, my lady,” he said. “More than you could possibly know.”

He went to hang up his cloak and scabbard with Oathkeeper inside it. He kept far more of his things in her room than his own. She never seemed to mind and it was far simpler as he was forever in her room.

“Oh, I think I know well enough, my lord,” she replied with a slight teasing lilt to her voice. She then spoke more seriously. “You were gone a long time, Ned. I missed you. And I worried for Bran.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you, Cat. I had hoped to keep the trip shorter, but that infernal woman . . .” He shook his head. “But surely you don’t believe me incapable of keeping Bran safe?”

“Of course I don’t,” she said, rising from her stool to walk to him. “I just can’t keep from worrying about the children when they aren’t right here with me. Regardless of how safe they are.” She tiptoed and kissed him very quickly on his lips. “I worry about you, too, but you don’t like to hear about it.”

He put his arms around her to hold her there. “I like coming home to you,” he said, putting his face in her hair. “But I feel I’ve barely seen you since I got here.”

She smiled. “You sat beside me for at least a good two hours in the Great Hall.”

“That doesn’t count. It was full of people.”

She smiled. “Speaking of people, did you get to talk with my uncle or with Dak?”

Ned nodded. “Not much. But Brynden told me Dak is very much in favor of going to Riverrun and squiring for him. Do the other children know yet?”

“Arya does. And from her almost complete silence at the evening meal, I’d wager Jeyne does as well. But I don’t think Dak’s told any of the others yet.”

Ned felt guilty. Caught up in his children’s excitement about the direwolves, and his own joy at being home, he hadn’t noticed anything particularly off about Jeyne. Then again, she rarely spoke to him in any event. “Is she all right, do you think? Jeyne?”

Catelyn looked at him as if he’d asked a silly question. “Sansa is getting married and leaving. Dak is going to Riverrun. I can’t imagine she’s all right at all. But she will be. She’s stronger than she thinks. And Arya, believe it or not, tells me that she intends to make certain Jeyne doesn’t feel lonely once they’ve gone. If Jeyne stays here.”

“Where else would she go?”

“I thought we should ask if she wants to go with Sansa. I don’t think she will, though. As desperately as she’ll miss Sansa, I can’t see her wanting to be in a strange place full of strange men she doesn’t know. Dak informed Arya he intends to make a knight in order to become worthy of her.”

Ned shook his head. “If he wants to be a knight, then he should do so. But Dak is already worth more than most young men I’ve met.”

“I know, my love,” Catelyn said softly. “But he has no name. And whether you wish it or not, that carries a stigma. It does him credit that he cares enough to want to do what he can to improve himself for her.”

Ned snorted and sat down to take off his boots.

“Jon would say the same.” 

He looked up at her sharply.

“Even a bastard can rise high in the Night’s Watch,” she quoted. “You know that played a part in his decision to join the Watch.” She must have seen his expression darken because she went on quickly. “I don’t say it to hurt you, Ned. Or to accuse either of us of anything. But it is the truth. It mattered to Jon. And it matters to Dak. Whatever you or I say about it. And Jon would say the same. He understands that part of Dak better than any of us can.”

“I suppose you are right. In any event, Dak will have an excellent opportunity with your uncle. And Jeyne will be well cared for here for all her life if need be. Unless Dak does come back for her and she decides to go with him wherever it is he wishes to go.”

Catelyn laughed. “I don’t think we need to think that far ahead, my love. Let’s get through the one wedding we’re having.”

Ned scowled. “I’m going to miss her, Cat.”

“I know.” She came to him again and put her arms around him. “We’re both going to miss her terribly. But this is the life she wants, Ned. And she will find happiness. I know she will. For all her fears.”

“Fears?” Ned asked, holding his wife away from him to look at her face. “What fears? Is she afraid of Karstark?”

“No! Ned, no. Nothing like that. It’s only . . . she hasn’t been treated kindly by men. You know that. She may be a maiden, but she’s been hurt. And she fears that she might remember such things when she and her husband are . . . together.”

Ned felt his jaw tighten. He didn’t like to think of Sansa ‘together’ with any man—husband or no, but even more, he didn’t like the idea of animals like Joffrey Baratheon or Petyr Baelish stealing her happiness even after their deaths. “She spoke to you of this?” he asked between clenched teeth.

Catelyn nodded. “She spoke to Arya, and Arya came to me. Then I spoke with Sansa.”

Ordinarily the idea of either of his daughters confiding in the other about something important would elate him, but he was too concerned about Sansa to take much pleasure in it now. “What did you tell her?”

He watched her throat move as she swallowed, but she looked directly into his face. “To open her eyes.”

He felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He always felt that way when something reminded him of how badly she’d been hurt. Of how hard they’d both worked to find their way back to each other. How frightened she’d been. But if he felt that, he couldn’t even imagine what it felt like for her. And to share that with Sansa . . . “Gods, Cat,” he breathed, unable to say anything else.

“It happened, Ned. I cannot erase my past any more than the children can erase theirs. And if I can use that past to help Sansa . . . or Arya . . . I will.”

“Arya?” Ned asked, startled. “Has she been . . .”

Catelyn sighed. “I didn’t mean the same thing specifically. Although to be honest, I don’t know what Arya feels about marriage or men. She doesn’t want to talk about it. She only says she isn’t ready to be married now. I suppose she’ll talk to me when she’s ready. Arya does everything in her own time. You know that. And she is better, Ned. She handled Dak’s news far better than I thought she would.”

Ned nodded. Arya was better. He just sometimes despaired of her ever being truly free of the black moods that still seemed to find her sometimes. _She is better,_ he told himself. _And as long as she keeps getting better, that is all that is needed._ “And did Sansa seem better after you spoke with her?” 

“She will be fine, Ned. Whether my words helped her or not, she is stronger than she knows. She wants to find joy in this marriage. So does Lord Karstark. You know well enough how much that matters.”

He nodded once more. It seemed another lifetime ago, but he and Catelyn had known each other less than Sansa and Harrion Karstark when they wed. And then he’d nearly destroyed any hope for the two of them when he’d brought Jon to Winterfell. But they had both wanted happiness in their marriage, and they had refused to turn constantly away from each other even when angry. Even when hurt. And they had been rewarded beyond his wildest dreams. Whether or not he would have found the same joy with any woman other than Cat, he doubted very much. But he supposed it was as good a starting point as any.

“What of the boys? They have been well?”

It was her turn to nod. “Brien is as happy a child as ever drew breath,” she said, and then she paused for a fraction of a second, and he knew what she thought. _Like Robb. Robb had always been a happy child. It was his natural state, and Brien shared it._

He didn’t say anything, but he pulled her close to him again and kissed her softly. As she gave herself to the kiss, he knew that she knew he understood. When their lips parted, she smiled. “And now that he has a direwolf of his very own, he’s even happier.”

“And Rickon?”

“Rickon is Rickon. He’s wilder than he should be. Fiercer than he should be. And perfectly wonderful.” She laughed. “I did have to reprimand him for swearing in the Great Hall again. And there was a brief moment when he was stalking poor Willam with Shaggydog.”

“What?” Ned asked in alarm, and she waved her hand.

“It was nothing,” she said. “He got riled up by a story my uncle told. The whole thing was over before it started. Actually, Willam is very good for him. The two of them grow closer all the time, and Willam is a good boy. I’ve only seen him sulk twice in all the time you’ve been gone. Both times when he had to write his weekly letter to his aunt.”

“Oh gods,” Ned said, rolling his eyes. “Those damn letters. I don’t know what the boy is telling her, but she accused me of filling his head with nonsense about heroic Starks and trying to usurp her place as his family.”

“Would she prefer you abuse the boy?” Catelyn asked only half in jest.

“Possibly,” Ned said wryly. “She hates the idea that he likes me. Or any of us.” He sighed. “Now that he’s ten, she wants to have him start spending time at Barrow Hall. Mayhap a fortnight every few moons. Just to get him familiar with his seat and the people who will call him lord.”

“It isn’t an unreasonable request, Ned.”

“I know. She generally doesn’t make completely unreasonable requests, Cat. That’s what’s so bloody infuriating about her. She can take a perfectly reasonable request and twist it into something unfavorable. Makes doing things for her very unpleasant.”

“What did you tell her on this request?”

He sighed. “I can’t entirely refuse her. You are right about that. I put her off until after we return from Storm’s End. I intend to take Willam with us, and she’ll see him at Sansa’s wedding here in less than a fortnight. After Shireen’s wedding, we’ll set up his first visit with her there. And hope that she can’t undo in a fortnight what we’ve built over so much longer.”

“She can’t,” Catelyn said definitely. “Willam’s a good boy. And he worships the ground you walk on.”

“If he does, it’s all to the good if he could refrain from mentioning that to Barbrey Dustin.”

Catelyn laughed. “How was Lady Bolton?”

“Doting on that child of hers. Even Bran noticed it. If it isn’t what you described your sister doing with young Robert, I’d wager it’s damn close. He’s not a bad little boy, but he is used to getting whatever he wants.”

“When do you intend to take him to foster?”

“At eight. It’s a bit young, but I was that age when I went to the Eyrie and that fact is well known so I have a precedent. Trouble is that’s three years away still. And in the meantime, I have Fat Walda indulging the child’s every whim and Lady Barbrey no doubt poisoning his mind.”

“What do you intend to do about it?”

“I believe it is time for some lengthy visits to the Twins. Just as Barbrey wants Willam to get to know his seat, I think young Walton deserves to know his mother’s family. It is the only family he’s got, after all. Lady Bolton was certainly excited by the prospect and as Olyvar apparently writes the child, he seemed pleased at the idea as well.” Ned shrugged. “It can’t hurt. Olyvar is good man who took over as lord when at least half the people there didn’t want him. And he’s done marvelously. Walton will become lord of a seat that’s had no lord for some time. He will definitely have his work cut out for him. Especially with his father’s reputation. He could use a role model like Olyvar.”

“Is Lady Bolton bringing him to the wedding?”

Ned nodded. “She wants him to see Winterfell at least since he knows it’s where he’ll come to live for a time eventually.”

“We should be certain that he and Olyvar get to spend a good deal of time together here.”

He nodded. It was a good thought.

“What other issues did Lady Dustin use to keep you so long away?”

“Nothing of any consequence,” he sighed. “Petty issues. Petty, petty issues. With her men. With her smallfolk. With other lords. Gods! The woman gets along with no one! I was never so happy to ride away from a place in all my life.” He yawned.

“Come to bed, Ned, and tell me about Bran. I’ve told you about all the children here.”

“No.”

“No, you won’t tell me about Bran?”

“No, I won’t come to bed. You aren’t naked.”

“Ned!”

“Catelyn, I haven’t seen you in over a fortnight. I would like very much to see all of you.”

She laughed. “You aren’t naked either,” she pointed out.

“Well, I’m not much to look at. But if you insist.” As quickly as possible, he shed his remaining clothes and stood there looking at her.

She looked back and made a great show of moving her eyes up and down. “Oh, I don’t know about your not being much to look at, my lord. I like looking at you.”

“Fair’s fair, Cat.”

“Oh, all right.” She removed her nightshift in one smooth motion and he realized that she wasn’t wearing any small clothes. She stood there naked as her name day, completely unashamed and not shy at all as his eyes moved over every inch of her. 

“You are so beautiful,” he breathed.

“I am also freezing to death. If you have finished your inspection, my lord, might we get into bed where it’s warmer?”

“I’ve no objections to that, my lady.”

He watched her pull down the furs and scurry beneath them, his eyes drawn to the curves of her body and the elegance of her long limbs. When he lay down beside her and reached for her, however, she stopped him.

“You were going to tell me about Bran. He did well on the journey?”

He sighed, and laid back. “He did very well. His stamina is surpising, Cat. And the strength in his arms! He wields a sword with no little skill from atop a horse.” The memory of a young, laughing Bran thrusting a wooden sword at his older brothers as he danced about on nimble legs stabbed at Ned’s mind. “Of course, I should not be surprised at that,” he added softly. “The promise of his swordsmanship was plain to see—before.”

She turned toward him to lay a hand on his chest. “He lives. He is with us, and he grows ever stronger, my love. We cannot dwell upon what he has lost.”

She had raised up on one arm and her hair fell down upon his shoulder as she looked at him with love and concern and trailed her hand slowly up and down his bare chest. He felt a stirring quite a bit lower than his chest and grinned at her. “We talked of a great many things during our rides to and from Barrowton,” he said.

“You did?” she asked, arching her brow and leaning closer into him in a manner that let him know that however much she wished to know about Bran, she was no more unaffected by their bodies being so close once more than he was.

“Aye. It would seem he may not have lost as much as we once thought.”

She frowned down at him, uncertain of his meaning. 

“It would seem young Lyanna Mormont affects our son in quite an interesting way,” he said, fighting to keep any hint of amusement from his face.

“Oh, he likes her,” Catelyn said. “That’s plain enough for anyone to see, and she likes him as well. They’re very sweet, actually.”

“Sweet, yes, although I do not recall Bran’s using that word. If he did, it was not in the tone of voice you just used.”

She could hear the amusement in his voice now, he knew. “Eddard Stark, what are you talking about?”

In response, he reached for the hand upon his chest and moved it lower to wrap around his now firm cock. 

“Ned! What are you . . .”

“I am illustrating the effect that young Lady Mormont has on our son, my lady.” He almost managed to keep the smile from his face. Almost.

She looked irritated and puzzled for a moment. Then her eyes went comically wide, and she sat straight up. He appreciated the fact that the furs fell completely away from her breasts when she did so. “Ned! Bran is crippled! How can he . . .”

“Aye, his legs are crippled. But apparently not all parts of him.” He enjoyed the surprised look on his wife’s face very much. “It took him by surprise as well, my love. So much that he went to Sam. I spoke with Sam briefly myself today, when I found a moment, and he confirmed that his conversation with Bran went just as our son told me.”

“He confirmed what, precisely?” Catelyn’s emotions, as always, lay bare upon her face to him, and even in the candlelight, he could see she had moved from surprise and disbelief to curiosity and the beginnings of hope.

“Sam says that given all he knows of Bran’s condition and what he has learned of men with similar injuries, it is almost certain he could lie with a woman. And even possible, although far from certain, that he could father a child.”

“A child, Ned,” Catelyn whispered. “His own child.” Tears filled her eyes. “Bran would make a wonderful father.”

“Indeed. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Cat. Let’s simply let Bran see where this leads him.”

She nodded and began chewing on her lip.

“What is it, Cat?”

“They’re together all the time, Ned. Bran and Lyanna Mormont, I mean. They even go riding with no one else present. I suppose I should be more vigilant about having them properly chaperoned.”

Ned laughed out loud. “Well, my love,” he said. “Considering the very specific questions your son asked me, mayhap that would be an excellent idea.”

Her eyes widened once more, but before she could ask any questions, he turned to place both his hands on her waist and lifted her to straddle him. “Let me show you,” he said, grinning at her. 

She made no objections, and when he raised himself to capture her mouth with his own, the soft little sound she made let him know her thoughts were no longer with any of their children. She was his and he was hers. Just as it should be. As it had always been and would always be—through winters and summers however long each season should last. Seasons would change. Children would grow, and some would leave to make homes elsewhere. Gods willing, grandchildren would come. Gods willing, troubles would remain few and far between. For the Starks. For the North. For all the realm.

But whatever changed with the seasons, this would remain. The two of them. As they lost themselves in the motions of this intimate dance they both knew so well, lost themselves in entirely in each other, he knew that he could never be truly lost as long as he could hold her. 

Afterward, as his beautiful wife lay sleeping with her silver-streaked auburn hair spilled across his chest, Ned Stark remained awake, blissfully content as he reflected upon his homecoming. _Today,_ he thought, _has been a very good day._ Then he, too, fell asleep, looking forward to the next day and all those to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's it, my wonderful, wonderful readers--the ending to the end. This epilogue was really more of a love letter from me to these characters I've grown to love so much and to all of you who have made the experience of writing "Love and Honor" a truly unique and rewarding experience. It's my way of saying thank you for sticking with this very long story by gifting you with the certainty that WHATEVER lies ahead for the Starks--in this universe at least--many days will be good days at Winterfell throughout the years--some of them very good indeed. :)
> 
> I feel like I'm a broken record with all my thank yous, but there are some specific people I need to thank:
> 
> I would never have written this, NEVER, if not for the encouragement of joely_jo to go ahead and give it a try back when she really didn't even have any idea who I was other than an enthusiastic commenter on her own lovely story! Over the two year adventure of writing this, she has become much more than a writer whose work I admire, and I am proud to call her a dear friend.
> 
> Thank you for the warm welcome to the world of Ned/Cat fic (indeed fanfic in general!) by SomeEnchantedEve with her wonderful encouragement as the first few chapters were posted. SO MUCH about fanfic writing and fandom in general would have remained inexplicable to me without the generosity of this talented lady.
> 
> Thank you to SO MANY OF YOU who found "Love and Honor" early on and have faithfully commented time and time again--there are too many of you to name here for I don't want to risk leaving anyone out, but I have tried to let you know how much you mean to me in my replies to your comments, and believe me when I say I mean every word of those replies! I would like to give two quick shout-outs to Veridissima who not only leaves the most enthusiastic comments of anyone in the world of fanfic, but who is nearly always one of the first few folks to comment on any chapter, and to SecondStarOnTheLeft who was the first L&H reader who is NOT specifically a Ned/Cat shipper not only to encourage me but to recommend this story to folks who read her beautiful fics.
> 
> To those of you who've told me I inspired you to write--words cannot express what that has meant to me. Keep writing!!! As long as you want to, and in whatever form brings you joy. Share with the world whatever it is inside you that you wish to share. DolorousEdditor--Keep writing those epics, man! :D
> 
> A HUGE thank you to cloudsinmycoffee9 who has been editing my chapters and catching my errant quotation marks and silly misused homophones and all manner of other late night, sleep-deprived, grammatical errors for almost a year now. Not to mention reassuring me that the story still makes sense and that she still eagerly anticipates each chapter when I'm doubting myself. "Thank you" is not adequate. Love you, girl!
> 
> And that's it. Obviously, I'll still be writing fic. A quick glance at my still unfinished works and series makes that plain. But I feel that something special to me will come to an end when I check the "Complete" box and hit post. Yes, I am happy, but I honestly am crying real tears right now. Please free to continue leaving comments! Any new readers who discover this massive tale and are brave enough to take it on--I'd love to hear from you. Next week, next year, next decade. "Love and Honor" will always matter to me, and anyone reading this sentimental note has been a big part of it. 
> 
> Many thanks, much love, and--as far as "Love and Honor" is concerned, THE END.


End file.
